Poems of Places: Ireland

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J. R. Osgood, 1876 - Poetry of places

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Page 161 - Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds...
Page 198 - 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.
Page 61 - You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine." I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain. A kiss then I gave her; and ere I did leave her, She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again.
Page 11 - Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray, " So lone and lovely through this bleak way ? " Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, " As not to be tempted by woman or gold...
Page 4 - said the heart-broken stranger, "The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me.
Page 193 - When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), 'Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.
Page 4 - Erin my country ! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; But alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace — where no perils can chase me?
Page 90 - When, for O'Connor's child to mourn, The harper told, how lone, how far From any mansion's twinkling star, From any path of social men, Or voice, but from the fox's den, The lady in the desert dwelt; And yet no wrongs, no fear, she felt : Say, why should dwell in place so wild, O'Connor's pale and lovely child?
Page 223 - O, MY Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep ! The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the deep. There's wine from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green ; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen...
Page 141 - 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.

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