BONNY ELOISE. W. PERCIVAL. SWEET is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides, On the clear winding way to the sea, And dearer than all storied streams on earth besides, Is this bright rolling river to me, But sweeter, dearer, yes dearer far than these, Who charms when others all fail, Is blue-eyed bonny Eloise, The Belle of the Mohawk Vale. Oh, sweet are the scenes of my boyhood's sunny hour, That bespangle the gay vally o'er, And dear are the friends seen thro' memory's fond tears That have lived in the blest days of yore, But sweeter, dearer, yes dearer far thau these, Who charms when others all fail, Is blue-eyed bonny Eloise, The Belle of the Mohawk Vale. Oh, sweet are the moments when dreaming I roam, Through my loved haunts now mossy and grey, And dearer than all is my childhood's hallowed home, That is crumbling now slowly away, But sweeter, dearer, yes dearer far than these, Who charms when others all fail, Is blue-eyed bonny Eloise, The Belle of the Mohawk Vale. IRISH MARY. JOHN BANIM. AIR" Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye." FAR away from Erin's strand, And valleys wide and sounding waters Still she is, in every land, One of Erin's real daughters: Oh! to meet her here is like A dream of home and natal mountains, On our hearts their voices strike We hear the gushing of their fountains! Yes! our Irish Mary dear! Our own, our real Irish Mary! A flower of home, fresh blooming come, Art thou to us our Irish Mary! Round about us here we see Of foreign airs, of borrowed graces. And Mary's spirit, Mary's nature, "Irish Lady," fresh in youth, Have beam'd o'er every look and feature! Yes! our Irish Mary dear! When La Tournure doth make us weary, We have you, to turn unto For native grace, our Irish Mary. Sighs of home!-her Erin's songs Of Irish Mary bright upon her! Will light that home, though e'er so dreary, Shining still o'er clouds of ill, Sweet star of life, our Irish Mary! NO ONE TO LOVE. No one to love, none to caress, Roaming alone through this world's wil derness : Sad is my heart, joy is unknown: Sad is my heart, joy is unknown; me: Sighing I wake, waking I weep; Soon with the loved and the lost I shall sleep: Oh! blissful rest what heart would stay Unloved, unbless'd, from Heaven away? No one to love, etc. No one to love, none to caress, None to respond to this heart's tender ness! Trusting I wait; God, in his love, Promises rest in his mansions above- Oh, bliss in store! ob, joy mine own! There never more to weep alone !— No one to love, etc. THY HARP, BELOVED ERIN. LEMAN REDE. AIR-" Erin-go-bragh." THY harp, beloved Erin, sounds over the deep, Like the murmuring sigh of an infant asleep My own native Ireland-my dear native Ireland, Oh, Erin-go-bragh. The gales that blow o'er thee, lovely As a mother's caress, or a penitent's tear, The dove ne'er returned whom the ark saw depart, For he built an abode in Hibernia's heart, Olive branch'd Ireland, olive branch d Ireland, Oh, Erin-go-bragh. |