Primrose

Good morning, Brigid, I can hear the bell Is it even real? Who knows? Is there a sheep gone down in the well? Now the bleating grows Feel the fire thrown from her hand Better burnt than froze If there are darkness over the land Winter wind follows Up to the stream, asleep on the moss My finger in the flows If I dream, then what is the loss Here in sweet repose? If I fell in the water, I'd see where it goes If you should see me pass Give love to my lass and my good fellows Leave next to the spring a primrose