Cusheen Loo

Sleep, my child ! for the rustling trees,
Stirred by the breath of summer breeze,
And fairy songs of sweetest note,
Around us gently float.

Sleep ! for the weeping flowers have shed
Their fragrant tears upon thy head,
The voice of love hath soothed thy rest,
And thy pillow is a mother's breast.

Sleep, my child !
Weary hath passed the time forlorn,
Since to your mansion I was borne,
Though bright the feast of its airy halls,
And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls.

Sleep, my child !
Full many a maid and blooming bride
Within that splendid dome abide, —
And many a hoar and shrivelled sage,
And many a matron bowed with age,
Sleep, my child !

O thou who hearest this song of fear,
To the mourner's home these tidings bear.
Bid him bring the knife of the magic blade,
At whose lightning-flash the charm will fade.

Sleep, my child !
Haste ! for to-morrow's sun will see
The hateful spell renewed for me ;
Nor can I from that home depart,
Till life shall leave my withering heart,
Sleep, my child !

Sleep, my child ! for the rustling trees,
Stirred by the breath of summer breeze,
And fairy songs of sweetest note,
Around us gently float.