#Americans #Women
From our happy home Through the world we roam One week in all the year, Making winter spring With the joy we bring
Thistledown in prison sings: Bright shines the summer sun, Soft is the summer air; Gayly the wood-birds sing, Flowers are blooming fair.
Swallow, swallow, neighbor swallow… Starting on your autumn flight, Pause a moment at my window, Twitter softly your good-night; For the summer days are over,
‘Bright shines the summer sun, Soft is the summer air; Gayly the wood-birds sing, Flowers are blooming fair. ’But, deep in the dark, cold rock,
I am the monarch of the Sea, The ruler of the Queen’s Navee,— When at anchor here I ride, My bosom swells with pride, And I snap my fingers at a foeman…
‘I wish I had a quiet tomb, Beside a little rill; Where birds, and bees, and butterf… Would sing upon the hill.’
‘Give me freshening breeze, my boy… A white and swelling sail, A ship that cuts the dashing waves… And weathers every gale. What life is like a sailor’s life,
Brighter shone the golden shadows; On the cool wind softly came The low, sweet tones of happy flow… Singing little Violet’s name. ‘Mong the green trees was it whisp…
O lesson well and wisely taught Stay with me to the last, That all my life may better be For the trial that is past. O vanity, mislead no more!
THE moon upon the wide sea Placidly looks down, Smiling with her mild face, Though the ocean frown. Clouds may dim her brightness,
‘For myself alone, I would not be Ambitious in my wish; but, for you… I would be trebled twenty times my… A thousand times more fair, Ten thousand times more rich.’
The moonlight fades from flower an… And the stars dim one by one; The tale is told, the song is sung… And the Fairy feast is done. The night-wind rocks the sleeping…
‘The puir auld folk at home, ye mi… Are frail and failing sair; And weel I ken they’d miss me, la… Gin I come hame nae mair. The grist is out, the times are ha…
‘I write about the butterfly, It is a pretty thing; And flies about like the birds, But it does not sing. ’First it is a little grub,
‘We are sending you, dear flowers, Forth alone to die, Where your gentle sisters may not… O’er the cold graves where you lie… But you go to bring them fadeless…