Londonderry Air

Would God I were the tender apple blossom

That floats and falls from off the twisted bough

To lie and faint within your silken bosom

Within your silken bosom as that does now.

Or would I were a little burnish'd apple

For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold

While sun and shade you robe of lawn will dapple

Your robe of lawn, and you hair's spun gold.

Yea, would to God I were among the roses

That lean to kiss you as you float between

While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses

A bud uncloses, to touch you, queen.

Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing

A happy daisy, in the garden path

That so your silver foot might press me going

Might press me going even unto death.