Rambles in the South of Ireland During the Year 1838, Volume 2

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Saunders and Otley, 1839 - Ireland
 

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Page 32 - There is a stone there, that whoever kisses, Oh! he never misses to grow eloquent. 'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber, Or become a member of parliament: A clever spouter he'll sure turn out, or An out-and-outer, "to be let alone," Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him; Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney stone!
Page 222 - Forget not our wounded companions who stood In the day of distress by our side ; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood. They stirr'd not, but conquered and died...
Page 222 - Tho' the days of the hero are o'er; Tho' lost to Mononia', and cold in the grave, He returns to Kinkora3 no more.
Page 222 - To light us to victory yet ! Mononia ! when nature embellish'd the tint Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of Slavery there...
Page 32 - There is a stone there That whoever kisses, Oh ! he never misses To grow eloquent. 'Tis he may clamber To a lady's chamber, Or become a member Of Parliament: A clever spouter He'll sure to turn out, or An out-and-outer, "To be let alone.
Page 222 - Its beam on the battle, is set ; But enough of its glory remains on each sword To light us to victory yet...
Page 214 - I come with humble heart to share " Thy morn and evening prayer ; " Nor mine the feet, oh ! holy Saint, " The brightness of thy sod to taint.
Page 85 - Lord, when saw we thee an hungered and fed thee? or thirsty and gave thee drink ? When saw we thee a stranger and took thee in ? or naked, and clothed thee ; or when saw we thee sick or in prison, and came unto thee...
Page 149 - Bright her locks of beauty grew, Curling fair and sweetly flowing, And her eyes of smiling blue, Oh how soft — how heavenly glowing ! Ah ! poor plundered heart of pain, When wilt thou have an end of mourning ? This long, long year I look in vain To see my only hope returning.
Page 168 - WE live not in our moments or our years — The Present we fling from us like the rind Of some sweet Future, which we after find Bitter to taste, or bind that in with fears, And water it beforehand with our tears — Vain tears for that which never may arrive : Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought to live Neglected or unheeded disappears. Wiser it were to welcome and make ours Whate'er of good, though small, the present brings — Kind greetings, sunshine, song of...

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