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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. 133 |
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'Death to every foe and traitor, Torward, strike the marchin' tune,
And hurrah, my boys, for Freedom! 'Tls the rlsln' of the moon.'
"Well they fought for poor old Ireland
And full bitter was their fate. (Oh, what glorious pride and sorrow
Fill the name of Ninety-eight!) Yet, thank God, e'en still are beating
Hearts In manhood's burning noon, Who would follow In their footsteps,
At the rlsln' of the moon." |
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THE WELCOME.
Come in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you're looked for, or come without warning; Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you. Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Ked Is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "true lovers! don't sever."
I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them;
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom.
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you;
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. O! your step's like the rain to the summer-vex'd farmer, Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me.
We'll look through the trees at the clifl* aud the eyrie, We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy, We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. O! she'll whisper you, "Love as unchangeably beaming, And trust, when in secret most tunefully streaming, Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity's river."
So come in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you're look'd for, or come without warning, Kisses and welcomes you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Red is my cheek that they told me^was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "true lovers, don't sever!" |
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AN IRISH STEW.
Sure, I've sung ye many a song in my time,
But now ye want something new; ,
So I'm afther giving a bit of a rhyme,
Concerning an Irish shtew. For I've got the original ould resate,
For cooking to rights that same; And If ye can only get hould of the mate
If ye shpoll it, yersllf's to blame. Chorus.—So let me give ye this bit of advice— Ye can very soon prove it's true-That nothing in life it half so nice, As a savory Irish shtew. |
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