« ForrigeFortsett »
But did delight thy bosom know,
And love thine hours employ,
And mingled tears of joy.
AH! WHERE IS THE VOW.
TUNE_" If the sea were ink."
And silvers the grey-coated trees;
Are borne on the wing of the breeze.
He sits at the thorn on the heath;
That thou would'st be constant till death?
Sweet, sweet are the notes of the harp as they roll,
And wipe the big drops from mine eyes :
He lists not to music's mild breath :
That thou would'st be constant till death?
Whence, whence is that shadow that sails o'er the plain,
'Neath the quivering beam of the moon? 'Tis the white-bosom'd maid--I shall view her again,
And love all our moments shall crown.
Lo! here is the thorn on the heath:
OH TOUCH, DEAR MAID.
TUNE-" The Brown Maid."
Bid magic strains of sweetness rise,
I read it in those beaming eyes.
Hush, gentle breeze, that round her blows,
Nor through those floating ringlets sigh:
Oh! let the melting accents die!
The song your lip so softly breath'd,
Hath lulld each throbbing pang of mine;
Have hid their blushes in my wine,
How fondly then the gift I greet!
And ob, it will be doubly sweet!
OH! HUSH THE SOFT SIGH.
TUNE— Coolin.” Oh! hush the soft sigh, maid, and dry the sweet tear, In this bosom thy image shall ever be dear: Of Hope's pictur'd scenes how the colours decay, And love's fairy season as soon melts away.
When its balm-breathing dew I delighted to sip, Did I think a farewell would escape from that lip? By honour commanded, though far I should roam, The loadstone of love will attract me to home, .
At noon, when the rose's warm blush thou shalt see,
TUNE_" Sprig of Shillelah." by my own botheration don't alter my plan, I'll sing seven lines of a tight Irishman,
Wrote by old Billy Shakespeare of Ballyporeen. He said while a babe I lov'd whisky and pap, That I mewled and puk'd in my grandmother's lap; She joulted me hard just to hush my sweet roar, When I slipp'd through her fingers down whack on
the floor, What a squalling I made sure at Ballyporeen. When I grew up a boy, with a nice shining face, With my bag at my back, and a snail-crawling pace,
Went to school at old Thwackum's at Ballyporeen. His wig was so fusty, his birch was my dread, He learning beat out 'stead of into my head. Master Macshane, says he, you're a great dirty dolt, You've got no more brains than a Monaghan colt;
You're not fit for our college at Ballyporeen.
When eighteen years of age, was teas'd and perplext To know what I should be, so a lover turn'd next,
And courted sweet Sheelah of Ballyporeen. 1. thought I'd just take her to comfort my life, Not knowing that she was already a wife: : She ask'd me just once that to see her I'd come, When I found her ten children and husband at home, A great big whacking chairman of Ballyporeen.
I next turn’d a soldier, I did not like that,
A big dealer in p'ratoes at Ballyporeen,
To my master's safe journey from Ballyporeen,
Kick'd and toss'd so about like a weathercock pane, I pack'd up my awls, and I went back again
To my grandfather's cottage at Ballyporeen. I found him, poor soul! with no legs for his hose, Could not see through the spectacles put on his nose; With no teeth in his head, so death cork'd up his chin; He slipp'd out of his slippers, and faith I slipp'd in,
And succeeded poor Dennis of Ballyporeen.
OPE THY CASEMENT, LADY BRIGHT.
TUNE_" The snow-breasted Pearl,” Ope thy casement, lady bright,
'Tis thy lover calls;
Pearly dews of night · Now hang on the moss-cover'd walls. Though dark is the night, and the dews they are chill, Yet I brave the rough blast from the hill;
O lady, 'tis for thee. Breathe one soft word, lady bright,
To my raptur'd ear;
I will bless the night,
O lady, flies to thee.
MORNING A CRUEL TURMOILER IS.
TUNE—" I was the boy for bewitching 'em.” MORNING a cruel turmoiler is,
Banishing ease and repose; Noon-day a roaster and broiler is,
How we pant under his nose! Evening for lover's soft measures,
Sighing and begging a boon;
Kegs of the whisky we'll tilt,
Up with your heart-cheering lilt.
Bawling in heathenish glee,
Shamrock and whisky for me!
Judy, you jilt, how I burn!
Och! then you rogue, &c.
Bubbles must float on the brim;
Day-light is too good for him.
While we have liquor to fill,
Kegs of the crature we'll tilt,
Up with your heart.cheering lilt.