The Combat Deepens. On, Ye

On The Green Banks Of Shannon, When Sheelah Was Nigh, No Blithe Irish Lad Was So Happy As I, No Harp Like My Own Could So Cheerily Play, And Wherever I Went Was My Poor Dog Tray.

He Scorn'd His Own, Who Felt Another's Woe.

Who Hath Not Own'd, With Rapture-smitten Frame, The Power Of Grace, The Magic Of A Name.

For Beauty's Tears Are Lovelier Than Her Smile.

His Faithful Dog Salutes The Smiling Guest.