FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM. FROM life without freedom, oh! who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die? Hark!-hark! 't is the trumpet! the call of the brave, The death-song of tyrants and dirge of the slave. Our country lies bleeding-oh! fly to her aid; One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade. From life without freedom, oh! who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains!
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed.
And oh! even if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not-at least we shall find her in heaven.
In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains.

Roses now unheeded sigh;

Where's the hand to wreathe them? Songs around neglected lie,

Where's the lip to breathe them? Here's the bower she loved so much,

And the tree she planted;

Here's the harp she used to touch-
Oh! how that touch enchanted!

Spring may bloom, but she we loved
Ne'er shall feel its sweetness!
Time, that once so fleetly moved,

Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she stray'd,
Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er form'd a brighter maid,

Nor Pity wept a dearer !

Here's the bower she loved so much,

And the tree she planted;

Here's the harp she used to touch-
Oh! how that touch enchanted!

HOLY BE THE PILGRIM'S SLEEP. HOLY be the Pilgrim's sleep,

From the dreams of terror free;
And may all, who wake to weep,
Rest to-night as sweet as he!
Hark! hark! did I hear a vesper swell!

No, no-it is my loved Pilgrim's prayer:
No, no-'t was but the convent bell,
That tolls upon the midnight air.

Holy be the Pilgrim's sleep!
Now, now again the voice I hear;
Some holy man is wand'ring near.

O Pilgrim! where hast thou been roaming?
Dark is the way, and midnight's coming.
Stranger, I've been o'er moor and mountain,
To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain.
And, Pilgrim, say, where art thou going?
Dark is the way, the winds are blowing.
Weary with wand'ring, weak, I falter,
To breathe my vows at Agnes' altar.
Strew, then, oh! strew his bed of rushes;
Here he shall rest till morning blushes.

Peace to them whose days are done,
Death their eyelids closing;
Hark! the burial-rite 's begun-
'T is time for our reposing.

Here, then, my Pilgrim's course is o'er:

'T is my master! 't is my master! Welcome here once

more;

Come to our shed-all toil is over;

Pilgrim no more, but knight and lover.

HERE'S THE BOWER.

HERE'S the bower she loved so much,
And the tree she planted;
Here's the harp she used to touch-
Oh! how that touch enchanted!

I CAN NO LONGER STIFLE.

I CAN no longer stifle,

How much I long to rifle
That little part
They call the heart

Of you, you lovely trifle!

JOYS THAT PASS AWAY.

Joys that pass away like this,

Alas! are purchased dear,

If every beam of bliss

Is follow'd by a tear.

Fare thee well! oh, fare thee well!

Soon, too soon thou 'st broke the spell.

Oh! I ne'er can love again

The girl whose faithless art
Could break so dear a chain,

And with it break my heart.

Once, when truth was in those eyes,
How beautiful they shone;

But now that lustre flies,

For truth, alas! is gone.

Fare thee well! ob, fare thee well!
How I've loved my hate shall tell.
Oh! how lorn, how lost would
Thy wretched victim's fate,

If, when deceived in love,

He could not fly to hate!

prove

LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.

LIGHT Sounds the harp when the combat is overWhen heroes are resting, and joy is in bloomWhen laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

Now let the warrior plume his steed,

And wave his sword afar;

For the men of the East this day shall bleed,
And the sun shall blush with war.
Victory sits on the Christian's helm

To guide her holy band:

The Knight of the Cross this day shall whelm
The men of the Pagan land.

Oh! bless'd who in the battle dies!
God will enshrine him in the skies!

Now let the warrior plume his steed,
And wave his sword afar,

For the men of the East this day shall bleed,
And the sun shall blush with war.

OH! LADY FAIR!

OH, Lady fair! where art thou roaming?
The sun has sunk, the night is coming.
Stranger, I go o'er moor and mountain,
To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain.

And who is the man, with his white locks flowing?
Oh, Lady fair! where is he going?
A wand'ring Pilgrim, weak, I falter,
To tell my beads at Agnes' altar.

Chill falls the rain, night winds are blowing,
Dreary and dark's the way we 're going.

Fair Lady! rest till morning blushes-
I'll strew for thee a bed of rushes.

Oh! stranger! when my beads I'm counting,
I'll bless thy name at Agnes' fountain.

OH! SEE THOSE CHERRIES.

On! see those cherries-though once so glowing,
They've lain too long on the sun-bright wall;
And mark! already their bloom is going;

Too soon they'll wither, too soon they 'll fall. Once, caught by their blushes, the light bird flew round,

Oft on their ruby lips leaving love's wound;
But now he passes them, ah! too knowing
To taste wither'd cherries, when fresh may be found.

OH! YES, SO WELL.

On! yes, so well, so tenderly

Thou 'rt loved, adored by me,

Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,

Were worthless without thee.

Though, brimm'd with blisses, pure and rare,
Life's cup before me lay,

Unless thy love were mingled there,
I'd spurn the draught away.

Oh! yes, so well, so tenderly

Thou 'rt loved, adored by me,

Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,
Are worthless without thee.

POH, DERMOT! GO ALONG WITH YOUR
GOSTER.

Роn, Dermot! go along with your goster,
You might as well pray at a jig,

Or teach an old cow pater noster,

Or whistle Moll Roe to a pig!

Arrah, child! do you think I'm a blockhead,
And not the right son of my mother,

To put nothing at all in one pocket,
And not half so much in the other?
Poh, Dermot! etc.