WILLAREE
On the rough mountain wind
That blows so free
Rides a little storm-sprite
Whose name is Willaree.
The fleecy cloudlets are not his,
No shepherd is he,
For he drives the shaggy thunderclouds
Over land and sea.
His home is on the mountain-top
Where I love to be,
Amid grey rocks and brambles
And the red rowan-tree.
He whistles down the chimney,
He whistles to me,
And I send greeting back to him
Whistling cheerily.
The great elms are battling,
Waves are on the sea,
Loud roars the mountain-wind—
God rest you, Willaree!