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Arklow aroon Ballyshannon bawn beauty bird blow blue bonnie green woods bosom Bouchaleen brave breast breath breeze bright Cahir Healy cloud cold dark Dark Rosaleen dawn dead dear death deep dream earth Eire eyes fair fairy flowers Gael glen glory gold golden gone grave grey grief hair hand hath hear heart heaven hills Ireland Irish Irish Volunteers Karaman Kathleen Kincora kiss land light lips lonely machree Mary moon morning mountain Munster ne'er never night o'er Rapparees Red Branch Knights river river Lee Rory O'More rose round Saxon Says the Shan Shan Van Vocht Shane O'Neill shining shore sigh silent sing sleep smile soft song sorrow soul stars streams sweet tears thee There's thine Thomas MacDonagh thou Twas voice wave weary weep wild wind wings woods of Killeevy
Seite 1 - When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray ; What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away ? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom — is to die.
Seite 32 - Oft in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me.
Seite 730 - And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings ; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
Seite 378 - Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men ; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!
Seite 40 - She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.
Seite 8 - Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; Here's to the widow of fifty; Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean, And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. Chorus. Let the toast pass, — Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.
Seite 474 - WE are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems.
Seite 56 - And still upon that face I look, And think '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 ! III.
Seite 157 - I've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's mole in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly.
Seite 34 - How sweet the answer Echo makes To Music at night When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away o'er lawns and lakes Goes answering light ! Yet Love hath echoes truer far And far more sweet Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, Of horn or lute or soft guitar The songs repeat. 'Tis when the sigh, — in youth sincere And only then, The sigh that 's breathed for one to hear— Is by that one, that only Dear Breathed back again.