MidnightNiall Campbell  My heart had been repeating oh heart, poor heart  all evening. And all because I'd held my child, oh heart, and found that age was in my cup now;  poor heart, it bare knew anything  but the life of a young axman in the forest,  whistler, tree-feller, swinging with the wind,  where oh heart, poor heart isn't the heard song,  where there is no cry in the night, no cradling,  no heart grown heavy, heavier, from opening.