C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

George Sigerson (1836–1925)

THE BLUSH is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree,

And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are caroling their glee;

And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun,

All to deck a path of glory for my own Cáilin Donn!

Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me,

More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree!

More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,

Is the coming of my true love—my own Cáilin Donn!

O sycamore! O sycamore! wave, wave your banners green!

Let all your pennons flutter, O beech! before my queen!

Ye fleet and honeyed breezes, to kiss her hand ye run;

But my heart has passed before ye to my own Cáilin Donn!

Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me, etc.

Ring out, ring out, O linden, your merry leafy bells!

Unveil your brilliant torches, O chestnut! to the dells;

Strew, strew the glade with splendor, for morn it cometh on!

Oh, the morn of all delight to me—my own Cáilin Donn!

Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me, etc.

She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day;

There’s a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away;

Oh, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of freedom’s won,

Is the joy around your footsteps, my own Cáilin Donn!

Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me,

More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree!

More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,

Is your coming, O my true love—my own Cáilin Donn!