Primrose

Good morning, Brigid, I can hear the bell

Is it even real? Who knows?

Is there a sheep gone down in the well?

Now the bleating grows

Feel the fire thrown from her hand

Better burnt than froze

If there a darkness over the land

Winter wind follows

Up to the stream, asleep on the moss

My finger in the flows

If I dream, then what is the loss

Here in sweet repose?

If I fell in the water, I'd see where it goes

If you should see me pass

Give love to my lass and my good fellows

Leave next to the spring a primrose