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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
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We never know her awful, rushing prairie fire,
The silent horror of her snow. Return! her heart is wise and bold,
Her borders beautiful and free; Yet stili the New is not the Old,
Return to Ireland, love, and me. |
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BRIDGET DONAHUE.
It was in the county Kerry, a little way from Clare, Where the boys and giris are merry at a patron race or fair; s The town is called Kellorglin, a purty place to view, But what makes it interesting is my Bridget Donahue.
Chorus.—Oh, Bridget Donahue, I really do love you.
Although I'm in America to you I will be true; Then, Bridget Donahue, I'll tell you what I'll do, Just take the name of Patterson and I'll take Donahue.
Her father is a farmer, and a dasent man Is tie,
He's liked by all the people from Kellorglin to Tralee;
And Bridget on a Sunday, when coming home from mass,
She's admired by all the people, sure they wait to see her pass.
Oh, Bridget Donahue, etc
I sent her home a picture, I did upon my word,
Not a picture of myself, but a picture of a bird;
It was the American Eagle, and says I, Miss Donahue,
Our Eagles' wings are large enough to shelter me and you.
Oh, Bridget Donahue, eta |
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CONNOR, THE FISHERMAN.
My Connor is a fisher bold—he likes the life so free— The roaring of the wintry winds—the-lashing of the sea; His home is on the noisy waves, and once I am his bride, 0! trust me, I'll be bold enough to tempt them by his side. My Connor hath a fairy bark on summer seas to skim; He tells me in the summer time that I shall sail with him. He thinks I have a coward heart, as if one need be brave To dare the tempest any night, and Connor there to save. My Connor hath a warrior's soul, but, in this age of slaves, Perhaps he finds his fittest life in warring with the waves; And never blew the tempest yet that Connor's spirit bowed; His eye would meet the lightning's flash as kingly and as proud. My Connor hath a tender heart, for all his stormy life; There never breaks a word from him of sullenness or strife; His war is with the braggart waves, and once I am his bride, O! trust me, I'll be bold enough to tempt them by his side! |
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THE PEASANT'S BRIDE.
I was a simple country girl that lov'd the morning dearly;
My only wealth a precious pearl I found one morning early.
I milked my mother's only cow, my kind, poor lovin* Drimin;
I never envied then nor now the kine of richer women.
The sun shone out In bonny June, and fragrant were the meadows;
A voice as sweet as an Irish tune (I know it was my Thady's)
Said, "Mary dear, 1 fain would stay, but Where's the use repining?
I must away to save my hay now while the sun is shining."
Now Thady was as stout a blade as ever stood in leather,
With hook or scythe, with plow or spade, he'd beat ten men together;
He's just the man, thought I, for me, he is working late and early,
He shall be mine if he is free, he takes my fancy fairly.
I gave my hand, though I was young, and heart, too, like a feather,
Our marriage song by the lark was sung when we were wed together;
And many a noble lord, I'm told, and many a noble lady.
Would gladly give a crown of gold to be like me and Thady. |
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