  On the rough mountain wind That blows so free Rides a little storm-sprite Whose name is Willaree. The fleecy cloudlets are not his, No shepherd is he, For he drives the shaggy thunderclouds Over land and sea. His home is on the mountain-top Where I love to be, Amid grey rocks and brambles And the red rowan-tree. He whistles down the chimney, He whistles to me, And I send greeting back to him Whistling cheerily. The great elms are battling, Waves are on the sea, Loud roars the mountain-wind— God rest you, Willaree! |
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