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