On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
When at last I was forc'd from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart) 6 Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away ; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.
Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly lov'd me, although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.
When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray,
And he lick'd me for kindness-my poor dog Tray.
Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case,
Nor refus'd my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.
Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.
My mind is my kingdom, but if thou wilt deign
queen there to sway without measure;
Then come, o'er its wishes and homage to reign,
And make it an empire of pleasure.
Then of thoughts and emotions each mutinous crowd,
That rebell'd at stern reason and duty;
Returning-shall yield all their loyalty proud
To the Halcyon dominion of beauty.
OH leave this barren spot to me,
Spare, Woodman, spare the beechen tree.
Though shrub or flow'ret never grow,
My wan unwanning shade below,
Nor fruits of autumn blossom born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn,
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
The ambrosial treasures of the hive,
Yet leave this little spot to me,
Spare, Woodman, spare the beechen tree.
Thrice twenty summers I have stood
In bloomless fruitless solitude;
Since childhood in my rustling bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour,
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture paid,
And on my trunk's surviving frame
Carv'd many a long forgotten name.
Oh, by the vows of gentle sound
First breath'd upon this sacred ground,
By all that Love hath whisper'd here,
Or beauty heard with ravish'd ear,
As Love's own altar honour me,
Spare, Woodman, spare the beechen tree.
ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riv❜u,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driv'n,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.
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