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And Scotland's sons shall join "In the days of auld lang syne," With voice by mem'ry soften'd clear and low;
And the men of Erin's isle, Battling sorrow with a smile, Sball sing "St. Patrick's morning" void
And thus we pass the day, As we journey on our way— Oh gaily goes the ship when the wind blows fair.
WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE?
"WHAT will you do, love, when I am going
With white sail flowing-the seas beyond?
What will you do, love, when waves divide us,
And friends may chide us for being fond ?"
"Though waves divide us, and friends be chiding,
In faith abiding, I'll still be true,
And I'll pray for thee on the stormy
With deep devotion-that's what I'll do."
"What will you do, love, if distant tidings
Thy fond confidings should undermine? And I abiding 'neath sultry skies, Should think other eyes were bright as thine ?"
"Oh! name it not, though guilt and shame
Were on thy name, I'd still be true; ⚫But that heart of thine, should another share it,
I could not bear it-what would I do?"
"What would you do, love, when home returning,
With hope high burning, with wealth for you,
If my bark that bounded o'er foreign foam,
Should be lost near home, ah! what would you do?"
"So thou wert spared I'd bless the
In want and sorrow, that left me you,
And I'd welcome thee from the wasting billow,
Thy heart my pillow-that's what I'd do."
ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE
ROCK'D in the cradle of the deep
And such the trust that still were mine, Though stormy winds sweep o'er the brine,
Or though the tempest's fiery breath Roused me from slumber to wreck and death!
In ocean cave, still safe with Thee
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
As I roved through my new garden
To gaze upon fast-fading flowers,
"Tis often I sat on my true love's knee,
I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
I'll dye my petticoat, I'll dye it red, And round the world I'll beg my bread, That all my friends would wish me dead, Gotheen mavourneen slaun.
Shuile, shuile, etc.
I wish I was on Brandon Hill,
No more am I that blooming maid
THE COLLEEN BAWN.
J. E. CARPENTER.
ОCH! Patrick darlin', would you lave me
It's there I should be quite forlorn, For, poor and friendless, who would pity—
Left lonely there-your Colleen Bawn?
You tell me that your friends are leaving. The dear green isle, to cross the main, But don't you think they'll soon be
For dear ould Ireland once again?