Their twinkling rays have come to gaze To see how bright are you, love. The breeze that brings such balmy things From all that's bright and fair, love, It sighs to sip from thy sweet lip The perfume that lies there, love. THE CARRIER DOVE FLY away to my native land, sweet dove, Fly away to my native land, And bear these lines to my lady, love, Then fly to her bower, sweet bird. Oh, fly to the bower, and say the chain, Of the tyrant is o'er me now, That I never shall mount my steed again With helmet upon my brow! No friend to my lattice a solace brings, Except when your voice is heard, When you beat the bars with your snowy wings, Then fly to her bower, sweet bird. I shall miss thy visit at dawn, sweet dove, I shall miss thy visit at eve, But bring me a line from my lady, love, And then I shall cease to grieve. I am here in a dungeon to waste away youth, I can fall by the conqueror's sword, But I cannot endure she should doubt my truth, Then fly to her bower, sweet bird. THE MALTESE BOAT SONG. SEE, brothers see, how the night comes on, Slowly sinks the setting sun, Hark, how the solemn vesper's sound Sweetly falls upon the ear; Then haste let us work till the daylight is o'er, And fold our nets as we row to the shore, Our toil of labour being o'er, How sweet the boatman's welcome home, Home, home, home, the boatman's welcome home Sweet, oh sweet the boatman's we!come home. See how the tints of daylight die, THE HAUNTED SPRING. GAILY through the mountain glen, As the milk-white doe escaped, hir bow, Down by the haunted spring. For neither groom nor baying hound, In vain he sought the milk-white dɔe, That made him stray, and 'scap'd his bow For, save himself, no living thing The purple heath-bells blooming fair, A lady fair, in robe of white, In the fountain fair she stooped, And that bold knight, his faitn did plight, Beside the haunted spring. But since that day, his chase did stray, But still the milk-white doe appears, THE SPRING TIME OF YEAR IS COMING. THE spring time of year is coming, coming, Birds are singing blithe and gay, E'en woman when we meet her, The spring time, &c. The gale is gently swelling, swelling, With fragrance from the balmy grove, And youthful swains are telling, telling, Their happy tales of love, love, Their happy tales of love, love. Spring makes the pulse with pleasure beat; Spring makes the heart with rapture thrill, Each maiden hastes her lover to meet, With hope and joy his heart to fill The spring time, &c. |