Irish Song Book, 第 1 期

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第 125 頁 - I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.
第 44 頁 - 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.
第 27 頁 - THE harp that once through TARA'S halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on TARA'S walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more ! n.
第 38 頁 - Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee !" The minstrel fell ! but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under ! The harp he loved ne'er...
第 126 頁 - 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 bed.
第 44 頁 - With deep affection and recollection I often think of those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle their magic spells. On this I ponder where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee; With thy bells of Shandon that sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the River Lee.
第 85 頁 - Thou wouldst still be ador'd, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.
第 101 頁 - The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; And closely caressing Her child with a blessing, Said, " I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.
第 126 頁 - Fearless she had track'd his feet To this rocky, wild retreat ; And, when morning met his view, Her mild glances met it too. Ah ! your Saints have cruel hearts ! Sternly from his bed he starts. And, with rude, repulsive shock, Hurls her from the beetling rock. Glendalough ! thy gloomy wave Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave ! Soon the Saint (yet ah ! too late) Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate. When he said,
第 44 頁 - 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; O, the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

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