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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. 61
For memory dwelling on each proud swelling Of thy belfry knelling Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee!
I have heard bells tolling "old Adrian's mole" In,
Their thunder roiling from the Vatican: With cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly! Oh! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee!
There's a bell in Moscow, whlie on tower and kloske,
In Saint Sophia, the Turcoman gets, And loud in air calls men to prayer
From the tapering summits of tali minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them; And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee! With thy bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pieasant waters of the river Lee! |
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THE RECONCILIATION.
An old man knelt at the altar,
His enemy's hand to take. And at first his weak voice did falter,
And his feeble limbs did sTiake; For his only brave boy, his glory,
Had been stretch'd at the old man's feet, A corpse, ail so haggard and gory,
By the hand which he now must greet.
And soon the old man stopp'd speaking,
And rage which had not gone by, From under his brows came breaking
Up Into his enemy's eye— And now his limbs were not shaking,
But his ciinch'd hands his bosom cross'd, And he looked a fierce wish to be taking
Revenge for the boy he lost.'
But the old man he glanced around him.
And thought of the place he was In, And thought of the promise that bound him,
And thought that revenge was sin— And then, crying tears, like a woman,
"Your hand!" he cried, "ay, that hand. And I do forgive you, foeman,
For the sake of our bleeding land!"
MARY AIIEEN.
Lying by the little grave, Mary Aiieen, One sweet word is all I crave, Mary Aiieen! Wiit thou hear me in my woe? Wilt thou answer soft and low? Canct thou speak a little? No, Mary Alleen! Chorus.—Mary Aiieen! Mary Aiieen!
Canst thou speak a little? No, Mary Aiieen!
Midst the flowers now I'm speaking, Mary Aiieen; Canst thou hear my voice below, Mary Aiieen? Here till morning will I lie-Here to-night I fain would die, And to thee be ever nigh, Mary Alleen.
Chorus. |
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