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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. 71
'Tis true, she wears no coronet nor gems these latter days; She has no fleet upon the deep—no ships within her bays-No flocks upon the mountain side—no herds upon the plain-No gardens rich with summer bloom—no fields of waving grain.
The fetters of the tyrant are on her limbs—oh, shame! That we but whine who should avenge the Insult to her fame; And crowned with woe, she walks the earth—the sad amid the gay— Because she would not sell her love for gems that fade away.
Yet see her In her sorrow, beneath the summer skies; What is the diamond's brightness to the lustre of her eyes? And what are earthly diadems to the glories that entwine Her brow upon whose front the gems of Truth and Virtue shine?
The Saxon lord, by force and fraud, has wooed her heart for years, She's pined within his dungeon keeps—she's wept hot, bitter tears; But tho' he crucify her soul, and scourge her thro' the land, She'll not forsake her old true love to take his bloody hand.
I loved thee in my boyhood, and now, in manhood's noon, The vision of my life Is still to dry thy tears, aroon! I'd slug unto the tomb, and dance beneath the gallows tree, To see thee on the hills once more, proud, passionate and tree. |
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THE IRISH MAIDEN'S LAMENT.
On Carrlgdhoun the heath is brown.
The clouds are dark o'er Ardnalla, And many a stream comes rushing down
To swell the angry Ownabwee; The moaning blast is sweeping fast
Thro' many a leafless tree, And I'm alone, for he Is gone.
My hawk has flown, ochone machree.
The heath was green on Carrlgdhoun,
Bright shone the sun on Ardnalia, The dark green trees bent trembling down
To kiss the slumb'rlng Ownabwee; That happy day, 'twas but last May,
'Tis like a dream to me. When Dolnnall swore, ay, o'er a^d o'er
We'd part no more, oh stor machree.
Soft April show'rs and bright May flow'rs
Will bring the summer back again, But will they bring me back the hours
I spent with my brave Doinnall then? 'Tis but a chance, for he's gone to France
To wear the fleur de lis; But I'll follow you, ma Dolnnali dhu,
For still I'm true to you, machree. |
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PADDY BLAKE'S ECHO.
In the Gap of Dunlo
There's an echo or so; And; some of them echoes is very surprlsin';
You'll think in this stave
That I mane to desaive— For a ballad's a thing you expect to And lies in.
But sartin and tbrue
In that hill forninst you There's an echo as sure and as safe as the hank too;
If you civilly spake,
"How d'ye do, Paddy Blake?" The echo politely says, "Very well, thank you." |
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