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The Song Book |
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Fly not yet ; the fount that play'd,
In times of old, through Amnion's shade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began
To burn when night was near; And thus should woman's heart and looks At noon be cold as winter brooks, Nor kindle till the night returning, Brings the genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay,—Oh! stay,— When did morning ever break, And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here! Words by Moore. Tune (from Bunting) Planxty Kelly. |
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CCIII ARISE FROM THY SLUMBERS |
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bound, And nuts in green clus-ters the branch-es havecrown'd.
A bed of fresh ivy to rest thee I'll bring, The blackbirds and thrushes around us shall sing; And there with unceasing attachment I'll prove How soothing the cares of affection and love. The Words (translated from the original Irish) by Miss Balfour. From Bunting's Music of Ireland. Tune The Old Truigha. |
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