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!