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BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.'

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,

They were all that to life had entwined him,AIR-The Brown Irish Girl.

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, By that lake, whose gloomy shore

Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Sky-lark never warbles o'er,?
Where the cliff hangs high and steep,

Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest, Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.

When they promise a glorious morrow ; “ Here at least," he calmly said,

They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the West “ Woman ne'er shall find my bed."

From her own loved Island of Sorrow!
Ah ! the good saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

NAY, TELL ME NOT. "T was from Kathleen's eyes he flew

Air_Dennis, don't be threatening.
Eyes of most unholy blue !
She had loved him well and long,

Nay, tell me not, dear! that the goblet drowns
Wish'd him her’s, nor thought it wrong

One charm of feeling, one fond regret ; Wheresoe'er the saint would fly,

Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Still he heard her light foot nigh;

Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet. East or west, where'er he turn'd,

Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream Still her eyes before him burn'd.

That ever was shed from thy form or soul; On the bold cliff's bosom cast,

The balm of thy sighs, Tranquil now he sleeps at last;

The light of thine eyes, Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er

Still float on the surface and hallow my bowl! Woman's smile can baunt him there.

Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal But nor earth, nor heaven is free

One blissful dream of the heart from me! From her power, if fond she be:

Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, Even now, while calm he sleeps,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee! Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower Fearless she had track'd his feet

Had two blush-roses, of birth divine; To this rocky wild retreat ;

He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower, And when morning met his view,

But bathed the other with mantling wine. Her mild glances met it too.

Soon did the buds, Ah! your saints have cruel hearts!

That drank of the floods Sternly from his bed he starts,

Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade; And, with rude repulsive shock,

While those which the tide Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Of ruby had dyed

All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! Glendalough! thy gloomy wave

Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal Soon was gen:le Kathleen's grave;

One blissful dream of the heart from me; Soon the saint (yet, ah! too late)

Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.
When he said, “ Heaven rest her soul !"
Round the lake light music stole ;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide!

AVENGING AND BRIGHT

Air-Crooghan a Venee.

AVENGing and bright fell the swift sword of Erin' SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd!Air-Open the Door.

1 The words of this song were suggested by the very She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, ancient Irish story, called “ Deirdri, or the lamentable fate And lovers are round her sighing ;

of the sons of Usbach," which has been translated literally

from the Gaelic, by Mr. O'Flanagan (sec vol. 1. of TransBut coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, actions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin,) and upon which For her heart in his grave is lying!

It appears that the “Darthula” of Macpherson is founded.
Thoireachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death

the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. Every note which he loved awaking.

“This story (says Mr. O'Flanagan) has been from time imAh! little they think, who delight in her strains, memorial held in high repute as one of the three tragic

stories of the Irish. These are, The death of the children How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking !

of Touran;' "The deuth of the children of Lear' (both re

garding Tuatha de Danans;) and this, "The death of the 1 This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories re- children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story." In No. lated of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at II. of these Melodies there is a ballad upon the story of the Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county children of Lear or Lir: “Silent, oh Moyle!" etc. of Wicklow.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to 2 Thero are many other curious traditions concerning this antiquity, which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for ake, which may be found io Giraldus, Colgan, etc. the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproaco fall;

For every fond eye hath waken'd a tear in, Love stood near the Novice and listen'd, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her And Love is no novice in taking a hint; blade.

His laughing blue eyes now with piety glisten'd;

His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint. By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwel

“Who would have thought," the urchin cries, ling,'

“That Love could so well, so gravely disguise When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in His wandering wings and wounding eyes ?"

goreBy the billows of war which, so often, high swelling, Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, Have wasted these heroes to victory's shore ! Young Novice; to him all thy orisons rise ;

He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, We swear to revenge them !-no joy shall be tasted,

He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs. The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed;

Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast, Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted,

And angels themselves would admit such a guest Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head! If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest. Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollec

tions, Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH

PLEASURES AND WOES. Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our af- Air-The Bunch of Green Rushes that grew at the fections,

Brim. Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,

That chase one another, like waves of the deep, Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,

Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. So closely our whims on our miseries tread, AIR-The Yellow Horse.

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; He. What the bee is to the floweret,

And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,
When he looks for honey-dew

The goose-feathers of folly can turn it aside.
Through the leaves that close embower it, But pledge me the cup—if existence would cloy,
That, my love, I'll be to you !

With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,

Be ours the light Grief that is sister to Joy,
She.-What the bank, with verdure glowing,

And the short brilliant Folly that flashes and dies !
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going, When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
That I'll be to you, my dear!

Through fields full of sun-shine, with heart full of

play, She.—But they say, the bee 's a rover,

Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, That he'll fly when sweets are gone; And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.' And, when once the kiss is over,

Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and Faithless brooks will wander on!

have tasted

The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, He.- Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, If sunny banks will wear away,

Their time with the flowers on the margin have

wasted, 'Tis but right that bees and brooks

And left their light urns all as empty as mine! Should sip and kiss them, while they may.

