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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
167 |
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Deeply in broad Kilmore, my Eveleen,
Down by the wild stream's shore, my Eveleen,
I've made a sweet house for thee; Yellow and bright thy long, long flowing hair, Flow'rs the fairest are ever blowing there, Fairer still with thy clear eyes glowing there,
Fondly, sweet Gragal Machree! Then come away, away, my Eveleen, We will spend each day, my Eveleen,
Blissful and loving and free; Come to the woods where the streams are pouring blue, Which the eagle is ever soaring through; I'll grow fonder each day adoring you,
There, there, sweet Gragal Machree! |
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FILL THE BUMPER FAIR.
Fill the bumper fair? Ev'ry drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care smooths away a wrinkle.
Wit's electric flame ne'er so swiftly passes
As when thro' the frame it shoots from brimming glasses;
Fill the bumper fair! Ev'ry drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care smooths away a wrinkle.
Sages can, they say, grasp the lightning's pinions,
And bring down its ray from the starr'd dominions;
So we Sages sit and 'mid bumpers bright'nlng
From the heav'n of wit draw down all Its lightning;
Would'st thou know what first made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst for wine's celestial spirit?
It chanc'd upon that day when, as bards inform us,
Prometheus stole away the living fires that warm us.
The careless youth when up to glory's fount aspiring
Took nor urn nor cup to hide the pilfer'd fire In;
But oh! his joy when round the halls of Heaven spying,
Among the stars he found a bowl of Bacchus lying.
Some drops were In that bowl, remains of last night's pleasure,
With which the sparks of soul mix'd their burning treasure;
Hence the goblet's show'r hath such spells to win us,
Hence Its mighty power o'er the flame within us.
Fill the bumper fair! Ev'ry drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care smooths away a wrinkle. |
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MY ROSE.
Droop all the flow'rs In my garden, all their fair heads hang low; For rose, their fairest companion, ne'er again will they know. Bring me no flowers for wearing, take these strange buds away, For I cannot now have the fairest, my rose that has died to-day. "What has blighted my blossom? Stricken it down with death. Over the walls of my garden what save the world's cold breath? Then bring no flowers for wearing, take these strange buds away, Since I cannot now have the sweetest, my rose that has died to-day. |
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THE WOODPECKER.
I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd . Above the green elms that a cottage was near, And I said, "If there's peace to be found in this world, A heart that is humble might hope for it there." Chorus.—Ev'ry leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound, But a woodpecker tapping the hollow beech tree. "And here in this lone little wood," I exclaim'd,
"With a maid that was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I prais'd her and weep if I blam'd. How blest I could live and how calm I could die!" Ev'ry leaf was at rest, etc. |
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