Kathleen Mavourneen.
(Her Answer.)
Oh! Dermot Asthore, though the gray dawn is breaking,
To open the window would give me a chill,
The lark—of last evening—has left my head aching,
So don’t sing outside there, but let me lie still.
My hair is in papers—three screws on each side, dear,—
Not very romantic for lovers to see.
The “Voice of your heart” has a thrifle of pride, dear,