By the side of the Shannon was laid a young Lover
"I hate this dull river", he fretfully cried;
"Yon tempest is coming, this willow my cover
How sultry the air, not a zephyr", he sigh'd
"Go, bee! -- get along -- why so idly remaining
For here are no roses, thou troublesome thing!
Peace nightingale! Peace to that ditty complaining
Oh, can it be thus that these nightingales sing?"
But now a light form, with a smile archly playing
All beaming in beauty, before him appear'd;
"O Ellen!" He cried, "why thus strangely delaying
My dearest, my Ellen, what have I not fear'd."
And then so majestic the Shannon came flowing
That bee flew unchided the blossoms among
The sky was serene, and the zephyrs soft blowing
And oh! How enchanting the nightingale's song!