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A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping.

Her beads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered, And smile in her face, as she bended her knee; Oh! bless'd be that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

For a ballad's a thing you expect to find lies in.

"Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.

There was a place in childhood that I remember well, And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did tell.

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye.

Where's the snow That fell the year that's fled--where's the snow?

I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock in all thy fairy dells, And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I'll weave my spells!