SONG, WRITTEN FOR AN IRISH AIR. Joanna Baillie Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Baillie, Joanna, 1762-1851. Fugitive Verses. By Joanna Baillie, author of “Dramas on the Passions,“ etc. London Edward Moxon, Dover Street. MDCCCXL. 1840 pp. 314-315.

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SONG , WRITTEN FOR AN IRISH AIR . THE morning air plays on my face , And through the grey mist peering The softened sun I sweetly trace , Wood , muir and mountain cheering . Larks aloft are singing , Hares from covert springing , And o'er the fen the wild-duck brood Their early way are winging . Bright every dewy hawthorn shines , Sweet every herb is growing , To him whose willing heart inclines The way that he is going . Clearly do I see now What will shortly be now ; I'm patting at her door poor Tray , Who fawns and welcomes me now . How slowly moves the rising latch ! How quick my heart is beating ! That worldly dame is on the watch To frown upon our meeting . Fy ! why should I mind her , See who stands behind her , Whose eye upon her traveller looks The sweeter and the kinder . O every bounding step I take , Each hour the clock is telling , Bears me o'er mountain , bourn and brake Still nearer to her dwelling . Day is shining brighter , Limbs are moving lighter , While every thought to Nora's love , But binds my love the tighter .