Thomas Moore, from Irish Melodies, vol. 6
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,|
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
2. Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
3. Thou hast call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss,
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