Just between the day and dark,
O'er the green of the glimmering Park,
Lost in heaven one lonely lark
Soared and poured his passion pure;
Till the long, sweet shivering strain
Took, methought, this meaning plain,
As it showered like silver rain
Softly into the Cool-kellure.

How we prayed and prayed of old,
Blackbird, with the crown of gold,
That you'd cross the waters cold
Erin's sorrows at last to cure.
But you sought and sought in vain
Succour out of France and Spain,
None would help you here to reign,
Blackbird, over the Cool-kellure.

Yet the Blackbird far above
Now I rank the Royal Dove
Who, at last for Erin's love
Wreathing with shamrock her bosom pure,
O'er the dreadful flood's decrease
Flutters with its spray of peace
To her bow'r of Queenly ease
Nesting under the Cool-kellure.