O, thrush! Thy voice is silent now; no more
The air is thrilled with thy delicious lay.
The wind’s sad song is heard instead; and o’er
The land is gloom and desolation grey.
Adown in yonder glen I loved to list,
At evening, to thy joy begotten song;
Till smitten by thee – an enthusiast –
My dreams to Eden wafted me along.
The wind’s cold fingers on the branches bare
Now harp a melancholy dismal keen,
For the now silent songsters of the air,
The sunshine, and the glory, and the green.
O! thrush! What grief now fills thy once glad breast,
Out in the frost and snow and sleety rain!
Take heart, dear friend! By present woes opprest –
Remember that the spring will come again.
‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.