Adare

O sweet Adare, O lovely vale,
O soft retreat of sylvan splendor!
Nor summer sun nor morning gale
E'er hailed a scene more softly tender.
How shall I tell the thousand charms,
Within thy verdant bosom dwelling,
When lulled in Nature's fostering arms.
Soft peace abides and joy excelling!

Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn
The slumbering boughs your song awaken.
Or linger o'er the silent lawn
With odor of the harebell taken.
Thou rising sun, how richly gleams
Thy smile from far Knockfierna's mountain,
O'er waving woods and bounding streams,
And many a grove and glancing fountain.

Ye clouds of noon, how freshly there,
When summer heats the open meadows,
O'er parched hill and valley fair,
All coolly lie your veiling shadows.
Ye rolling shades and vapors gray,
Slow creeping o'er the golden heaven,
How soft ye seal the eye of day,
And wreathe the dusky brow of even.

In sweet Adare the jocund Spring
His notes of odorous joy is breathing;
The wild birds in the woodland sing,
The wild flowers in the vale are breathing.
There winds the Mague, as silver clear,
Among the elms so sweetly flowing;
There fragrant in the early year
Wild roses on the banks are blowing.

The wild duck seeks the sedgy bank.
Or dives beneath the glistening billow,
Where graceful droop and cluster dank
The osier bright and rustling willow;
The liawtliorn scents the leafy dale.
In thicket lone the stag is belling,
And sweet along the echoing vale
The sound of venial joy is swelling.