Softly sighs the winds of evening, Through the lone sequester’d dell, Where in calm and dreamless slumber, Lies our darling Rosabel. Other flowers still bloom around us, In our little native glen, But so pure and fair a blossom Never shall we see again. Fare thee well, thou loved and lost one, Thou art only gone before, Where’er long we hope to meet thee, Never to lose thee any more. _Chorus._--Softly sighs, &c. Linda has Departed. 11 Copied by permission of FIRTH, POND & CO., 547 Broadway, N. Y., owners of the copyright. Death with his cold hand, hath robb’d me of every hope, Hath robb’d me of every hope--my loved one is gone; Bleak was the moment, that parted our beating hearts-- That parted our beating hearts, and left me alone. Sweet was the low voice, that wrapt me in fond delight, That wrapt me in fond delight, as fair visions do; Soft were the dark eyes, that languish’d in beauty bright, That languish’d in beauty bright--how fondly and true! CHORUS. Linda has departed, the warm and tender-hearted, Linda has departed, and left me here to mourn. Blest were the hours pass’d, with her whom my soul adored, With her whom my soul adored, whose heart was so light; Sad is the lone hour, bereft of my darling one, Bereft of my darling one, in darkness and night. All now is cheerless, my joys long have pass’d away, My joys long have pass’d away, with love’s fleeting years; Hope has no comfort, for sadness now holdeth sway, For sadness now holdeth sway, and leaves me in tears. CHORUS. Linda has departed, the warm and tender-hearted, Linda has departed and left me here to mourn. My Heart’s in Old Ireland. 12 My bark on the billow dash’d gloriously on, And glad were the notes of the sailor-boy’s song; Yet sad was my bosom and bursting with woe, For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go, Oh, my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go. More dear than the flowers that Italy yields, Are the red-breasted daisies that spangle thy fields, The shamrock, the hawthorn, the white blossom sloe, For my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go, Oh, my heart’s, &c. The shores they look lovely, yet cheerless and vain, Bloom the lilies of France, and the olives of Spain; When I think of the fields where the wild daisies grow, Then my heart’s in old Ireland wherever I go, Oh, my heart’s, &c.