And the low breeze murmurs its plaint between.
My one wee song I sing in the even,
When the home doth gather its loved ones close,
And the world's afar and hearts grow nearer,
And the jar of life sinks into repose.
My one wee song, like a flower growing
In this life of mine that were else so bare!
Ah! shalt thou go forth to do my bidding—
My love, shall he cull it as blossom fair?