The Ballads of Ireland, Том 2

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Edward Hayes
P. Donahoe, 1856
 

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Стр. 250 - TURN, gentle Hermit of the Dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. " For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow ; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go." " Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thec to thy doom.
Стр. 20 - All day long, in unrest, To and fro do I move. The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart ... in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen!
Стр. 20 - OH ! my dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep ! The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the deep. There's wine from the royal Pope Upon the ocean green, And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My dark Rosaleen...
Стр. 28 - If I had thought thou couldst have died I might not weep for thee ; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be...
Стр. 290 - ... ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped: Our Anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array," For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ; Our Anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the Yeo-heave-o...
Стр. 340 - twas my ministry to deal the blow. The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, Now owns in tears the punishment was just.
Стр. 336 - Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard That generous actions meet a base reward. While thus they pass, the...
Стр. 115 - A BABY was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman's dwelling, And she cried, " Dermot, darling, oh come back to me...
Стр. 29 - twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain. But when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid, And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary ! thou art dead. If thou would'st stay even as thou art, All cold, and all serene, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been.
Стр. 338 - Without a vain, without a grudging heart, To him who gives us all, I yield a part, From him you come, for him accept it here, A frank and sober, more than costly cheer.

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