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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
147 |
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When I heard my sentence, It grieved my heart full sore, But parting from my true love it grieved me ten times more. I had seven links upon my chain, for every link a year. Before I can return again to the arms of my dear.
While I lay under sentence, before I sailed away. My love, she came into the jail, and thus to me did say: "Cheer up your heart, don't be dismayed, for I'll not you disown. Until you do return again to Erin's Lovely Home." |
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FORTUNE IN THE FIRE.
Sweet Norab, come here, and look Into the fire,
Perhaps in its embers good luck we may see; Don't come too near, or your glances so burning,
Will put it clean out, like the sunbeams, machree. Just look 'tween the bars, where the black sod is smoking;
There's a sweet little valley, with rivers and trees. And a house on the bank quite'as good as the squire's—
Who knows but some day we'll have something like these?
Who knows but some day we'll have something like, these?
And now there's a coach with four galloping horses,
A coachman to drive, and a footman behind, That shows that some day we will keep a fine carriage,
And fly through the street at the speed of the wind. As Dermot was speaking, the rain-drops came hissing
Down thro' the wide chimney, the fire went out; While mansion and river, and horses and carriage,
All vanished in smoke-wreaths that whirl'd about,
All vanished In smoke-wreaths that whirl'd about. Then Norah to Dermot this speech softly whispered:
" 'Twere better to do than to idly desire; And one little cot by the roadside Is better
Than a palace with servants and coach in the fire,
Than a palace with servants and coach in the fire." |
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MOTHER, HE'S GOING AWAY.
Mother.—Now, what are you crying for Nelly?
Don't be blubberin' there like a fool!— With the weight o' the grief, faith I tell you,
You'll break down the three-legged stool. I suppose, now, you're crying for Barney, But don't b'lleve a word that he'd say, He tells nothln' but big lies and blarney— Sure you know how he sarved poor Kate Kearney—
Daughter.—But, mother-----
Mother.—Oh, bother!
Daughter.—But, mother, he's going away: And I dreamt th' other night, Of his ghost, all in white— Oh, mother, he's going away! Mother.—If he's goin'" away, all the betther—
Bless'd'hour when he's out of your sight! There's one comfort—you can't get a letther,—
For yiz neither can read or can write. Sure, 'twas only last week you protested,
Since he coorted fat Jinny M'Cray, That the sight of the scamp you detested;
With abuse, sure, your tongue never rested-----
Daughter.—But, mother-----
Mother.—Oh, bother! '
Daughter.—But, mother, he's going away. And I dream of his ghost Walking round my bedpost— Oh, mother, he's going away! |
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