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.