YARRIMORE.

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!