Goldfinch (1)/Kathleen O'More

Kathleen O'More.

My love, I think that I see her once more,
But, alas! she has left me her loss to deplore,
My own little Kathleen, my poor last Kathleen,
⁠My Kathleen, O.

Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue,
Her colour still changing, her smiles were ever new,
So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,
⁠My Kathleen, O.
She milk'd the dun cow, that ne’er offer’d to stir;
Though wicked it was, it was gentle to her,
So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
⁠My Kathleen, O.

She sat at the door one cold afternoon,
So hear the wind blow and to look at the moon,
So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
⁠My Kathleen, O.
Cold was the night-breeze that sigh'd round her bower;
⟨It⟩ ehill’d my poor Kathleen, she droop’d from that hour,
And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen,
⁠My Kathleen, O.

The bird of all birds that I love the best,
⟨Is⟩ the Robin that in the churchyard builds her nest,
⟨For⟩ she seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly on Kathleen,
⁠My Kathleen, O.