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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
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MY NOBLE IRISH GIRL.
I love thee—oh, that word Is tarn*
To tell how dear thou art; No seraph feels a holier flame
Than that which fills my heart. How mild and innocent the brow.
Where ihy dark ringlets curl; Thy soul is pure as virgin dawn,
My noble Irish girl.
I love to gaze upon thy smile,
Thine eyes so bright and gay; For there's no stain of art or guild
In aught you think or say. The happiest hour that e'er I knew,
Though It my peace may peril, Is when thee to my heart I drew,
My noble Irish girl.
I need not in the herald's book ' My loved one's lineage trace— I read her lineage in her look,
Her record In her face; I hear it in each touching tone
That floats thro' rows of pearl; Thou art my queen— my heart's1 thy throno,
My noble Irish girl.
I feel the impress of thy worth,-
And strive to be like thee; Thou art to me what Heaven's to earth.
What sunshine's to the sea; And If from me some luster beam,
Mid sin and passion's whirl, 'Tis thy light shines on my life's stream,
My noble Irish girl. |
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TERRY O'ROURKE.
From the province of Minister 1 first took my name,
I have been in Connaught, I think it no shame,
The night I was born there was thundering joy,
To think that my daddy should have such a boy,
Och Mavroone! how the midwife did talk,
"By the hokey," eays Paddy, "he'll soon fetch a walk,
With his pouting sweet lips and his mammy's big look.
By my conscience we'll christen him Terry O'Rourke,
Terry O'Rourke, Terry O'Rourke.
Terry O', Terry O', Terry O'Rourke,
Terry 0', Terry 0', Terry O', Terry,
By my conscience we'll christen him Terry O'Rourke."
The clergy got notice the night 'twas to he.
The gossips were sent for to wait upon me;
The neighbors assembled, the priest took his book, A
And sprinkled the water on Terry O'Rourke.
Och Mavroone! there was whiskey, don't fear,
To soften the heart of the ladles, my dear,
There was piping and fiddling, and that sort of work,
To keep up the christening of Terry O'Rourke.
To make me a scholar, my parents agreed,
To put me to speaking before I could read,
I picked up my learning so mightly fast,
Faith, Terry, he beat his poor master at last.
Och Mavroone! how I bother'd their hearts.
My learning produced such natural parts,
That my own pretty face in their samplers they'd work,
And were constantly sighing for Terry O'Rourke. |
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