The Bittern's Quavering Trump on High

The bittern's quavering trump on high, —
The beetle's drowsy distant hum, —
Have sung the day's wild lullaby,
And yet my Peggie is not come.

The golden primrose from the wood,
The scented hawthorn's snowy flower,
Mixed with the laurel buds, I've strewed
Deep in my Peggie's woodland bower.

O come, my love ! the branches link
Above our bed of blossoms new ;
The stars behind their curtains wink
To spare thine eyes so soft and blue.

No human eye nor heavenly gem,
With envious smile our bliss shall see,
The mountain ash his diadem
Shall spread to shield the dews from thee.

O let me hear thy fairy tread
Come gliding through the broomwood still ;
Then on my bosom lean thy head,
Till dawning crown the distant hill.

And I will watch thy witching smile,
List what has caused thy long delay,
And kiss thy melting lips the while,
Till die the sweet reproof away.