YARRIMORE.

[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.]

My poor heart flutters like the sea
    Now heaving on the sandy shore;
It seems to tell me you shall be
    Never again near Yarrimore.

Far, far beyond the waves, I bend
    Mine 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!