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160 HYLAND'S MAMMOTH
KATHLEEN O'MOORE.
My iove, still I think that I see her once more. But alas! she has left me her loss to deplore, My own little Kathleen, my poor lost Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'Moore. Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue, Her color still changing, her smiles ever new: So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'Moore. She milked the dun cow that ne'er offered to stir, Though wicked It was, It was gentle to her; So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'Moore. She sat by the door one cold afternoon, To hear the wind blow, and look at the moon, So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'Moore. 0 cold was the night breeze that sighed round her bower, It chlll'd my poor Kathleen, she drooped trom that hour, And I lost my poor Kathleen, my dear little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'Moore. The bird of all birds that I love the best, Is the robin that in the church-yard builds its nest, For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly on Kathleen.
My Kathleen O'Moore.
TERRY MALONE.
One ev'ning from market returning,
Just thinking ot what I'll not name; 1 May be some of ye guess,'ah! now don't ye?
For 'tis tew have not thought of the same. But my heart is as open as sunshine,
A secret lies heavy as stone; So I'll even confess, without blushing,
I was thinking of Terry Malone. If you spake of some one I'll not mention.
It is certain, they say, he'll appear, And so of the lad I was thinking,
By the bosheen I saw his draw near. 1 was pleased yet sorry to see him,
And he asked me to meet him alone; But I very well knew what he wanted,
So avoided poor Terry Malone. Coming home the next ev'ning quite lonely,
All at once who d'ye think I did spy, But Terry himself In a flurry,
And oh! such a beam in his eye! Where's the use to descend to particulars,
Enough If the end be made known— That same night, by the moon, I consented.
To become Mistress Terry Malone. |
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HEAR ME BUT ONCE.
Hear me but once, while o'er the grave
In which our love lies cold and dead, I count each flatt'ring hope he gave,
Of joys now lost and charms now fled! Who could have thought the smile he wore
When first we met would fade away? Or that a chill would e'er come o'er
Those eyes so bright, thro' many a day? |
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