ROSE OF KILDARE.
By Henry P. Sullivan.
Be aisy awhile and I'll sing you a song,
A song of true love and of her I adore:
I could sing all the day and dream the night long,
Of Helen O'Connell, my colleen ashtore.
She's loved and admired the villages 'round,
She's so kind and so loving, so gentle and fair,
There's not a true Irish lad, I'll be bound,
But would die for the sake of the "Rose of Kadare."
Her brow is as fair as a child's in repose,
And crowned with a halo of clustering curls;
Her cheeks beur the delicate blush of the rose,
Her lips, like twin rubies, frame two rows of pearls.
Her eyes are as bright as the heavens above,
Sea-maidens might envy her wealth of brown hair;
More stately than Venus is my own true love,
My beautiful darling, the "Rose of Kadare."
But her low gentle voice and her fond winning smile
Are above all these charms, which are fleeting though fair;
For they come from a heart that is free from all guile-
Such hearts are so precious, because they're so rare.
What a pleasure it is on the bright summer days,
To wander together o'er fields that are fair,
By soft purling brook and through cool shady ways,
And to whisper sweet love to the "Rose of Kadare."