Three Songs , opus 57

The blossom-snow begins to blow
About the orchard close.
The fields forget the violet,
But soon shall bloom the rose, my Dear,
Ah! soon shall bloom the rose.

The long year's prime is Summer-time,
And Summer's coming on,
But the Spring o' the year is all too dear
And Spring is past and gone, my Dear,
O Spring is past and gone.

  Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Flowers are closed and lambs are sleeping;
  Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
[Stars are up, the moon is peeping;
  Lullaby, oh, lullaby!]1
While the birds are silence keeping,
  (Lullaby, oh, lullaby!)
Sleep, my baby, fall a-sleeping,
  Lullaby, oh, lullaby!

O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
They are all belonging, dear babie, to thee.
    O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
 
O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.
    O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.
 
O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
    O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.