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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
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THE IRISHMAN.
The savage loves his native shore,
Tho' rude the soil and chill the air, Then well may EHn's sons adore
Their isle which nature formed so fair. What flood reflects a show so sweet,
As Shannon's great or pastoral band, Or who a friend or foe can meet,
So geu'rous as an Irishman? Tho' his hand be rash, his heart is warm
And principle is still his guide, None more regrets a deed of harm,
None more forgives with nobler pride; He may be duped, but won't be dared;
But fit to practice and to plan, He ably earns his poor reward,
And spends it like an Irishman. If poor in weal, he'll for you pay,
And guide you where you safe may he; If you're his comrade, whilst you stay
His cottage holds a jubilee; His inmost soul ho will unlock,
And if he may your merits scan, Your confidence he scorns to mock,
For faithful is an Irishman. By honor bound in woe or weal,
Whate'er she bids he dares to do, Try him with gold, it won't prevail,
But e'en in fire you'll And him true; He seeks not safety—let his post
Be where there's aught in danger's van; Or, if the field of fame be lost
It won't be by an Irishman. Erin's lov'd land, from age to age.
Be thou more great, more fam'd and free, May peace be yours, or should you wage
Defensive wars, cheap victory, May plenty flow in every field,
And gentle breezes sweetly fan, May cheerful smiles serenely glide,
In the breast of every Irishman. |
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MA AILLEEN ASTHOKE.
When waking with the rosy day,
From golden dreams of thee, I watch the orient sunbeams play,
Along the purple sea; * O then I could not choose but weep,
As thou wert mine no more, Ah, grammachree, ma cholleenouge,
Ma Ailleen Asthore I When twilight brings the weeping hours
That sadden all the grove, And angels leave their starry bowers '
To watch o'er faithful love, Thy parting words, to me so sweet,
I breathe them o'er and o'er, Ah, grammachree, ma choiieenouge.
Ma Ailleen Asthore! But soon they'll lay me in the grave,
Where broken hearts should be; And when, beyond the distant wave,
Thou dream'st of meeting me. My sorrows all will be forgot.
And ail the love I bore, Ah, grammachree, ma choiieenouge,
Ma Ailleen Asthore! |
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