Londonderry Air (Inofficial Hymn of Northern Ireland)
Would God I were the tender apple blossomThat floats and falls from off the twisted boughTo lie and faint within your silken bosomWithin your silken bosom as that does now.Or would I were a little burnish'd appleFor you to pluck me, gliding by so coldWhile sun and shade your robe of lawn will dappleYour robe of lawn, and your hair's spun gold.
Yea, would to God I were among the rosesThat lean to kiss you as you float betweenWhile on the lowest branch a bud unclosesA bud uncloses, to touch you, queen.Nay, since you will not love, would I were growingA happy daisy, in the garden pathThat so your silver foot might press me goingMight press me going even unto death.