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70 HYLAND'S MAMMOTH
In his hat, good St. Patrick used always to wtar, The Shamrock, whenever he went to a fair; And Nebuchadnezzar, no doubt highly prized A bit of the blossom when he went disguised; ■ For, the bosom of beauty itself might expand. When bedecked by the Shamrock of Old Ireland.
When far, far away, a sweet blossom I've seen, I've dreamt of Shillelaghs and Shamrocks so green; That grow, like two twins, on the bogs and the hills, With a drop in my eye, that with Joy my heart Alls; And I've blessed the dear sod from a far distant strand. And the beautiful Shamrock of Old Ireland. |
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THE TIE IS BROKE, MY IRISH GIRL.
The tie is broke, my Irish girl,
That bound thee here to me, My heart has lost its single pearl,
And thine at last is free— Dead as the earth that wraps thy clay,
Dead as the stone above thee— Cold as this heart, that breaks to say
It never more can love thee.
I press thee to my aching breast-No blush conies o'er thy brow—
Those gentle arms that once caress'd, Fall round me deadly now—
The smiles of Love no longer part " Those dead blue lips of thine—
I lay my hand upon thy heart, 'Tis cold at last to mine.
Were we beneath our native heaven,
Within our native land— A fairer grave to thee were given
Than this wild bed of sand. But thou wert single in thy faith,
And single in thy worth: And thou shouldst die a lonely death.
And lie in lonely earth.
Then Jay thee down and take thy rest.
My last—last look is given— The earth is smooth above thy breast.
And mine is yet unriven! No mass—no parting rosary—
My perished love can have; But her husband's sighs embalm the corse,
A husband's tears her grave. |
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OH, LIMERICK IS BEAUTIFUL,
Oh, Limerick Is beautiful, as everybody knows;
And by that city of my heart how proud the Shannon flows!
It sweeps down by the brave old town as clear in depth and tone
As when Sarsfield swept the Saxon from the walls of Garryowen.
'Tls not for Limerick that I sigh—tho' I love her in my soul—
That times will change, and friends will die, and man cannot control;
No, not for friends long pass'd away, nor days forever flown,
But that the maiden I adore is sad in Garryowen.
Oh, she I love Is beautiful, and world-wide is ber fame; She dwells down by the flowing tide, and Eire Is her name. And dearer than my very life ber glances are to me— The light that cheers my weary soul across life's stormy sea. |
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