I sleep beneath a bracken sheet In sunlight or in rain, The road dust burns my naked feet, The sunrays sear my brain; But children love my fiddle’s sound And if a lad be straying, His mother knows he may be found Where old Mad Larry’s playing. O fiddle, let us follow, follow, Till we see my Eileen’s face, Through the moonlight like a swallow Off she flew to some far place. O, did you ever love a lass? I loved a lass one day, And she would lie upon the grass And sing while I would play. She was a cruel, lovely thing, Nor heart nor soul have I, For Eileen took them that soft spring When she flew to the sky. So fiddle, let us follow, follow, Till we see my Eileen’s face, Through the moonlight like a swallow Off she flew to some far place. THE GRASS IN MADISON SQUARE The pleasant turf is dried and marred and seared, The grass is dead. No soft green shoot, by rain and sunshine reared, Lifts up its head. I think the grass that made the park so gay In early spring Now decks the lawns of Heaven where babies play And dance and sing. And poor old vagabonds who now have left The dusty street, Find fields of which they were in life bereft, Beneath their feet. SAID THE ROSE No flower hath so fair a face as this pale love of mine; When he bends down to kiss my heart, my petals try to twine About his lips to hold them fast. He is so very fair, My lover with the pale, sad face and forest-fragrant hair. I think it is a pleasant place, this garden where I grow, With gravel walks and grassy mounds and crosses in a row. There is no toil nor worry here, nor clatter of the street, And here each night my lover comes, pale, sad and very sweet. He never heeds the violets or lilies tall and white; I am his love, his only love, his Flower of Delight; And often when the cold moonbeams are lying all around My lover kneels the whole night through beside me on the ground. How can I miss the sunshine-laden breezes of the south When all my heart is burning with the kisses of his mouth? How can I miss the coming of the comfort-bringing rain When his hot tears are filling me with heaven-sweet love-pain? There is a jealous little bird that envies me my love, He sings this bitter, bitter song from his brown nest above: “Was ever yet a mortal man who wed a flower wife? He loves the girl down in your roots whose dead breast gives you life.” O little bird, O jealous bird, fly off and cease your chatter! My lover is my lover, and what can a dead girl matter? In his hot kisses and sweet tears I shall my petals steep; I am his love, his only love, I have his heart to keep. METAMORPHOSIS He was an evil thing to see-- Of joy his mouth was desolate; His body was a stunted tree, His eyes were pools of lust and hate.