The lilies lie in my lady's bower,
(Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost;)
They faintly droop for a little hour;
My lady's head droops like a flower.

She took the porcelain in her hand,
(Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost;)
She poured; I drank at her command;
Drank deep, and now—you understand!
(Oh! weary mother, drive the cows to roost.)

Barry Pain.