But a sight sae delightful I trow, I ne’er spied,
As the bonnie blithe blink o’ my ain fireside,
My ain fireside, my ain fireside, oh! sweet is the blink o’ my ain
fireside.
Ance mair, Heaven be praised, round my ain heart-some ingle,
Wi’ the friends o’ my youth, I cordially mingle;
Nae force now upon me to seem wae or glad,
I may laugh when I’m merry, and sigh when I’m sad.
_Chorus._--My ain fireside. &c.
Nae falsehood to dread, nae malice to fear,
But truth to delight me, and kindness to cheer;
O’ a’ the roads to pleasure that ever were tried,
There’s nane half so sure as ain’s ain fireside.
_Chorus._--My ain fireside. &c.
50
The Indian Warrior’s Grave.
Green is the grave by the wild dashing river,
Where sleeps the brave with his arrows and quiver
Where in his pride he roved in his childhood
Fought he, and died, in the depths of the wildwood.
In the lone dell, while his wigwam defending,
Nobly he fell ’neath the hazel-boughs bending;
Where the pale foe and he struggled together,
Who from his bow tore his swift-arrow’d feather.
Ere the next noon the bold warrior was buried;
And ere a moon his tribe westward had hurried.
But a rude cross, with its rough-chiseled numbers,
Half hid in moss, tells the red warrior slumbers.
Indian Hunter.
Oh, why does the white man follow my path, like the hound on the
tiger’s track?
Does the flush of my dark cheek waken his wrath? does he covet the
bow at my back?
He has rivers and seas, where the billows and breeze
Bear riches for him alone--
And the sons of the wood, never plunge in the flood,
Which the white man calls his own.
Yha, yha!
Then why should he come to the streams where none but the red skin
dare to swim?
Why, why should he wrong the hunter? one who never did harm to him!
Yha, yha, yha!
The Father above thought fit to give to the white man corn
and wine--
There are golden fields where he may live, but the forest shades
are mine.
The eagle hath its place of rest, the wild horse where to dwell,
And the spirit that gave the bird its nest, made me a home as well.
Yha, yha!
Then back! go back! from the red man’s track, for the red man’s
eyes are dim,
To find that the white man wrongs the one who never did harm to him.
Yha, yha, yha!
51
Molly Bawn.
Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
Or lonely waiting here for you--
While the stars above are brightly shining,
Because they have nothing else to do.
The flowers late were open keeping,
To try a rival blush with you,
But their mother, Nature, kept them sleeping,
With their rosy faces wash’d in dew.
Oh, Molly, &c.
The pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,
And the pretty stars were made to shine;
The pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,
And may be you were made for mine.
The wicked watch dog here is snarling--
He takes me for a thief, d’ye see?
For he knows I’d steal you, Molly, darling,
And then transported I should be.
Oh, Molly, &c.
Norah, the Pride of Kildare.
As beauteous as Flora is charming young Norah,
The joy of my heart and the Pride of Kildare,
I ne’er will deceive her, for sadly ’twould grieve her,
To find that I sigh’d for another less fair.