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The plesant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in

Cathedral shrine,
While at a glibe rate
Brass tongues would vibrate
But all their music
· Spoke naught like thine.

For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling

Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican,-
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets

Of Notre Dame;

But thy sounds were sweeter
Than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly.
Oh! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee. .

There 's a bell in Moscow;
While on tower and kiosk O
In St. Sophia

The Turkman gets,
And loud in air
Calls men to prayer,
From the tapering summit

Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there 's an anthem

More dear to me,-
'T is the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

Francis Malony.

The Death of Napoleon.

Wild was the night, yet a wilder night

Hung round the soldier's pillow;
In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight

Than the fight on the wrathful billow.

A few fond mourners were kneeling by,

The few that his stern heart cherished; They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye,

That life had nearly perished.

They knew by his awful and kingly look,

By the order hastily spoken, That he dreamed of days when the nations shock,

And the nations' hosts were broken.

He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew,

And triumphed the Frenchman's eagle,
And the struggling Austrian fled anew,

Like the hare before the beagle.

The bearded Russian he scourged again,

The Prussian's camp was routed,
And again on the hills of haughty Spain

His mighty armies shouted.

Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows,

At the pyramids, at the mountain,
Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows,

And by the Italian fountain,

On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams

Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,
He led again, in his dying dreams,

His hosts, the broad earth quelling.

Again Marengo's field was won,

And Jena's bloody battle;
Again the world was overrun,

Made pale at his cannon's rattle.

He died at the close of that darksome day,

A day that shall live in story;
In the rocky land they placed his clay,
“And left him alone with his glory."


The Grave of Bonaparte.

In a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows

Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave, The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows,

Like fond weeping mourners, lean over the grave.

The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle:

He heeds not, he hears not, he 's free from all pain;He sleeps his last sleep-he has fought his last battle!

No sound can awake him to glory again!

O shade of the mighty, where now are the legions

That rush'd but to conquer when thou led'st them on? Alas! they have perish'd in far hilly regions,

And all save the fame of their triumph is gonel The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle!

They heed not, they hear not, they 're free from all pain: They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle!

No sound can awake them to glory again!

Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee,

For, like thine ownı cayle that soaril to the sun, Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind thee

A name which before thee no mortal had won. Thongh nations may combat, und war's thunders rattle,

No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain : Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle! No sound can awake thee to glory again !


TUidow Malone.
Did you hear of the Widow Malone,

Who lived in the town of Athlone,

O, she melted the hearts

Of the swains in them parts, -
So lovely the Widow Malone,

So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score,

Or more,

And fortunes they all had galore,

In store;
From the minister down

To the clerk of the Crown,
All were courting the Widow Malone,

All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mistress Malone,

'T was known
That no one could see her alone,

Let them ogle and sigh,

They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,

So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare,

(How quare!
It 's little for blushing they care

Down there)
Put his arm round her waist,-

Gave ten kisses at laste,“O,” says he, "you 're my Molly Malone,

My ownl” “O," says he, “ you 're my Molly Malone.”

And the widow they all thought so shy,

My eye!
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh,-

For why?
But, “ Lucius," says she,
"Since you've now made so free,
You may marry your Mary Malone,

You may marry your Mary Malone.”

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