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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 361 |
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But now, her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead -Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore, For Kent Street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more • She had not died to-day. |
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MEMORY
O
MEMORY, thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain, To former joys recurring ever, And turning all the past to pain :
Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe:
And he who wants each other blessing In thee must ever find a foe. |
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THE HERMIT
From the Vicar of Wakefield.
URN gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. |
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"For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; |
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