 | Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover |  |
THE LAND OF THE WEST.
Oh! come to the West, love,—oh! come there with me;
'Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs from the sea,
Where fair plenty smiles from her emerald throne;
Oh, come to the West, and I'll make thee my own!
I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee the best,
And you'll say there's no land like the land of the West!
'Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs from the sea,
Where fair plenty smiles from her emerald throne;
Oh, come to the West, and I'll make thee my own!
I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee the best,
And you'll say there's no land like the land of the West!
The South has it's roses and bright skies of blue,
But ours are more sweet with love's own changeful hue—
Half sunshine, half tears,—like the girl I love best,
Oh! what is the South to the beautiful West!
Then come to the West, and the rose on thy mouth
Will be sweeter to me than the flow'rs of the South!
But ours are more sweet with love's own changeful hue—
Half sunshine, half tears,—like the girl I love best,
Oh! what is the South to the beautiful West!
Then come to the West, and the rose on thy mouth
Will be sweeter to me than the flow'rs of the South!
The North has it's snow-tow'rs of dazzling array,
All sparkling with gems in the ne'er-setting day;
There the Storm-King may dwell in the halls he loves best,
But the soft-breathing Zephyr he plays in the West.
Then come there with me, where no cold wind doth blow
And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the snow!
All sparkling with gems in the ne'er-setting day;
There the Storm-King may dwell in the halls he loves best,
But the soft-breathing Zephyr he plays in the West.
Then come there with me, where no cold wind doth blow
And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the snow!
101
The Sun in the gorgeous East chaseth the night
When he riseth, refreshed, in his glory and might,
But where doth he go when he seeks his sweet rest?
Oh! doth he not haste to the beautiful West?
Then come there with me: 'tis the land I love best,
'Tis the land of my sires!—'tis my own darling West!
When he riseth, refreshed, in his glory and might,
But where doth he go when he seeks his sweet rest?
Oh! doth he not haste to the beautiful West?
Then come there with me: 'tis the land I love best,
'Tis the land of my sires!—'tis my own darling West!
| Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover | |