Of all the days in memory's list, Those motley banish'd days; Some overhung with sorrow's mist, Some gilt with hopeful rays; There is a day 'bove all the rest That has a lovely sound,...
There was a time, when love's young flowers With many a joy my bosom prest: Sweet hours of bliss!--but short are hours, Those hours are fled--and I'm distrest. I would not wish, in reason's spite;...
Let brutish hearts, as hard as stones, Mock The weak Muse's tender moans, As now she wails o'er Titty's bones With anguish deep; Doubtless o'er parent's dying groans They'd little weep. ...
Sweet is the violet, th' scented pea, Haunted by red-legged, sable bee, But sweeter far than all to me Is she I love so dearly; Than perfumed pea and sable bee, The face I love so dearly. ...
Just like the berry brown is my bonny lassie O! And in the smoky camp lives my bonny lassie O! Where the scented woodbine weaves Round the white-thorn's glossy leaves:...
Timid and smiling, beautiful and shy, She drops her head at every passer bye. Afraid of praise she hurries down the streets And turns away from every smile she meets. The forward clown has many things to say...
Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn Her death-bed steeps in tears:--to hail the May New blooming blossoms 'neath the sun are born, And all poor April's charms are swept away....
Though o'er the darksome northern hill Old ambush'd winter frowning flies, And faintly drifts his threatenings still In snowy sweet and blackening skies; Yet here the willow leaning lies...
I seek her in the shady grove, And by the silent stream; I seek her where my fancies rove, In many a happy dream; I seek her where I find her not, In Spring and Summer weather:...
For Sunday's play he never makes excuse, But plays at taw, and buys his Spanish juice. Hard as his toil, and ever slow to speak, Yet he gives maidens many a burning cheek;...
Now the wheat is in the ear, and the rose is on the brere, And bluecaps so divinely blue, with poppies of bright scarlet hue, Maiden, at the close o' eve, wilt thou, dear, thy cottage leave,...
How sweet are Spring wild flowers! They grow past the counting. How sweet are the wood-paths that thread through the grove! But sweeter than all the wild flowers of the mountain...
Gay was the Maid of Ocram As lady eer might be Ere she did venture past a maid To love Lord Gregory. Fair was the Maid of Ocram And shining like the sun Ere her bower key was turned on two...
Youth has no fear of ill, by no cloudy days annoyed, But the old man's all hath fled, and his hopes have met their doom: The bud hath burst to flower, and the flower been long destroyed,...
Age yellows my leaf with a daily decline, And nature turns sick with decay; Short is the thread on life's spool that is mine, And few are my wishes to stay: The bud, that has seen but the sun of an hour,...
'T is Spring, my love, 'tis Spring, And the birds begin to sing: If 'twas Winter, left alone with you, Your bonny form and face Would make a Summer place, And be the finest flower that ever grew. ...
Sweet, uncultivated blossom, Reared in Spring's refreshing dews, Dear to every gazer's bosom, Fair to every eye that views;-- Opening bud, whose youth can charm us, Thine be many a happy hour:...
I cannot touch the harp again, And sing another idle lay, To cool a maddening, burning brain, And drive the midnight fiend away. Music, own sister to the soul. Bids roses bloom on cheeks all pale;...
O spirit of the wind and sky, Where doth thy harp neglected lie? Is there no heart thy bard to be, To wake that soul of melody? Is liberty herself a slave? No! God forbid it! On, ye brave! ...