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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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What mortal could injure a blossom so fair? Oh, Norah, dear Norah, the pride of Kildare. Where'er I may be, love, I'll ne'er forget thee, love.
Though beauties may smile and try to ensnare, Yet nothing shall ever my heart from thine sever.
Dear Norah, sweet Norah, the Pride of Kildare. |
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MOLLY BAWN.
O Molly Bawn, why leave me pining
Or lonely waiting here for you— While the stars above are brightly shining,
Because they have nothing else to do. The flowers late were open keeping,
To try a rival blush with you, But their mother, Nature, kept them sleeping,
With their rosy faces wash'd in dew. The pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,
And the pretty stars were made to shine; The pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,
And may be you were made for mine. The wicked watch-dog here is snarling—
He takes me for a thief, d'ye see? For he knows I'd steal you, Molly, darling,
And then transported I should be. |
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NORAH McSHANE.
I've left Ballymornach a long way behind me,
To better my fortune I've crossed the big sea; But I'm sadly alone, not a creature to mind me,
And faith, I'm as wretched as wretched can be; I think of the buttermilk, fresh as the daisy.
The beautiful hills and the emerald plain, And, ah! don't I oftentimes think myself crazy
About that black-eyed rogue, sweet Norah McShane. I sigh for the turf-pile, so cheerfully burning,
When barefoot I trudged it from toiling afar. When I toss'd in the light the thirteen I'd been earning,
And whistled the anthem of "Erin go hragh." In truth, I believe that I'm half broken-hearted,
To my country and love I must get back again, For I've never been happy at all since I parted
From sweet Ballymornach and Norah McShane. Oh! there's something so sweet in the cot I was horn in,
Though the walls are but mud and the roof is but thatch; How familiar the grunt of the pigs in the mornln',
What music in lifting the rusty old latch! 'Tis true I'd no money, but then I'd no sorrow,
My pockets were light, but my bead had no pain; And if I but live till the sun shine to-morrow,
I'll be off to ould Ireland and Norah McShane. |
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SWEET LAND OF SONG.
Sweet land of song! thy harp doth hang
Upon the willows now, While famine's blight and fever's pang
Stamp misery on thy brow; Yet take thy harp, and raise thy voice.
Though faint and low it be, And let thy sinking heart rejoice
In friends still left to thee! Look out—look out—across the sea
That girds the emerald shore, A ship of war is bound for thee,
But with no warlike store; |
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