Dwainie
Ay, dwainie!—my Dwainie!
The lurloo ever sings,
A tremor in his flossy crest
And in his glossy wings.
And Dwainie!—My Dwainie!
The winno-welvers call;—
But Dwainie hides in Spirkland
And answers not at all.
The teeper twitters Dwainie!—
The tcheucker on his spray
Teeters up and down the wind,
And will not fly away:
And Dwainie!—My Dwainie!
The drowsy oovers drawl;—
But Dwainie hides in Spirkland
And answers not at all.
O Dwainie!—My Dwainie!
The breezes hold their breath,—
The stars are pale as blossoms,
And the night as still as death;
And Dwainie!—My Dwainie!
The fainting echoes fall;—
But Dwainie hides in Spirkland
And answers not at all.
Source: Bartleby.com (archived copy)