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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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THE DEAR IRISH BOY.
My Connor his cheeks are as ruddy as morning,
The brightest of pearls but mimic his teeth, "While nature with ringlets his mild brow adorning, His hair Cupid's bowstrings, and roses his breath. CHORUS.—Smiling, beguiling, cheering, endearing,
Together oft over the mountain we've strayed, By each other delighted, and fondly united. I've listened all day to my dear Irish boy. No roebuck more swift can flee o'er the mountain,
No veterp ' bolder 'midst danger or scars; He's sighfl , he's lightly, he's as clear as the fountain, His eyes t,/inkle love, but he's gone to the wars.
Smiling, etc. The soft tun'ng lark Its notes change to mourning. The dull screaming owl doth invade my night sleep; ' While lonely I walk In the shades of the evening. If my Connor return not, I'll ne'er cease to weep.
Smiling, etc. The war is all over, and he is not returning;
I fear that some envious plot has been laid, Or some cruel goddess has him captivated. And left me to mourn, a dear Irish maid.
Smiling, etc. |
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THE BARD'S LEGACY.
When in death I shall calm recline,
Oh, bear my heart to my mistress dear; Tell her It lived upon smiles and wine
Of the brightest hue, while It lingered here; Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow,
To sully a heart so brilliant and light; But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn till night.
"When the light of my song is o'er,
Then take my harp to your ancient hall; Hang it up at that friendly door,
Where weary travellers love to call; Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,
Revive its soft note In passing along, Oh, let one thought of Its master waken
Your warmest smile for the child of song!
Keep this cup, which^ Is now o'erflowing,
To grace your revef when I'm at rest; Never, oh! never Its balm bestowing
On lips that beauty hath seldom blest; But when some warm, devoted lover
To her he adores shall bathe Its brim, Then, then my spirit around shall hover,
And hallow each drop that foams for him. |
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STRIKE THE GAY HARP.
Strike the gay harp!—see, the moon Is on high;
And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean. Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye.
Obey the mute call, and heave into motion. s
Then sound, notes—the gayest, the lightest, That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest!
Again! again! Oh, could such heart-stirring music be heard
In that City of Statues described by romancers. So wakening Its spell, even stone would be stirred.
And statues themselves all start into dancers! |
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