YARRIMORE.[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.]My poor heart flutters like the seaNow heaving on the sandy shore;It seems to tell me you shall beNever again near Yarrimore.Far, far beyond the waves, I bendMine eyes, if I can land explore;But o’er the waves I find no end,—Yet there they say’s my Yarrimore.The hut he built is standing still,Deck’d with the shells he cull’d from shore;Our bow’r is waving on the hill,But where, alas! is Yarrimore?Within that bow’r I’ll sit and sigh,From dawn of day till day is o’er;And, as the wild winds o’er me fly,I’ll call on gentle Yarrimore!
[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.]
My poor heart flutters like the seaNow heaving on the sandy shore;It seems to tell me you shall beNever again near Yarrimore.Far, far beyond the waves, I bendMine eyes, if I can land explore;But o’er the waves I find no end,—Yet there they say’s my Yarrimore.The hut he built is standing still,Deck’d with the shells he cull’d from shore;Our bow’r is waving on the hill,But where, alas! is Yarrimore?Within that bow’r I’ll sit and sigh,From dawn of day till day is o’er;And, as the wild winds o’er me fly,I’ll call on gentle Yarrimore!