How oft has the Benshee cried, How oft has death untied Bright links that Glory wove, Sweet bonds entwined by Love. Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth; Rest to each faithful eye that

“How sweetly,” said the trembling maid, Of her own gentle voice afraid, So long had they in silence stood, Looking upon that tranquil flood “How sweetly does the moon-beam smile To-night upon yon leafy

Go where glory waits thee, But while fame elates thee, Oh! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer

What the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew, Through the leaves that close embower it, That, my love, I’ll be to you. She. What the bank, with verdure glowing, Is

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind, Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was

When daylight was yet sleeping under the pillow, And stars in the heavens still lingering shone, Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, The last time she e’er was to press it

Fly not yet, ’tis just the hour, When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night, And maids who love the moon. ‘Twas

Remember the Glories of Brien the Brave Remember the glories of Brien the brave, Though the days of the hero are o’er, Though lost to Mononia and cold to the grave, He returns to

When through life unblest we rove, Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes we used to love, In days of boyhood, meet our ear, Oh! how welcome breathes the strain! Wakening thoughts

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, May calm and sunshine long be thine! How fair thou art let others tell To feel how fair shall long be mine. Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell In memory’s

[“Now what, we ask, is become of this Sinking Fund – these eight millions of surplus above expenditure, which were to reduce the interest of the national debt by the amount of four hundred

Through Erin’s Isle To sport awhile As Love and Valour wander’d, With Wit, the sprite, Whose quiver bright A thousand arrows squander’d; Where’er they pass, A triple grass Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, As

Has sorrow thy young days shaded, As clouds o’er the morning fleet? Too fast have those young days faded That, even in sorrow, were sweet? Does Time with his cold wing wither Each feeling

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from

I’d mourn the hopes that leave me, If thy smiles had left me too; I’d weep when friends deceive me, If thou wert, like them, untrue. But while I’ve thee before me, With heart

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief To simpleton sages and reasoning fools; This moment’s a flower too fair and brief To be wither’d and stain’d by the dust of the

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore Sky-lark never warbles o’er, Where the cliff hangs high and steep, Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. “Here, at least,” he calmly said, “Woman ne’er shall find my

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;

My banks are all furnished with rags, So thick, even Freddy can’t thin ’em; I’ve torn up my old money-bags, Having little or nought to put in ’em. My tradesman are smashing by dozens,

Oh, banquet not in those shining bowers, Where Youth resorts, but come to me, For mine’s a garden of faded flowers, More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. And there we shall have

‘Twas a new feeling – something more Than we had dared to own before, Which then we hid not; We saw it in each other’s eye, And wished, in every half-breathed sigh, To speak,