Download or read book The Golden Treasury of Irish Songs and Lyrics Volume 1 written by Charles Welsh and published by Theclassics.Us. This book was released on 2013-09 with total page 92 pages. Available in PDF, EPUB and Kindle. Book excerpt: This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1907 edition. Excerpt: ... WILLIAM ALEXANDER (1824 ) VERY FAR AWAY ONE touch there is of magic white, Surpassing southern mountain's snow That to far sails the dying light Lends, where the dark ships onward go Upon the golden highway broad That leads up to the isles of God. One touch of light more magic yet, Of rarer snow 'neath moon or star, Where, with her graceful sails all set, Some happy vessel seen afar, As if in an enchanted sleep Steers o'er the tremulous stretching deep. O ship! O sail! far must ye be Ere gleams like that upon ye light. O'er golden spaces of the sea, From mysteries of the lucent night, Such touch comes never to the boat Wherein across the waves we float. O gleams, more magic and divine, Life's whitest sail ye still refuse, And flying on before us shine Upon some distant bark ye choose. By night or day, across the spray, That sail is very far away. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM (1824-1889) ABBEY ASAROE GRAY, gray is Abbey Asaroe, by Ballyshanny town, It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down; The carven stones lie scattered in briars and nettlebed; The only feet are those that come at burial of the dead. A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide, Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in pride; The bore-tree and the lightsome ash across the portal grow, And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Asaroe. It looks beyond the harbor-stream to Gulban mountain blue; It hears the voice of Erna's fall, --Atlantic breakers too; High ships go sailing past it; the sturdy clank of oars Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon the shores; And this way to his home-creek, when the summer day is done, Slow sculls the weary fisherman across the setting sun; While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cottage white below; But gray at..