The plesant waters I've heard bells chiming Brass tongues would vibrate But all their music Spoke naught like thine. For memory, dwelling The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling From the Vatican,- 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 The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow; The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer, From the tapering summit Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. FRANCIS MAHONY. The Death of Napoleon. WILD was the night, yet a wilder night A few fond mourners were kneeling by, They knew by his awful and kingly look, That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, The bearded Russian he scourged again, Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams He led again, in his dying dreams, Again Marengo's field was won, He died at the close of that darksome day, In the rocky land they placed his clay, ISAAC MCLELLAN The Grade of Bonaparte. On a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle: O shade of the mighty, where now are the legions And all save the fame of their triumph is gone! 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, H. S. WASHBURN (?) Widow Malone. DID you hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone! Who lived in the town of Athlone, Alone! O, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts,— Ohone! So lovely the Widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score, Or more, And fortunes they all had galore, From the minister down To the clerk of the Crown, All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone! All were courting the Widow Malone. But so modest was Mistress Malone, That no one could see her alone, Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone! 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 own!" "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,— But, "Lucius," says she, "Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone! You may marry your Mary Malone." |