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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
79 |
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As she look'd In the glass which a woman ne'er misses
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, A butterfly, fresh from the night flower's kisses*
Flew over her mirror and shaded her view.
Enraged with the Insect for hiding her graces,'
She brush'd him—the fell, alas! never to rise— "Ah! such," said tho girl, "Is the pride of our faces,
"For which the soul's innocence too often dies."
While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease was growing, She eull'd some, and kissed off it's night-fallen dew,
And a rose further on looked so tempting and glowing That, in spite of her haste, she must gather it too;
But, while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning.
Her zone fell In two and the heart's-ease was lost. "Ah! this means," said the girl, (and she slgh'd at Its meaning),
"That love is scarce worth the repose It will cost." |
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SHUILE AGEA.
As I roved through my new garden bowers To gaze upon fast-fading flowers, And think upon the happiest hours
That fled In summer's bloom, Shulle, shulle, shuile agra, Time can only ease my woe, Since the lad of my heart from me did go,
Gotheen mavourneen slaun. 'TIs often I sat on my true love's knee. And many a fand story he told me; He told me things that ne'er would be,
Gotheen mavourneen slaun.
Shuile, shulle, etc. I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel. When flax Is spun I'll sell my wheel, To buy my love a sword and shield,
Gotheen mavourneen slaun.
Shulle, shulle, etc. I'll dye my petticoat, I'll dye It red, And round the world I'll beg my bread, That all my friends would wish me dead,
Gotheen mavourneen slaun.
. Shulle, shulle, etc. I wish I was on Brandon Hill, 'Tis there I'll sit and cry my fill. That every tear would turn a mill,
Gotheen mavourneen slaun.
Shulle, shulle, etc. No more am I that blooming maid That used to rove the valley shade: My youth and bloom are all decayed,
Gotheen mavourneen slaun.
Shuile, shulle, etc. |
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WE MAY BE HAPPY YET.
D, smile as thou wert wont to smile, before the weight of care Had crushed thy heart, and for a while left only sorrow there; Some thoughts perchance 'twere best to quell, some impulse to forget. O'er which should mem'ry cease to dwell, we may be happy yet. O, never name departed days, nor vows you whispered then, Round which too sad a feeling plays to trust their tones again; Regard their shadows round thee cast as if we ne'er had met, 4nd thus unmindful of the past, we may be happy yet. |
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