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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
187 |
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Farewell, November's moaning breeze, Wild minstrel of the dying trees; Clara! a fond farewell to you, No more we meet by Avondhu.
No more—but thou, 0 glorious hill, Lift to the moon thy forehead still; Flow on, flow on, thou dark swift river, Upon thy free wild course forever. Exult, young hearts, In lifetime's spring, And taste the joys pure love can faring; But wanderer, go, they're not for you— Farewell, farewell, sweet Avondhu. |
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THE RED-HAIRED MAN'S WIFE.
Though full as 'twill hold of gold the harvest has smll'd,
I'll ne'er have relief from grief for that fond grey-eyed child.
Whom kindred most cruel, poor Jewel, Into loveless wedded life,
With an anguish be It told have sold to be the Red-Halr'd Man's wife.
That fond valentine of mine a letter I sent,
That I'd soon sail with store galore to wed her ere Lent.
Her friends stole the note I wrote, and far worse than with knife
Have slain my bright pearl for a churl—she's the Red-Haired Man's wife.
Oh, child and sweetheart, their art had you but withstood
Till I had come home o'er foam for our great joy and good;
I had not now to go under woe o'er the salt sea's strife,
A wand'rer to Prance from the glance of the Red-Hair'd Man's wife.
THY WELCOME, O'LEARY.
Thy welcome, O'Leary, be joyous and high '
As the dwelling of fairy can echo reply;
The Baraboo's wiidness is meet for the fray.
The crotal's soft mildness for festival gay.
The clareeach and crotal and loud Barraboo
Shall sound not a note till we've music from you,
The clarseach and crotal and loud Barraboo
Shall sound not a note till we've music from you.
O'er harper and poet we'll place high thy seat,
O'Leary, we owe it to piper so sweet;
The clarseach is meeter for bower and hall,
But thy chanter sounds sweeter, far sweeter than all;
And fairies are braiding, such fav'rite art thou,
Fresh laurels unfading to circle thy brow,
And fairies are braiding, such fav'rite art thou,
Fresh laurels unfading to circle thy brow.
WEEP NO MORE.
Weep no more, heart of my heart, no more!
The night has passed and the dawn is here, The cuckoo calls from the budding trees,
And tells us that Spring is near. Sorrow no more, belov'd, no more;
For see, sweet emblem of hope untold! The tears that soft on the shamrocks fall
There turn to blossoms of gold. Winter has gone with his blighting breath,
No more to chill thee with cold or fear, The brook laughs loud In its liberty,
Green buds on the hedge appear. Weep no more, life of my heart, no more!
The birds are carolling sweet and clear; The warmth of Summer is In thei breeze,
And the Spring—the Spring is here. |
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