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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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Brave soldiers may war, heroes may die, With Molly, dear, the world 1 would defy. Tender her heart, loving and true, Flowers of the valley call her queen. So like the lily, so like the rose, Her laugh's like the sunshine to nature's repose; Her eyes are Jewels, more rich and bright Than those in heaven that sparkle at night.
She's plain Molly, 0, etc. |
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SWEET HAEP.
Oh, give me one strain
Of that wild harp again,
In melody proudly its own I
Sweet harp of the days that are gone!
Time's wide-wasting wing
Its cold shadow may fling
Where the light of the soul hath no part; The sceptre and sword Both decay with their lord—
But the throne of the bard Is the heart. And hearts, while they beat To the music so sweet, Thy glories will ever prolong, Land of honor and beauty and song! The beauty whose sway Woke the bard's votive lay,
Hath gone to eternity's shade, While, fresh in its fame, i.lves the song to her name,
Which the minstrel immortal hath made! |
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MY LITTLE IRISH QUEEN.
My home is In the country, not many miles away;
'Tis where I go in summer to pass the time away;
There is a little girl, bright as the stars above,
Just as the sun goes down, then I go and meet my love, oh!
JtEFRAIN.—
She's young, yes and beautiful—she's the fairest ever seen;
She may not dress like city folks, she's my little Irish queen. We do not care for riches to make our lives complete; A little cottage down the lane, all furnished clean and neat; A garden filled with flow'rs—blue, yellow, red and green; But the fairest one of all is my little Irish queen, oh!
She's young, yes, etc. |
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THE IRISH EXILE'S LOVE.
"With pensive eyes she passed the church,
And up the leafy woodland came, Until she reached the silver birch
"Where long ago he carved her name. And oh! she sighed as soft she kissed,
With loving lips, that gentle tree. "Alor.e, alone, I keep the tryst;
Return to Ireland, love, and me. Return, Columbia's realm afar,
Where year by year your feet delay. We cannot match for moon or star.
By silver night or golden day. Her birds are brighter far of wing,
A richer lustre lights her flow'rs; Yet still they say no bird can sing,
Or blossom breathe as sweet as ours. Return I her levin flashes dire
Affright not here. |
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