The Cuckoo’s Song in Merion

Though it has been my fate to see Of gallant countries many a one; Good ale, and those that drank it free, And wine in streams that seemed to run; The best of beer, the best of cheer, Allotted are to Merion.

The swarthy ox will drag his chain, At man’s commandment that is done; His furrow break through earth with pain, Up hill and hillock toiling on; Yet with more skill draw hearts at will The maids of county Merion.

Merry the life, it must be owned, Upon the hills of Merion; Though chill and drear the prospect round, Delight and joy are not unknown; O who would e’er expect to hear ’Mid mountain bogs the cuckoo’s tone?

O who display a mien full fair, A wonder each to look upon? And who in every household care Defy compare below the sun? And who make mad each sprightly lad? The maids of county Merion.

O fair the salmon in the flood, That over golden sands doth run; And fair the thrush in his abode, That spreads his wings in gladsome fun; More beauteous look, if truth be spoke, The maids of county Merion.

Dear to the little birdies wild Their freedom in the forest lone; Dear to the little sucking child The nurse’s breast it hangs upon; Though long I wait, I ne’er can state How dear to me is Merion.

Sweet in the house the Telyn’s strings In love and joy where kindred wone; While each in turn a stanza sings, No sordid themes e’er touched upon; Full sweet in sound the hearth around The maidens’ song of Merion.

And though my body here it be Travelling the countries up and down; Tasting delights of land and sea, True pleasure seems my heart to shun; Alas! there’s need home, home to speed— My soul it is in Merion.