Airy, fairy Lilian.

In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove;

Out flew the web and floated wide;

She left the web, she left the loom,

‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said

‘Tirra lirra,’ by the river

On either side the river lie

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

Kind hearts are more than coronets,

There hath he lain for ages and will lie