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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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IT IS NOT THE TEAE.
It is not the tear at this moment shed.
When the cold turf has Just been laid o'er him. That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept,
'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded, 'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs have faded. Thus his memory, like some holy light,
Kept alive in our hearts, will Improve them; For worth shall look fairer and truth more bright
When we think how he lived but to love them. And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume
Where buried saints are lying, So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
From the Image he left there in dying! |
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KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN.
Kathleen, mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking,
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill, The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking,
Kathleen, mavourneen, what, slumb'ring still? Ah! hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever? Oh! hast thou forgotten this day we must part? It may be for years, and it may be forever, Oh! why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? It may be for years, and it may be forever, Then why art thou silent, Kathleen, mavourneen? Kathleen, mavourneen! awake from thy slumbers,
The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light, Ah! where is the spell that once hung on my numbers, 'Arise, in thy beauty, thou star of my night, Mavourneen, mavourneen, my sad tears are falling,
To think that from Erin and thee I must part. It may be for years, and it may be forever, Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? It may be for years, and it may be forever, Then why art thou silent, Kathleen, mavourneen? |
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KATE O'BRIEN,
Perhaps you don't know there's a sweet little stream.
Far down in a dell, where a poet might dream;
A nate little cabin stands close to the tide,
And, och, such a Jewel is shining inside.
I don't mean a jewel that money can buy,
But a warm-hearted creature with love in her eye;
You'll not find a beauty so beauteous as she,
From Ballinacrasy to Donaghadee.
Her name is O'Brien, they christened her Kate;
There's many a beauty has shared the same fate;
But never a one, to my thinking, I've seen
So lovely, so trim, as my bright-eyed colleen.
Her face is a picture for limners to paint;
Her figure might serve for a heart winning saint;
Oh, you'll not find a beauty so beauteous as she,
From , Ballinacrasy to Donaghadee.
Her hair, it is smooth as the raven's own back,
But the bonniest bird has not tresses so black;
And they curl round a neck that might rival the snow.
With the grace of a swan on the waters below.
Her mouth—oh, what music I've heard from that same!
Her breath—it might put the sweet roses to shame;
Oh, you'll not find a beauty so beauteous as she,
From Ballinacrasy to Donaghadee. |
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