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458 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Paints with orange the white clouds that float in the west: And the billows that roar Round our own island shore Lay their green heads to rest on the blue heaven's bosom, Where sky and sea meet in the distance away: As Nature thus shows us how well she can fuse 'em, We'll blend them in love on St. Patrick's Day.
ii
The hues of the prism, philosophers say, boys,
Are nought but the sunlight resolved into parts: They're beauteous, no doubt; but I think that the ray, boys, Unbroken, more lights up and warms our hearts. Each musical tone, Struck one by one, Makes melody sweet, it is true, on the ear — But let the hand ring All at once every string — And, oh ! there is harmony now that is glorious,
In unison pealing to heaven away; For union is beauty, and strength is victorious, In hues, tones, or hearts, on St. Patrick's Day.
w
Those hues in our bosoms be sure to unite, boys:
Let each Irish heart wear those emblems so true; Be fresh as the green, and be pure as the white, boys, Be bright as the orange, sincere as the blue. I care not a jot Be your scarf white or not, |
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