John Ireland - The Lent Lily
The hilly brakes around
For under thorn and bramble
About the hollow ground
The primroses are found
And there's the windflower chilly
With all the winds at play
And there's the Lenten lily
That has not long to stay
And dies on Easter Day
And since till girls go maying
You find the primrose still
And find the windflower playing
With every wind at will
But not the daffodil
Bring baskets now, and sally
Upon the spring's array
And bear from hill and valley
The daffodil away
That dies on Easter Day
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John Ireland - Ladslove
Look not in my eyes, for fear They mirror true the sight I see And there you find your face too clear And love it and be lost like me One the long nights through must lie
John Ireland - Goal and Wicket
Twice a week the winter thorough Here stood I to keep the goal: Football then was fighting sorrow For the young man's soul Now in Maytime to the wicket Out I march
John Ireland - The Vain Desire
If truth in hearts that perish Could move the powers on high I think the love I bear you Should make you not to die Sure, sure, if stedfast meaning If single thought
John Ireland - The Encounter
The street sounds to the soldiers' tread And out we troop to see: A single redcoat turns his head He turns and looks at me My man, from sky to sky's so far We
John Ireland - Youth's Spring Tribute
On this sweet bank your head thrice sweet and dear I lay, and spread your hair on either side And see the newborn woodflowers bashful-eyed Look through the golden tresses here and
John Ireland - Penumbra
I did not look upon her eyes (Though scarcely seen, with no surprise 'Mid many eyes a single look) Because they should not gaze rebuke At night, from stars in sky and brook
John Ireland - Spleen
Around were all the roses red The ivy all around was black Dear, so thou only move thine head Shall all mine old despairs awake! Too blue, too tender was the sky
John Ireland - Beckon to Me to Come
Beckon to me to come With handkerchief or hand Or finger mere or thumb; Let forecasts be but rough Parents more bleak than bland 'Twill be enough Maid mine
John Ireland - Weathers
This is the weather the cuckoo likes And so do I; When showers betumble the chestnut spikes And nestlings fly; And the little brown nightingale bills his best And they sit
John Ireland - Summer Schemes
When friendly summer calls again Calls again Her little fifers to these hills We'll go - we two - to that arched fane Of leafage where they prime their bills Before they