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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. |
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My Irish wife has golden hair—
Apollo's harp had once such stringb Apollo's self might pause to hear
Her bird-like carol when she sings. I would not give my Irish wife
For all the dames of Saxon land— I would not give my Irish wife
For the Queen of France's hand. For she to me is dearer
Than castles strong, or lands, or life— In death I would lie near her,
And rise beside my Irish wife. |
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THE LAND OF THE WEST.
O! com© to the West, love—0! come there with me, 'Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs from the sea; Where fair plenty smiles from her emerald throne, O, come to the West, and I'll make thee my own! I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee the best, And you'll say there's no land like the land of the West! The south has its roses, and bright skies of blue, But ours are more sweet with love's own changeful hue— Half sunshine, half tears, like the girl I love best— O! what is the south to the beautiful West? Then come there with me, and the rose on thy mouth Will be sweeter to me than the flow'rs of the south. The north has its snow-tow'rs of dazzling array, All sparkling with gems in the ne'er setting day, There the storm-king may dwell in the halls he loves best, But the soft-breathing zephyr he plays in the West-Then come to the West, where no cold wind doth blow, And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the snow! The sun in the gorgeous east chaseth the night, When he riseth refreshed in his glory and might, But where doth he go when he seeks his sweet rest? O! doth he not haste to the beautiful West? Then come there with me, 'tis the land I love best, 'Tis the land of my sires! 'tis my own darling West. |
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THE PLIGHT OF THE EARLS.
To other shores across the sea
We spread with swelling sail. Yet still there lingers on our lee
A phantom Innis fail. Oh! fear not, gentle ghost,
Your sons shall prove untrue. Though fain to fly your lovely coast.
They leave their hearts with you.
As slowly into distance dim
Your shadow sinks and dies So o'er the ocean's utmost rim
Another realm shall rise. New hills shall swell, new vales expand.
New rivers winding flow. But could we for a foster land
Your mother love forego?
Shall mighty Espan's martial praise
Our patriot pulses still. And o'er your mem'ry's fervent rays
Forever cast a chill? Oh no! we live for your relief
Till home from alien earth. We share the smile that gilds your grief,
The tear that dims your mirth. |
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