In Erin's isle there's manly hearts,
And bosoms pure as snow,
In Erin's isle there's right good cheer,
And hearts that ever flow.
In Erin's isle I'd pass my time,
No more I wish to roam,
Oh, steer my bark to Erin's isle,
For Erin is my home.
If England were my place of birth,
I'd love her tranquil shore;
If bonny Scotland were my home,
Her mountains I'd adore.
But pleasant days in both I've past,
I'll dream of days to come;
Oh, steer my bark to Erin's isle,
For Erin is my home.
IT WAS A MAID OF MY COUNTRY.
It was a maid of my country,
As she came by a hawthorn tree,
As full of flowers as might be seen,
She marvell'd to see the tree so green;
At last she asked of the tree,
How came this freshness unto thee,
And ev'ry branch so fair and clean?
I marvel that you grow so green.
The tree made answer by-and-by,
I have cause to grow triumphantly,
The sweetest dew that ever be seen,
Doth fall on me to keep me green.
Yea, quoth the maid, but where you grow
You stand at hand at ev'ry blow,
Of every man for to be seen,
I marvel that you grow so green.
Though many one take flowers from me
And many a branch out of my tree;
I have such store they will not be seen,
For more and more my twigs grow green.
But how, an they chance to cut thee down,
And carry thy branches into the town?
Then they will never more be seen
To grow again so fresh and green.
Though that you do it is no boot,
Although they cut me to the root,
Next year again I will be seen
To bud my branches fresh and green.
And you, fair maid, cannot do so;
For when your beauty once doth go,"
Then will it never more be seen,
As I with my branches can grow green.
The maid with that began to blush,
And turned her from the hawthorn bush;
She thought herself so fair and clean,
Her beauty still would ever grow green.
But after this never I could hear
Of this fair maiden anywhere,
That ever she was in forest seen
To talk again with hawthorn green.
[Air-"The banks of Banna."
WHEN through life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we us'd to love,
In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain,
Wak'ning thoughts that long have slept,
Kindling former smiles again,
In faded eyes that long have wept.
Like the gale that sighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,
In the grateful breath of song,
That once was heard in happier hours;
Fill'd with balm, the gale sighs on,
Though the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in music's breath!
Music!-oh! how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell!
Why should feeling ever speak,
When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's balmy words may feign,
Love's are ev'n more false than they;
Oh! 'tis only music's strain
Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!
HOW SWEET 'TIS TO RETURN.
How sweet, how sweet 'tis to return
Where once we've happy been,
Tho' paler now life's lamp may burn,
And years have roll'd between ;
And if the eyes beam welcome yet
That wept our parting then,
Oh, in the smiles of friends thus met
We live whole years again!
They tell us of a fount that flow'd
In happier days of yore,
Whose waters bright fresh youth bestow'd;
Alas! the fount's no more.
But smiling memory still appears,
Presents her cup, and when
We sip the sweets of vanish'd years,
We live those years again.
I HEAR it, I hear it,—the voice of the past,
It comes in my loneliest hours,
When the shadows of midnight are over me cast,
As I wander alone 'mid the flowers:
In the song of the bird-when the breeze stirs the tree,
And all that is human's at rest,
I hear the sweet voice that once whispered to me,
An angel-voice, now, with the blest.
I hear it, I hear it,-it comes in my dreams;
Oh! well I remember the tones,
The voice that once sung by the side of the streams,
That now but fond memory owns:
It seems like a message that comes from above,
As light as a zephyr its breath,
Rewarding my constancy-proving that love
Like ours can endure after death.
I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS.
I CANNOT sing the old songs
I sang long years ago,
For heart and voice would fail me
And foolish tears would flow;
For bygone hours come o'er my heart,
With each familiar strain-
I cannot sing the old songs,
Or dream those dreams again.
I cannot sing the old songs,
Their charm is sad and deep;
Their melodies would waken
Old sorrows from their sleep.
And tho' all unforgotten still
And sadly sweet they be
I cannot sing the old songs,
They are too dear to me.
I cannot sing the old songs,
For visions come again
Of golden dreams departed
And years of bitter pain;
Perhaps when earthly fetters
Shall have set my spirit free-
My voice may know the old songs
For all eternity.
DADDY NEPTUNE one day to Freedom did say,
If ever I live upon dry land,
The spot I should hit on would be little Britain.
Says Freedom, why that's my own island;
O what a snug little island!
A right little, tight little island!
Search the globe round,
None can be found,
So happy as this little island.
Julius Cæsar, the Roman, who yielded to no man,
Came by water-he couldn't come by land;
And Dane, Pict, and Saxon, their homes turn'd their backs on,
And all for the sake of our island!
O what a snug little island!
They'd have a touch at the island!
Some were shot dead,
Some of them fled,
And some stay'd to live on the island!
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