Londonderry Air by Unknown
Would God I were the tender apple blossom
That floats and falls from off the twisted bough,
To lie and faint within you silken bosom,
Within your silken bosom as that does now!
Or would I were a little burnish'd apple
For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold,
While sun and shade you robe of lawn will dapple,
Your robe of lawn, and you hair's spun gold.
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