The snowy breasted pearl

Oh she is not like the rose, that proud in beauty glows,
and boasteth that she’s so wondrous fair;
But she’s like the violet blue, ever modest,
ever true, from her leafy bow’r perfuming the still night air. Oh, she
gentle, loving, mold, she’s artless as a child,
her clust’ring tresses softly flowing down; I’ll
love thee evermore, sweet Colleen oge asthore,
my true love, my snowy breasted Pearl.

If I sigh, a sudden fear comes o’er her,
and a tear stands quiv’ring within her downcast eye;
When I smile, those orbs of azure Gleam forth with love and pleasure,
like sudden glory bursting thro’ a clouded sky.
If I claim her for my bride, she trembles at my side,
and gently lifts her eyes with looks so tender; I
love thee, only thee, my Colleen oge asthore,
my true love, my snowy breasted Pearl.

Such was she, but oh! a change, How mournful and how strange,
on my lov’d one, my own belov’d one came.
Paler still her pale cheek grew,
and her eyes of azure hue seem’d lighted with a flame,
a fatal, wasting flame.
Oh! we laid her in the grave, where willows sadly wave,
and hollow winds are sighing a plaintive wail; I’m a
lone, alone, alone! So warily I moan for my lost love,
my snowybreasted Pearl!