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
.