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380 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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And dear is your fairy foot so light, And your dazzling milk-white hand,
And your hair 1 it's a thread of the golden light That was spun in the rainbow's band.
Oh ! green be the fields of my native shore,
Where you bloom like a young rose-tree; Mo varia astore—we must meet no more !
But the pulse of my heart's with thee. No more may your voice with its silver sound,
Come like music in a dream ! Or your heart's sweet laugh ring merrily round,
Like the gush of the summer's stream.
Oh ! mo varia the stately halls are high
Where Erin's splendors shine ! Yet their harps shall swell to the wailing cry
That my heart sends forth to thine. For an exile's heart is a fountain deep,
Far hid from the gladsome sun — Where the bosom's yearning ne'er may sleep;
Mo thruaidh ! mo chreach ! och on / |
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GARRYOWEN
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ET Bacchus's sons be not dismayed, But join with me each jovial blade; Come booze and sing, and lend your aid To help me with the chorus —
Instead of Spa we'll drink brown ale, And pay the reckoning on the nail, No man for debt shall go to jail From Garryowen in glory ! |
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