If sadly thinking, with spirits sinking, Could, more than drinking, my cares compose, A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow, And hope to-morrow would end my woes. But as in wailing there's nought availing, And Death unfailing will strike the blow, Then for that reason, and for a season, Let us be merry before we go! To joy a stranger, a wayworn ranger, In every danger my course I've run; Now hope all ending, and death befriending, His last aid lending, my cares are done; No more a rover, or hapless lover-- My griefs are over--my glass runs low; Then for that reason, and for a season, Let us be merry before we go! _John Philpot Curran_ THOU CANST NOT BOAST Thou canst not boast of Fortune's store, My love, while me they wealthy call: But I was glad to find thee poor, For with my heart I'd give thee all, And then the grateful youth shall own, I loved him for himself alone. But when his worth my hand shall gain, No word or look of mine shall show That I the smallest thought retain Of what my bounty did bestow: Yet still his grateful heart shall own, I loved him for himself alone. _Richard Brinsley Sheridan_ KATHLEEN O'MORE My love, still I think that I see her once more, But, alas! she has left me her loss to deplore-- My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More! Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue, Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new-- So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More! She milked the dun cow, that ne'er offered to stir; Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her-- So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More! She sat at the door one cold afternoon, To hear the wind blow, and to gaze on the moon, So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More! Cold was the night-breeze that sighed round her bower, It chilled my poor Kathleen, she drooped from that hour: And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More. The Bird of all birds that I love the best, Is the Robin that in the churchyard builds his nest; For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o'er Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More. _James Nugent Reynolds_ THE GROVES OF BLARNEY