The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle: He heeds not, he hears not, he 's free from all pain ;— He sleeps his last sleep-he has fought his last battle! No sound can awake him to glory again! O shade of the mighty, where now are the legions And all save the fame of their triumph is gone! They heed not, they hear not, they 're free from all pain: They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle! No sound can awake them to glory again! Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee, H. S. WASHBURN (?) Widow Malone. DID you hear of the Widow Malone, Who lived in the town of Athlone, O, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts,- Ohone! So lovely the Widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score, Or more, And fortunes they all had galore, From the minister down All were courting the Widow Malone, All were courting the Widow Malone. But so modest was Mistress Malone, That no one could see her alone, Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone! So bashful the Widow Malone. Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare, (How quare! It 's little for blushing they care Down there) Put his arm round her waist,- "O," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone, My own!" "O," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone." And the widow they all thought so shy, My eye! Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, For why? But, "Lucius," says she, "Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, You may marry your Mary Malone." There's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong; And one comfort, it's not very long, If for widows you die, Learn to kiss, not to sigh; For they 're all like sweet Mistress Malone, Ohone! O, they 're all like sweet Mistress Malone. CHARLES LEVER. Lament of the Irish Emigrant. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May mornin' long ago, The place is little changed, Mary; And the corn is green again; 'T is but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary; But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary For the poor make no new friends; Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow, I thank you for the patient smile I bless you for the pleasant word, I'm biddin' you a long farewell, In the land I 'm goin' to; They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always tł ere, But I 'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair! And often in those grand old woods And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. LADY DUFFERIN. The Happy Land. THERE is a happy land, Far, far away, Where saints in glory stand, Oh, how they sweetly sing, Come to this happy land— Come, come away; Why will ye doubting stand— Why still delay ? Oh, we shall happy be, When, from sin and sorrow free, Lord, we shall live with thee— Blest, blest for aye. Bright in that happy land Beams every eye: Kept by a Father's hand, Love cannot die. On then to glory run; Be a crown and kingdom won; And bright above the sun, Reign, reign for aye. ANDREW YOUNG. |