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CURRAGHMORE.
Alas, thou gladsome Winter,
Thy festival is done,
Thy frost-work world of gossamer
Is melting in the sun.
Forth come the early violets,
Such pale blue in their eyes,
As if they caught their colour
From gazing on the skies.
And a green and tender verdure
Is on the hawthorn tree,
And a break of crimson promise
Shews what the rose will be.
The primrose clothes the meadow,
The birds are on the wing,
And a thousand flowers are waking
Beneath the feet of Spring.
Let the year pursue its changes,
Let the seasons fade and fall,
That valley has a welcome
And a beauty for them all.
