And there's no use at all in my going to bed, For 'tis dhrames and not sleep that comes into my head, And 'tis all about you, My sweet Molly Carew- The snow can't compare And I rather would see just one blink of your eye, Than the prettiest star that shines out of the sky, And by this and by that, For the matter o' that, You're more distant by far than that same! Och hone! weirasthru ! I'm alone in this world without you. Och hone! but why should I spake When your nose it defies Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme, Tho' there's one BURKE, he says, that would call it sublime; And then for your cheek, Troth 't would take him a week, They a pattern may be For the cherries to grow. "Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know, For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago, But at this time o' day, 'Pon my conscience I'll say, Such cherries might tempt a man's father! Och hone! weirasthru ! I'm alone in this wide world without you. Och hone! by the man in the moon, That a woman can plaze, For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat Magee, As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me. Tho' the piper I bate, For fear the owld cheat Would'nt play you your favorite tune When you're at mass, While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep, That I can't at your sweet purty face get a peep. Oh, lave off that bonnet, Or else I'll lave on it The loss of my wandering sowl! Och hone! weirasthru ! Och hone! like an owl, Day is night, dear to me, without you! Och hone! don't provoke me to do it; For there's girls by the score That loves me—and more, And you'd look very quare if some morning you'd meet My wedding all marching in pride down the street; Troth, you'd open your eyes, To think 'twasn't you was come to it. And faith, Katty Naile, "( Katty Naile, name the day." And tho' you're fair and fresh as a morning in May, While she's short and dark like a cold winter's day: Yet if you don't repent Before Easter, when Lent Is over, Och hone! weirasthru ! My ghost will haunt you every night. A SONG. A PLACE in thy memory, dearest, To pause and look back when thou hearest The sound of my name. I care not though he be dearer, Remember me-not as a lover As the young bride remembers the mother She loves, though she never may see, Could I be thy true-lover, dearest, I would be the fondest and nearest But a cloud on my pathway is glooming, Ne'er made thee to wither on mine Remember me then-O, remember Though bleak as the blasts of November, That life will, though lonely, be sweet If its brightest enjoyment should be A smile and kind-look when we meet, And a place in thy memory. |