I heard a wee bird singing,
In my chamber as I lay;
The casement open swinging,
As morning woke the day.
And the boughs around were twining,
The bright sun through them shining,
And I had long been pining,
For my Willie far away—
When I heard the wee bird singing.
He heard the wee bird singing,
For its notes were wondrous clear;
As if wedding bells were ringing,
Melodious to the ear.
And still it rang that wee bird's song;
Just like the bells—dong-ding, ding-dong;
While my heart beat so quick and strong—
It felt that he was near!
And he heard the wee bird singing.
We heard the wee bird singing,
After brief time had flown;
The true bells had been ringing,
And Willie was my own.
And oft I tell him, jesting, playing,
I knew what the wee bird was saying,
That morn, when he, no longer straying,
Flew back to me alone.
And we love the wee bird singing.
WHAT MAKES THIS HOUR?
What makes this hour a day to me?
What makes this day a year?
My own love promised we should meet—
But my own love is not here!
Ah! did she feel half what I feel,
Her tryst she ne'er would break;
She ne'er would lift this heart to hope,
Then leave this heart to ache;
And make the hour a day to me,
And make the day a year;
The hour she promised we should meet—
But my own love is not here.
Alas! can she inconstant prove?
Does sickness force her stay?
Or is it fate, or failing love,
That keeps my love away,
To make the hour a day to me,
And make the day a year?
The hour and day we should have met—
But my own love is not here.