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UO HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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THE ROSE OF ERIN.
I saw her first In golden hours, With primrose stars appearln',
0 green was she of all the flow'rs, The lovely Rose of Erin!
Beneath the shade of Irish hills, Their Isle's own colors wearin', - Ah, where smiled, the shamrock all the day There dwelt the Rose of Erin, Dwelt the Rose of Erin.
1 saw her next in summer time, With ev'ry charm endearin',
For she was in her girlhood's fame,
The lovely Rose of Erin; We met beside the banks of Erin
No thought of sorrow fearln'. Ah, yet oft I thought her lily-pale,
My darlin' Rose of Erin, Darlln' Rose of Erin.
Alas! alas! on autumn's wave.
To heav'n her bark was steerin', And I, no pray'r of mine might save
My lovely Rose of Erin. Ah! well-a-day, the angels came,
My heart's own garden nearln", Ah! and took from earth, to bloom in heav'n
My lovely Rose of Erin, Lovely Rose of Erin. |
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A SOLDIER'S TEAR. |
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Upon the hill he turn'd, to take a last fond look
At the valley, and the village church, and the cottage by the hrook;
He listen'd to the sounds so familiar to his ear,
And the soldier lean'd upon his sword, and wiped away a tear.
Beside that cottage porch a girl was on her knees, She held aloft a snowy scarf, which flutter'd in the breeze: She breathed a prayer for him, a prayer he could not hear; But he paused to bless her as she knelt, and wiped away a tear.
He turn'd and left the spot—oh! do not deem him weak,
For dauntless was the soldier's heart, though tears were on his cheek.
Go watch the foremost ranks in danger's dark career—
Be sure the hand most daring there has wiped away a tear. |
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MO CAILIN DONN.
The blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree, And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are carolling their glee; And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun, All to deck a path of glory for my own Cftilln Donn! O, fair she is! O, rare she is! 0, dearer still to me! More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree, More welcome, than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee, Is the coming of my true love—my own Cailln Donn! O, Sycamore! O, Sycamore! wave, wave your banners green— Let all your pennons flutter, 0, Beech! before my queen! Ye fleet and honeyed breezes', to kiss her hand ye run, But my heart has passed before ye to my own Callin Donn!
O, fair she is; &c. Ring out, ring out, 0, Linden! your merry, leafy bells! Unveil your brilliant torches, O, Chestnut! to the dells: Strew, strew the glade with splendor, for morn—it cometh on! O, the morn of all delight to me—my own Cailin Donn!
0, fair she is; fcc. |
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