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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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The placs is little changed, Mary,
The day as bright as then; The lark's loud song is in my ear.
And the corn is green again! But I miss the soft clasp of your hand
And your breath warm on my cheek. And I still keep listening for the words
You never more may speak, 'Tig but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near— The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here; But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest, For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep.
With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends, But, O! they love them better far,
The few our Father sends; And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessing and my pride; There's nothing left to care for now.
Since my poor Mary died. I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary, kind and true. But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm going to. They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there; But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were It fifty times as fair! |
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LOVE'S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD.
Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us—
Youth may wither, but feeling will last. All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us,
Love's light summer cloud sweetly shall cast. Oh, If to love thee more, each hour I number o'er;
If this a passion be worthy of thee, Then be happy, for thus I adore thee—
Charms may wither, but feeling will last. All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee,
Love's light summer cloud sweetly shall cast. Rest, dear bosom! no sorrow shall pain thee.
Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal; Beam, bright eyelid! no weeping shall stain thee.
Tears of rapture alone thou shalt feel, Oh, If there be a charm In love to banish harm;
If pleasure's truest spell be to love well, Then be happy, for thus I adore thee—
Charms may wither, but feeling will last, All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee,
Love's light summer cloud sweetly shall cast.
DUET. LOVE, MY MARY, DWELLS WITH THEE.
He.—Love, my Mary, dwells with thee,
On thy cheek his bed I see.
She.—No, that cheek is pale with care—
Love can find no roses there.
Both.—'Tis not on the bed of rose,
Love can find the best repose; In my heart his home thou'lt see— There be lives, and lives for thee. |
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