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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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IT CHANCED WHEN I WAS WALKING.
It chanc'd when I was walking down by the river-side,
Amid tbe scented bushes, an Irish girl I spied;
Her checks were bright and rosy, and yellow was her hair.
And graceful was the green robe my Irish girl did wear.
And when I gently ask'd her i£ she would go with me,
•She laughingly responded, "Good sir, but I'm not tree;
For Dennis is my husband, and tho' he's aged and old,
I will not lose my good name for all your love and gold."
Oh, were my love a rosebud, and In the garden grew,
And I the happy gard'ner, to her I would be true.
There's not a month throughout the year, but I'd my love renew.
With lilies I would garnish her,—Sweet William, thyme, and rue.
TOP 0' THE MORNIN',
Th' anam au Dhia! but there It Is,
The dawn on the hills of Ireland! God's angels lifting the night's black veil
From the fair, sweet face of my sireland; Oh, Ireland, isn't it grand you look,
Like a bride in her rich adornin*, And with all the pent-up love of my heart,
I bid you the top o' the mornin*.
This one short hour pays lavishly back
For many a year of mourning; I'd almost venture another flight,
There's so much joy in returning— Watching out for the hallowed shore,
AH other attractions scornln'; Oh, Ireland, don't you hear me shout?
I bid you the top o' the mornin'.
Now fuller and truer the shore line shows—
Was ever a scene so splendid? I feel the breath of the Munster breeze.
Thank God that my exile's ended. Old scenes, old songs, old friends again.
The vale and cot I was born in! ,.
Oh, Ireland, up from my heart of hearts,
I bid you the top o' the mornln'. |
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OH! 'TIS SWEET TO THINK.
Oh! 'tis sweet to think that where'er we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear. And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near! The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine with itself and make closely its own. Chorus.—Then oh, what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be doom'd to find something still that Is dear; And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near!
'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise.
To make light of the rest if the rose is not there, And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,
'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,
They arc both of them bright, but they're changeable, too; And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike
It will tincture love's plume with a different hue.
Then oh, what pleasure, «tc. |
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