William Allingham

Mary kept the belt of love, and oh, but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song that took my heart away.

Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms.

Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a Summer's day; Sweet Love is dead.

Oh, bring again my heart's content, Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!

Autumn's the mellow time.

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.

Winds and waters keep A hush more dead than any sleep.

Out of the city, far away With spring to-day! Where copses tufted with primrose Give me repose, Wood-sorrel and wild violet Soothe my soul's fret.

No funeral gloom, my dears, when I am gone, corpse-gazing, tears, black raiment, graveyard grimness. Think of me as withdrawn into the dimness, yours still, you mine. Remember all the best of our past moments, and forget the rest;

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting, For fear of little men.