Three pastoral songs

I will go with my father a-ploughing 
To the green field by the sea,
And the rooks and the crows and the seagulls
Will come flocking after me.
I will sing to the patient horses
With the lark in the shine of the air,
And my father will sing the plough-song
That blesses the cleaving share.

I will go with my father a-sowing
To the red field by the sea,
And the rooks and the gulls and the starlings
Will come flocking after me.
I will sing to the striding sowers
With the finch on the flow'ring sloe,
And my father will sing the seed-song
That only the wise men know.

I will go with my father a-reaping
To the brown field by the sea,
And the geese and the crows and the children
Will come flocking after me.
I will sing to the weary reapers
With the wren in the heat of the sun,
And my father will sing the scythe song
That joys for the harvest done.

In Cherry Valley the cherries blow:
The valley paths are white as snow.

And in their time with clusters red
The heavy boughs are crimsonèd.

Now the low moon is looking thro'
The glimmer of the honey dew.

A petal trembles to the grass,
The feet of fairies pass and pass.

 ... 

I wish and I wish 
And I wish I were 
A golden bee 
In the blue of the air, 
Winging my way 
At the mouth of day 
To the honey-marges 
Of Loch-ciuin-ban; 
Or a little green drake, 
Or a silver swan, 
Floating upon 
The Stream of Aili, 
And I to be swimming 
Gaily, gaily!

I wish and I wish 
And I wish I could be 
A bud on a branch 
Of the red-thorn tree 
That blows at the head 
Of Blanaid's Bed, 
And sheds a petal 
At every breath;
Or a white milestone
On the shining path
That climbs the cairn
And dips the hollow,
Up to the hills
of bright Maghmeala.

 ... 

If wishes were fairies
I would not stay, 
But they would wile 
My soul away; 
And peace would creep 
Into my sleep 
As soft as a dream 
At evenfall, 
When the crickets sing 
And the curlews call; 
And 'tis I would wake 
For no new morrow 
On the grey round 
Of this world of sorrow!