O, Swallow, Swallow, de John Strudwick, 1894
Oh, swallow, swallow flying, flying south,
Fly to her and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.
Oh tell her, swallow, thou that knowest each
Bright and fierce and fickle is the south,
And dark and true and tender is the north.
Oh were I thou that she might take me in,
And lay me on her bosom and her heart
Would rock the cradle till I die.
Oh swallow flying from the golden woods,
Fly to her, and pipe and woo here, and make her mine.
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson.