Song, Written For An Irish Air Poem by Joanna Baillie

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.