« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
But that false fortune,
Has caused this parting between him and me;
His name I'll advance
In Spain and in France,
And seek out my blackbird wherever he be.
The birds of the forest they all meet together,
The turtle was chosen to dwell with the dove,
But I am resolved in fair or foul weather, To seek out until I find my true love;
He is all my heart's treasure,
And justly, my love, my heart will follow
Who is constant and kind,
All bliss to my blackbird wherever he be.
In England my blackbird and I were together,
Where he was noble and generous of
And woe to the time that he first went
Alas! he was forced from thence to
In Scotland he is deemed,
And highly esteemed ;
In England he seemed a stranger to be ; Yet his name I'll advance
In Spain and in France, All bliss to my blackbird, wherever he be
OLD IRELAND I ADORE.
OH! Erin's Isle, my heart's delight,
This heart beats warm for thee.
Your scenes surpasses all on earth,
Oh, gramachree, I weep for thee,
Oh, hard must be the tyrant's heart,
I'd like to know what you have done,
That struggled hard for thee; O'Connell was that hero's name,
He was known from shore to shore ; Oh, gramachree, he'd have set thee free; But, alas! he is no more.
If we were free, as once we were,
No foreign landlord then would dare
We'd have our homes, and bread to eat As once we had before.
Oh, gramachree, may we live to see
KATE OF GARNAVILLA.
HAVE you been at Garnavilla?
Have you seen at Garnavilla Beauty's train trip o'er the plain
With lovely Kate of Garnavilla? O, she's pure as virgin snows,
Ere they light on woodland hill-O; Sweet as dewdrop on wild rose,
Is lovely Kate of Garnavilla! Philomel, I've listened oft
To thy lay, nigh weeping willow; O, the strain's more sweet, more soft, That flows from Kate of Garna villa. Have you been, etc
As a noble ship I've seen
Sailing o'er the swelling billow,
No cares shall come to Garnavilla ;
A SONG FOR THE POPE.
BY REV. P. MURRAY, D. D., OF MAYNOOTH COL
A SONG for the Pope, for the royal Pope, Who rules from sea to sea,
Whose kingdom or sceptre never can fail;
What a grand old king is he !
No warrior hordes has he with their swords
His rock-built throne to guard; For against it the gates of hell shall
In vain, as they ever have warred.
O never did mightiest monarch yet,
In the day of his power and pride, Rule, as the good old Pontiff rules, With his Cardinals by his side. In terror and death is the conqueror's
As the steel tides rise and roll;
But the bonds he binds with are faith and love,
Clasping the heart and the soul.
Great dynasties die, like flowers of the field, Great empires wither and fall;