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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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I'M DREAMING OF THEE, NORAH.
I'm dreaming of thee, Norah, I'm dreaming still of thee, Thy spirit haunts me ever, like fairy melody; ■When in loneliness I wander, or in halls of mirth and glee, Ah! my heart to thine Is turning, I'm dreaming still of thee.
I'm dreaming of thee, Norah,
I'm dreaming still of thee. I'm dreaming of thee, dearest, I dream of thee alone, I think how well I love thee, and feel we shall be one; For I know there is no other e'er can be so dear to me, Ah! whene'er I dream of angels, I'm dreaming still of thee.
I'm dreaming of thee, Norah,
I'm dreaming still of thee. |
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IRISH MARY.
Far away from Erin's strand,
And valleys wide and sounding waters. Still she is, In every land,
One of Erin's real daughters; Oh! to meet her here is like
A dream of home and natal mountains, On our hearts their verses strike—
We hear the gushing of their fountains! • Yes! our Irish Mary, dear!
Our own, our real Irish Mary!
A flower of home, fresh blooming come. Art thou to us our Irish Mary! Round about us here we see
Bright eyes like hers, and sunny faces Charming all!—If all were free
Of foreign airs, of borrowed graces. Mary's eye it flashes truth!
And Mary's spirit, Mary's nature, "Irish Lady," fresh In youth,
Have beam'd o'er every look and feature!
Yes! our Irish Mary, dear! When La Tournure doth make us weary,
"We have you, to turn unto, For native grace, our Irish Mary. Sighs of home!—her Erin's songs
O'er all their songs we love to listen; Tears of home!—her Erin's wrongs
Subdue our kindred eyes to glisten! Oh! should woe to gloom consign
The clear fireside of love and honor, * You will see a holier sign
Of Irish Mary bright upon her!
Yes! our Irish Mary, dear! "Will light that home, though e'en so dreary.
Shining still o'er clouds of 111, Sweet star of life, our Irish Mary! |
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FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.
From life without freedom, oh, who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh, who would not die? Hark, hark! 'tis the trumpet, the call of the brave, The death-song of tyrants and dirge of the slave. Our country lies bleeding—oh, fly to her aid! One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade. In Death's kindly bosom our last hope remains— The dead fear no tyrants; the grave has no chains; On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed For virtue and mankind, are heroes Indeed! And oh, even If Freedom from this world be driven. Despair not—at least we shall find her in heaven! |
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