Would God I were the tender apple blossom
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That floats and falls from off the twisted bough,
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To lie and faint within you silken bosom,
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Within your silken bosom as that does now!
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Or would I were a little burnish'd apple
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For you to pluck me, gliding by so cold,
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While sun and shade you robe of lawn will dapple,
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Your robe of lawn, and you hair's spun gold.
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Yea, would to God I were among the roses
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That lean to kiss you as you float between,
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While on the lowest branch a bud uncloses,
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A bud uncloses, to touch you, queen.
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Nay, since you will not love, would I were growing,
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A happy daisy, in the garden path;
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That so your silver foot might press me going,
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Might press me going even unto death.
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Londonderry air ¾Æ! ¸ñµ¿¾Æ
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Various Artists |