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IRISH MELODIES. 59 |
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THE YOUNG MAY MOON.
The young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove
Through Morna's grove,* When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake !—the heavens look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear.
Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
And I, whose star,
More glorious far, Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake !—till rise of sun, my dear, The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,
Or, in watching the flight
Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.
" Steals silently to Morna's grove." See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's collection, by John Brown, one of my earliest college companions and friends; whose death was as singularly melancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and exemplary. |
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