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88 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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The Flower has withered on the brae,
The Bird has quit the tree, And all the world has weary grown,
For my sad heart and me : Yet patiently through empty years
My sorrow would I dree, Did you but look your love once more,
A stor, Gra geal mochree !
The grass waves o'er your dear black head,
The cold clay wraps you round, It's lonesome for you lying there
So deep in the dark ground, Where my arms can never reach you,
Where you can never see The blinding love that fills my eyes,
A stor, Gra geal mochree !
'Tis sad to think those eyes don't light,
And I, your Heart, so near; 'Tis sore that 1 should call and call,
And you refuse to hear, But sleep, a riiin,1 for sure 'tis Night:
And soon glad Dawn shall be, When lips will meet and souls will greet,
A stor, Gra geal mochree !
MY INVER BAY
OH ! Inver Bay on a harvest day, And the sun goin' down the sky; When with many's a laugh the boats put off, And many's the merry cry ! |
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A ruin, my dear. |
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