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56 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF
Girl of the low voice,
Love me ! Love me ! Girl of the sweet voice,
Love me! Like the echo of a bell,— Like the bubbling of a well — Sweeter ! Love within doth dwell,—
Oh, girl of the low voice, love me ! |
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THE IRISH EXILE
WHEN round the festive Christmas board, or by the Christmas hearth, That glorious mingled draught is poured,— wine, melody, and mirth — When friends long absent tell, low-toned, their joys
and sorrows o'er, And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and lips meet
lips once more — Oh, in that hour 'twere kindly done, some woman's
voice would say — "Forget not those who're sad to-night—poor exiles, far away."
Alas, for them ; this morning's sun saw many a moist eye pour
Its-gushing love, with longings vain, the waste Atlantic o'er,
And when he turned his lion-eye this ev'ning from the West,
The Indian shores were lined with those who watched his couched crest; |
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