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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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SWEET KITTY NEIL.
Ah, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from your wheel,
Your neat little foot will be weary of spinning: Come, trip down with me to the sycamore tree.
Half the parish is there and the dance Is beginning. The sun has gone down, but the full harvest moon
Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley; While all the air rings with tho soft, loving things
Each little bird sings in the green shaded valley,
Each little bird sings in the green shaded valley. With a blush and a smile, Kitty rose up, the while
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her Irair, glancing; 'Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues,
So she could not choose but go off to the dancing. And now on the green the glad troops are seen.
Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosiDg, And Pat, without fail, led out sweet Kitty Neil,
Somehow when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing,
Somehow when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing.
THE FORTUNE TELLER.
Down In the valley come meet me to-night,
And I will tell you your fortune truly As ever wa3 told, by the new moon's light,
To a young maiden, shining as newly. But, for the world, let no one be nigh,
Lest haply the stars should deceive me: Such secrets between you and me and the sky
Should never go farther, believe me. If at that hour the heavens be not dim.
My science shall call up before you A male apparition—the image of him
Whose destiny it is to adore you. And if to that phantom you will be kind,
So fondly around you he'll hover, You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find
'Twlxt him and a true, living lover! Down at your feet in the pale moonlight
He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion— An ardor, of which such an innocent sprite
You'd scarcely believe had a notion! What other thoughts and events may arise,
As in Destiny's book I've not seen them, Must only be left to the stars and your eyes
To settle, ere morning, between them. |
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THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.
Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheered my way, Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round me lay; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burned, Till shame Into glory, till fear into zeal, was turned: Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And blest even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee. Thy rival was honored, whilst thou wert wronged and scorned; Thy crown was of briers, while gold her browa adorned; She wooed me to temples, while thou layest hid in caves; Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves; Yet cold In the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be Than wed what I love not, or turn one thought from thee. They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail— Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had looked less pale! They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains, That deep In thy heart they have printed their servile stains. Oh, foul Is the slander—no chain could that soul subdue— Where shlneth thy spirit, there liberty shlneth, too! |
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