Explore "Songs of The Glens of Antrim" by Moira O´Neill on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Sure maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush / Whistlin' bould in March, / Before there' a primrose peepin' out, / Or a wee red cone on the larch; / Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud, / An' the wind to come over the sea, / But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud, / He's never the bird for me.
Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush / After an April rain / Slip from in-undher the drippin' leaves, / Wishful to sing again; / An' low wi' love when he's near the nest, / An' loud from the top o' the tree, / But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast, / He's never the bird for me.