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HIBERNIAN SOXGSTER. |
193 |
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NO, NOT MOEE WELCOME.
No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear. When half awaking from fearful slumbers,
He thinks the full choir of heav'n is near, Then came that voice, when, all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain, Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign blessed sounds again. Sweet voice of comfort, 'twas like the stealing.
Of summer wind thro' some wretched shell; Each secret winding, each inmost feelirig
Of all my soul echoed to its spell. 'Twas whispered balm—'twas sunshine spoken!
I'd live years of grief and pain To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign blessed sounds again. |
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THE BRISK IRISH IAD.
•Each pretty young Miss, with a long, heavy purse. Is courted and flatter'd, and easily had;
She longs to be taken for better or worse, And quickly elopes with an Irish lad,— To be sure she don't like a brisk Irish lad, l To he sure she don't like a brisk Irish lad, Oh! to be sure she don't like a brisk Irish lad.
The wife when forsaken for bottle or dice. Her dress all neglected, and sighing and sad,
Finds delight in sweet converse, and changes her sighs For the good humor'd chat of an Irish, lad.
Oh! to be sure, etc.
The widow in sorrow declines the sweet joys
Of public amusement, in sable all clad The widow her twelvemonth in mourning employs,
Then hastens TO church with an Irish lad.
Oh! to be sure, etc. |
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OH! WHEN I BREATH'D.
Oh! when I breath'd a last adieu To Erin's vales and mountains blue, Where nurs'd by hope my moments flew,
In life's unclouded spring; Though on the breezy deck reclin'd I listen'd to the rising wind, What fetters could restrain the mind
That roved on Fancy's wing?
She bore me to the woodbine bow'r, Where oft I pass'd the twilight hour, When first I felt love's thrilling pow'r.
From Kathleen's beaming eye; Again I watch'd her flushing breast; Her honey'd lip again was prest; Again, by sweet confessions blest,
I drank each melting sigh
Dost thou, Kathleen, my loss deplore, And lone on Erin's emerald shore, In memory trace the love I bore,
On all our transports dwell? Can I forget the fatal day That call'd me from thy arms away. When nought was left me but to say
"Farewell, my love—farewell!" |
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