Торсунов О.Г
And sometimes when the beetles horn
Hath lulled the eve to sleep
I steal unto her shieling low
And through her dooreen peep
There on the cricket's singing stone
She stirs the bog wood fire
And hums in soft sweet undertones
The song of heart's desire

Her [bad word] like her love for me
Is from her heart within
Her warm kiss is felicity
That knows no taint of sin