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Emigration & farewells

Isle of beauty fare-thee-well

(49) Isle of beauty fare-thee-well

[NLS note: a graphic appears here - see image of page]


Shades of evening close not o'er us,
Leave our lonely bark awhile,
Morn alas ! will not restore us,
Yonder dim and distant Isle ;
Though my fancy can discover,
Sunny spots where friends may dwell.
Darker shadows round us hover,
Isle of beauty—fare-thee-well.

'Tis the hour when happy faces
Smile around the taper's light,
Who will fill our vacant places ?
Who will sing our songs to night ?
Through the mist that floats above us,
Faintly sounds the vesper bell,
Like a voice from those who love us,
Breathing fondly—fare-thee-well.

When the waves are round me breaking,
As I pace the deck along,
And my eye in vain is seeking,
Some green leaf to rest upon ;
What would I not give to wander,
Where my old companions dwell,
Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
Isle of beauty—fare-thee-well.


Over the sunny hills I stray,
Tuning many a rustic lay,
And sometimes in the shadow'd vales
I sing of love and battle tales ;
Merrily thus I spend my life,
Tho' poor, my breast is free from strife,
The blithe Old Harper call'd am I,
In the Welsh vales 'mid mountains high.

Sometimes before a castle gate,
In song, a battle I relate ;
Or how a lord in shepherd's guise,
Found favour in a maiden's eyes ;
With rich and poor, a welcome guest.
Nor cares intrude upon my breast;
The blithe Old Harper call'd am I,
In the Welsh vales 'mid mountains high.

When Sol illumines die western sky,
And evening zephrys softly sigh ;
Oft times in village green I play,
While round me dance the rustics gay,
And oft when veil'd by sable night,
The wand'ring shepherds I delight ;
The blithe Old Harper call'd am I,
In die Welsh vales 'mid mountains high.

             FESTIVE SCENE.

Yes, I will leave the festive scene,
The gay and courtly throng,
To wander thro' the forests green,
And listen to thy song.
The waters like a mirror seem
For every beaming star ;
Then haste to yonder silent stream,
And strike the light guitar.
Then haste, &c.

And when thou tell'st of one, whose tears
Were shed for her true knight,
Bethink thee of thy maiden's fears,
When thou wert in the fight ;
Nor longer brave the battle plain,
Nor roam from me afar,
But sing hope's long forgotten strain,
And strike the light guitar.
But sing, &c.

George Walker, Jun., Printer, Sadler-Street, Durham.

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