The Story of an Orange Lodge: A Chronicle of Dublin. Dedicated to the Orangemen of Ireland

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McGlashan, 1864 - 215 Seiten
 

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Seite 54 - She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
Seite 20 - Ah me! for aught that ever I could read. Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth: But, either it was different in blood; Her.
Seite 191 - At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
Seite 194 - The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
Seite 46 - I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot? and squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse fustian with one's own shadow?
Seite 142 - The glorious, pious and immortal memory of the great and good King William — not forgetting Oliver Cromwell, who assisted in redeeming us from Popery, slavery, arbitrary power, brass money and wooden shoes.
Seite 97 - I know thee not, old man : fall to thy prayers ; How ill white hairs become a fool and jester ! I have long dream'd of such a kind of man, So surfeit-swell'd, so old, and so profane ; But, being awake, I do despise my dream.
Seite 108 - Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree ? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me...
Seite 194 - Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed...
Seite 172 - Do you hear, let them be well used, for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time : after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.

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