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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
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KATE OF KILKENNY.
Since I've wandered away from that beautiful land.
The dearest on earth still to me,
In my dreams I go back like the waves to its strand,
Where a cabin stands facing the sea.
For a Coileen dwells there,
In that cabin of turf.
And she waits for her exile's return.
And her sighs often blend with the sigh of the surf,
Though still brightly the rush light may burn. Chorus.—She's a fair Irish flower with love for her dower. The sun in her eyes and its gold in her hair, She is sweeter than any, is Kate of Kilkenny, No girl in all Ireland with her can compare.
When the night with her stars spreads a veil o'er the deep,
The man in the moon I would be,
Sure I'd beam on her face, till she'd wake from her sleep,
Then I'd know she was looking at me.
I would crown her dear head.
With a halo as bright.
As the saints of her own native land,
She's the saint of my soul on her shrine there to-night.
In that cabin of turf on the sand. , |
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BY THE BANKS OF THE SHANNON.
Where the shamrocks grow green on the banks of the Shannon,
And bend to the breezes that over them sigh; How often I've wandered with sweet Nellie Bannon,
And whispered of love in the bright days gone by. It was there we first met, there in sorrow we parted.
When I left her to roam o'er the wide rolling sea; But I know that the Coiieen I love is true-hearted,
And waits by the banks of the Shannon for me. Refrain.— Oh, how my dear Nellie Bannon I long to see. There by the banks of the Shannon she waits for me; Fondly I yearn to return to my Irish home,
Afar from the Shannon and sweet Nellie Bannon, no more to roam. Her heart Is as pure as the stars that are burning
Above the green valley that cradles her rest; Where fondly she waits for her lover's returning.
And longs to repose once again on his breast, Tho' I've wandered thro' scenes wealth environs with splendor.
Where on pinions of pleasure the bright moments flee; Still I long to return to the love true and tender,
That waits by the banks of the Shannon for me. |
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ROBERT EMMET.
They tell us to breathe not the patriot's name.
They say let it rest in the gloom; But can we forget all the glory and fame
Of him who sleeps cold In the tomb? Forget him! oh, never, while one of our rac»
On the soil of Ireland remains; His epitaph brightly in jewels we'll trace
When Erin her freedom regains. In ages to come will his name still be blest.
Who loved his dear country so well, And forever deep, deep in each patriot's breast
Will his fame and his memory dwell. He parted with all and he joined in the strife,
With freedom's bright banner In hand; He left his heart's love, and he gave his young life
To raise up our down-trodden land. |
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