 | Shamrocks |  |
196
A RED ROSE.
No faint wild rose on a briar,
But a marvel of colour and fire,
My Rose;
Made perfect in every part,
With a love that is pain at her heart.
But a marvel of colour and fire,
My Rose;
Made perfect in every part,
With a love that is pain at her heart.
Oh, tall and stately is she!
Well weareth her royalty,
My Rose;
She stands in her shadowy place,
With the loveliest light on her face.
Well weareth her royalty,
My Rose;
She stands in her shadowy place,
With the loveliest light on her face.
The strain of blackbird and thrush
She holds in her heart and its hush,
My Rose;
And the nightingale singing at night
Hath made her pale with delight.
She holds in her heart and its hush,
My Rose;
And the nightingale singing at night
Hath made her pale with delight.
197
The garden is fenced and apart
Where she waits with a prayer at her heart,
My Rose;
The foot of the wayfarer
Goes onward, and troubles not her.
Where she waits with a prayer at her heart,
My Rose;
The foot of the wayfarer
Goes onward, and troubles not her.
There shall come a flower of all hours;
She shall hear a step in her bowers,
My Rose,
And know who cometh, and turn,
With eyes that yearn and burn.
She shall hear a step in her bowers,
My Rose,
And know who cometh, and turn,
With eyes that yearn and burn.
O Love, whose coming is slow,
By your thorny crown will she know,
My Rose,
And your pierced hands reaching to take,
And your heart that broke for her sake.
By your thorny crown will she know,
My Rose,
And your pierced hands reaching to take,
And your heart that broke for her sake.
| Shamrocks | |