208 ROBERTSON MATHESON I durstna raise my een to see If he even cared to glance at me; Think not his hand was soft and white But dearer far to my twa een Was the ragged sleeve of red and green Farewell for ever! the distance grey And for me one kiss of the King's hand. CLXI HOME In all my wanderings round this world of care, And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Oliver Goldsmith. CLXII THE WEARIN' O' THE GREEN O, Paddy dear! an' did ye hear the news that's goin' round? The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground; No more St. Patrick's Day we'll keep, his colour can't be seen, For there's a cruel law agin the wearin' o' the green! I met wid Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand, And he said, 'How's poor Ould Ireland, and how does she stand?' She's the most disthressful country that iver yet was seen, For they're hangin' men and women there for wearin' o' the green. An' if the colour we must wear is England's cruel red, Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed; Then pull the shamrock from your hat and throw it on the sod,― And never fear, 'twill take root there, tho' under foot 'tis trod ! When law can stop the blades of grass from growin' as they grow, And when the leaves in summer-time their colour dare not show, Then I will change the colour, too, I wear in my caubeen, But till that day, plaze God, I'll stick to wearin' o' the green. Anonymous. CLXIII THE MINSTREL BOY THE Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, And his wild harp slung behind him. The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain Thy songs were made for the pure and free, Thomas Moore. |