POETRY.
IRISH LOVE-SONG.
Mourne."J WOULD I were Erin's apple-blossom o'er you, Or Erin's rose in all my beauty blown, To drop my richest petals down before you, Within the garden where you walk alone ! In hope that you might pluck a little posy, 'With loving fingers through my clusters pressed, And kiss it close, and set it blushing rosy, To sigh out all its sweetness on your breast.
Ah ! could I take the pigeon's flight towards you,
And perch beside your window-pane above, And murmur how my heart of hearts it hoards you, 0 hundred thousand treasures of my love In hope you'd stretch your slender hand and take me, And soothe my little fluttering wings to rest, And lift me to your loving lips, and make me My bower of blisses in your loving breast.
THE ArritoR "SONGS OF KILLARNEY."
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