The Tambourine Player

I lote my little native isle,

Mine emerald in a golden deep;

My garden where the roses smile,

My vineyard where the tendrils creep.

How sweetly glide the summer hours,

When twilight shews her silver sheen;

And youths and maids from all the bowers

Come forth to play the Tambourine

At morn the fisher spreads Iris sail

Upon our calm encircling sea;

The farmer labours in the vale,

Or tends his vine and orange-tree.

But soon as lingering sunset throws

O'er woods and fields a deeper green,

And all the west in crimson glows,

They gather to the Tambourine.

We love our merry native song,

Our moss-grown seats in lonely nooks,

Our moonlight walks the beach along,

For interchange of words and looks.

When toil is done, and day is spent,

Sweet is the dance with song between;

The jest for harmless pleasure meant,

And tinkle of the Tambourine.

My native isle, my land of peace

My father's home, my mother's grave

May evermore thy joys increase,

And plenty o'er thy corn-fields wave!

May storms ne'er vex thine ocean surf,

Nor war pollute thy valleys green;

Nor fail the dance upon thy turf,

Nor music of the Tambourine