SpringBy P. O'Brien.
A speckled thrush upon a bush pours forth her matin hymnA new-born hope has in her woke; with her 'tis not a whim.Some wondrous thrills her bosom fills - what can she do but singWhen back again o'er wood and plain has come the joyful Spring.
The snowdrops bold in all the cold are bravely bursting through;The baby-buds within the woods have heard her coming too.The blue-bells' sleep so sound and deep since last year's fall is past;Up thro' the clay they make their way for Winter's gone at last.
And Mother Earth who gives them birth will soon look fresh and fair,But when Spring is green no poet's dream with Ireland could compare.When the lambkins sweet in the "crochans" bleatAnd skip round the water clear,
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