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Page:Skeealyn Aesop a Selection of Aesops Fables Translated Into Manx-Gaelic Together with a Few Poems.djvu/34

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May we, still in earnest seeking,
That blest country strive to win,
Where the eye shall cease from weeping,
And no more oppressed with sin;
'Neath the willow's shade reclining,
Free from sunshine and from showers,
And the heart no more repining
For the joys of happier hours.

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LINES ON POOR SHIMMIN.

Poor poet: thou art laid to sleep
Beneath the graveyard's verdant soil,
Though few lament thy fate or weep
The bard of Mona's sea-girt Isle:

For sons of genius are despised
Upon this rugged Island shore.
And poets are so slightly prized,
And seldom thought of any more.

Yet, though with talents thou wert blest,
And sung the charms of Mona's hills,
And built a cottage in the West,
Beside the mountain's flowing rills:

Thy life was all a checkered scene,
With fits and starts of doing well;
But whatsoever thou hast been,
Or what thy fate is, [illegible] can tell

For death's cold hand has cut thee down,
And hid thy talents in the earth,
Now thou art moulding in the ground,
While no one cares to sing thy worth

Are we not told if man should gain
The world, and then possess the whole
Would not his wealth be all in vain
If at the end he lost his soul?