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I'd like to steal away your heart." "Och! Terry, don't you call it robbin',

My heart you've owned this many a day; But if you like to ease its throbbin',

You're welcome as the flowers in May." "But, Katty dear, I am not joking,

My wounded honor you must heal: I'll not be called such names for nothing, Sure, it's yourself away I'd steal." "Och! Terry, that would be housebreaking,

But if my mother don't say nay, It's to Father Tom you may be spakingYou're welcome as the flowers in May."

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Our trust is not in musket or in saber-
Our faith is in the fruitfulness of labor,
The soul-stirred, willing soil;

In Homes and granaries by justice guarded,
In fields from blighting winds and agents

In franchised skill and manumitted toil.

Grant us, O God, the soil, and sun, and seasons!

Avert Despair, the worst of moral treasons,
Make vaunting words be vile.
Grant us, we pray, but wisdom, peace, and

And we wil yet relift among the nations
Our fair and fallen, but unforsaken Isle!


THE reaper's weary task was done;
And down to repose sunk the autumn sun;
And the crimson clouds, in the rich-hued west,
Were folding like rose-leaves round his rest.
My heart was light, and I hummed a tune,
As I hied me home by the harvest moon;
And I bless'd her soft and tender ray,
That rose to lighten my lone pathway.

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IF it's thrue it's the "silence that gives the consint,"
It's yerself, Dennis dear, should be mighty contint,
For it's niver a word I have said thro' your say,
Tho' yez stopp'd to fetch breath, before namin' the day;
Whin a purty Colleen, whom the boys are all praisin'
Shall be yez, wid the pig, for the rint I am raisin',
The fayther I'll tell what ye've trusted to me,
And ask wid a kiss, if I married may be.

Now avick! don't yez look wid that sheep-castin' eye,
It bothers entirely a Colleen that's shy;
An' Pathric is comin', who will have his joke,
And guess be me blushes, the words ye have spoke;
And the boy will be tazin', the while I am sazin'
The moment the whisky my father is plazin',
To tell him the sacret yez trusted to me,
And ask wid a kiss, if I married may be.

It's the pity, alanna, time makes men forgit
How swate was their joy when two tinder hearts met,
For I'm shure he wil say I am foolish to waste
My love on a spalpeen an' marry in haste;

For it's thrue, Denis dear, that the ould will be preachin'
To the young who still think they've grown out ov their tachin',
I'll tell him the sacret yez trusted to me,
And coax wid a kiss that I married may be.

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