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220 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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The saint of the wayside—she granted my prayer, Though we spoke not a word; for her mother was there.
I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills, But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills; And I whisper her softly : " Again, love, we'll meet! And I'll lie in your bosom, and live at your feet."
THE WELCOME
C
OME in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you're looked for, or come without warning, Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you. Light is my heart since the day we were plighted, Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted, The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lovers, don't sever! "
I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear, if you choose
them: Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom. I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. O your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed
fanner, Or saber and shield to a knight without armor; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me. |
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