IRISH MELODIES. то THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL. It is now many years since, in a Letter prefixed to the Third Number of the Irish Melodies, I had the pleasure of inscribing the Poems of that work to your Ladyship, as to one whose character reflected honour on the country to which they relate, and whose friendship had long been the pride and happiness of their Author. With the same feelings of affection and respect, confirmed if not increased by the experience of every succeeding year, I now place those Poems in their present new form under your protection, and am, With perfect sincerity, Your Ladyship's ever attached Friend, PREFACE. But, THOUGH an edition of the Poetry of the Irish Melodies, separate from the Music, has long been called for, yet, having, for many reasons, a strong objection to this sort of divorce, I should with difficulty have consented to a disunion of the words from the airs, had it depended solely upon me to keep them quietly and indissolubly together. besides the various shapes in which these, as well as my other lyrical writings, have been published throughout America, they are included, of course, in all the editions of my works printed on the Continent, and have also appeared, in a volume full of typographical errors, in Dublin. I have therefore readily acceded to the wish expressed by the Proprietor of the Irish Melodies, for a revised and complete edition of the poetry of the Work, though well aware that my verses must lose even more than the "animæ dimidium," in being detached from the beautiful airs to which it was their good fortune to be associated. The Advertisements which were prefixed to the different numbers, the Prefatory Letter upon Music, &c. will be found in an Appendix at the end of the Melodies. IRISH MELODIES. GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. Go where glory waits thee, But, while fame elates thee, Oh! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh! then remember me.Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee, Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, Oh! then remember me! When, at eve, thou rovest Oh! then remember me. Once so lov'd by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, Oh! then remember me. When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, Oh! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing Oh! still remember me. Oh! then remember me. WAR SONG. REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN REMEMBER the glories of Brien the brave, That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd But enough of its glory remains on each sword, Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the tint No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, Forget not our wounded companions, who stood + While the moss of the valley grew red with their They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died. ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN ERIN, the tear and the smile in thine eyes, Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease, Thy various tints unite, OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. OH! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, WHEN HE, WHO adores tHEE. WHEN he, who adores thee, has left but the name Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, I Brien Borombe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements. 2 Munster. 3 The palace of Brien. I have been but too faithful to thee. trick, prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that 4 This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee. THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more. No more to chiefs and ladies bright The chord alone, that breaks at night, Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. FLY NOT YET. FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour, When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night, And maids who love the moon. "Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; "Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing. Oh! stay,-Oh! stay,- 1 Solis Fons, near the Temple of Ammon. Fly not yet, the fount that play'd In times of old through Ammon's shade, 1 To burn when night was near. And thus, should woman's heart and looks OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT. OH! think not my spirits are always as light, now; Nor expect that the heart beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. No:-life is a waste of wearisome hours, Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns. But send round the bowl, and be happy awhileMay we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here, Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear. On she went, and her maiden smile THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH In safety lighted her round the Green Isle; And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while. wreathes, And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes; Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.1 One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes, To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring, For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray; RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, "In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing Glibbes, or Coulins (long locks), on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song, the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired."— Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards, p. 134. Walker informs us also, that, about the same period, there were some harsh measures taken against the Irish Minstrels. Mr. 2 This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote: It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.3 THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ; 4 Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; "The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and government of this Monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels."—" Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book x. 3" The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1807. 4 The rivers Avon and Avoca. |