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HYLAND'S MAMMOTH |
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MY LAND.
She Is a rich and rare land; Oh! she's a fresh and fair land; She Is a dear and rare land— This native land of mine.
No men than hers are braver— Her women's hearts ne'er waver; I'd freely die to save her, And think my lot divine.
She's not a dull nor cold land-No! she's a warm and bold land; Oh! she's a true and old land— This native land of mine.
Could beauty ever guard her, And virtue still reward her, No foe would cross her border No friend within her pine!
Oh, she's a fresh and fair land; Oh, she's a true and rare land! Yes, she's a rare and fair land— This native land of mine. |
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LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.
Light sounds the harp, when the combat Is over.
When heroes are resting and joy Is in bloom; When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume. But when the foe returns. Again the hero burns. High flames the sword in his hand once more; The clang of mingling arms, Is then the sound that charms, And brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung. Oh! then comes the harp, when the combat is over,
When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom;
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.
Light went the harp, when the War-God reclining
Lay lull'd on the white arm of beauty to rest; When round his rich armor the myrtle hung twining, And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest. But when the battle came, The hero's eye breath'd flame; Soon from his neck the white arm was flung; While to his wak'ning ear, No other sounds were dear, But the brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung. But then came the light harp, when danger was ended,
And beauty once more lull'd the War-God to rest; When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended, And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest. |
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THE LAMENT FOR SARSFIELD.
Ah! why, Patrick Sarsfleld, did we let your ship sail Away to French Flanders from green Innisfail, For far from your country you lie cold and low; Ah! why, Patrick Sarsfleld, ah, why did you go.
We prayed, Patrick Sarsfleld, to see you sail home. Your flag waving Victory across the white foam, But still in our fetters, poor slaves we live on; For oh, Patrick SarsSeld, for, oh! you are gone. |
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