But pledge me the goblet—while Idleness weaves

Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see
One bright drop or two, that has fallen on the leaves

From her fountain divine, 't is sufficient for me!
LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

Air-Cean Dubh Delish,
"Here we dwell, in holiest bowers,
Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend;

No. V.
Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers
To Heaven in mingled odour ascend!
Do not disturb our calm, oh Love!

It is but fair to those who take an interest in this So like is thy form to the cherubs above,

Work, to state that it is now very near its termination, It well might deceive such hearts as ours."

and that the Sixth Number, which shall speedily appear, will

, most probably, be the last of the series.

It is not so much from a want of materials, and upon our nationality if the Gaelic researches of this gentle man did not meet with all the liberal encouragement which still less from any abatement of zeal or industry, that they merit.

we have adopted the resolution of bringing our task 1 "Oh Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red../ to a close; but we feel so proud, for our country's - Deirdri's Song.

I Proposito fiorem protulit officio.-- Propert. I. i. eleg. sake and our own, of the interest which this purely

2 Ulster.

Chosen leaf Irish Work has excited, and so anxious lest a particle

Of bard and chief, of that interest should be lost by any ill-judged pro- Old Erin's native Shamrock! traction of its existence, that we think it wiser to take away the cup from the lip, while its flavour is yet,

Says Valour, “ See, we trust, fresh and sweet, than to risk any longer

They spring for me, trial of the charm, or give so much as not to leave Those leafy gems of morning!" come wish for more. In speaking thus I allude en

Says Love, “No, no, rirely to the Airs, which are, of course, the main at

For me they grow, traction of these volumes; and, though we have still My fragrant path adorning!" many popular and delightful Melodies to produce,'

But Wit perceives yet it cannot be denied that we should soon expe

The triple leaves, rience some difficulty in equalling the richness and And cries, “Oh! do not sever novelty of the earlier Numbers, for which, as we had

A type that blends the choice of all before us, we naturally selected only

Three god-like friends, the most rare and beautiful. The Poetry, too, would Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!" be sure to sympathize with the decline of the Music, Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock. and, however feebly my words have kept pace with

Chosen leaf the excellence of the Airs, they would follow their

Of bard and chief, falling off, I fear, with wonderful alacrity. So that, Old Erin's native Shamrock! altogether, both pride and prudence counsel us to stop, while the Work is yet, we believe, flourishing

So, firmly fond and attractive, and, in the imperial attitude, “stantes

May last the bond mori," before we incur the charge either of altering They wove that morn together, for the worse, or, what is equally unpardonable, con

And ne'er may fall tinuing too long the same.

One drop of gall We beg, however, to say, it is only in the event of On Wit's celestial seather! our failing to find Airs as exquisite as most of those

May Love, as shoot we have given, that we mean thus to anticipate the

His flowers and fruit, natural period of dissolution, like those Indians who Of thorny falsehood weed 'em! put their relatives to death when they become feeble.

May Valour ne'er
T. M.

His standard rear
Mayfield Cottage, Ashbourne,

Against the cause of Freedom!
December, 1813.

Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock !

Chosen leaf

Of bard and chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock !
OH, THE SHAMROCK!

AIR-Alley Croker.
THROUGH Erin's Isle,
To sport awhile,

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.
As Love and Valour wander'd,

Arr—Molly, my Dear.
With Wit, the sprite,

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
Whose quiver bright

To the lone vale we loved when life was warm iD
A thousand arrows squander'd;
Where'er they pass,

And I think that if spirits can steal from the regions
A triple grass?

of air
Shoots up, with dew-drops strcaming,
As softly green

To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to

me there, As emeralds, seen

And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky! Through purest crystal gleaming ! Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock, Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear,

When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on | Among these is Savourna Declish, which I have hitherto only withheld, from the diffidence I feel in treading And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad ori upon the same ground with Mr. Campbell, whose beautiful

son rolls, words to this fine air have taken too strong possession of all zars and hearts, for me to think of producing any impression

I think, oh, my love! 't is thy voice from the kingafter him. I suppose, however, I'must attempt it for the

dom of souls,' next Number.

2 Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species Faintly answering still the notes that once were so of the trefoil, in Ireland called the Shamrock, in explaining

dear. the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, 1 "There are countries," says Montaigne, " where they was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, “ standing believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three coloured grass in her in delightful fields; and that it is those souls, repeating the hand."

words we utter, which we call Echo."

thine eye,

the ear,

When true hearts lie wither'd,
ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

And fond ones are flown,
Air-Moll Roe in the Morning.

Oh! who would inhabit
ONE bumper at parting !-though many

This bleak world alone ?
Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any
Remains to be crown'd by us yet.

THE YOUNG MAY-MOON.
The sweetness that pleasure has in it

Air-The Dandy 0!
Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute

The young May-moon is beaming, love!

The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love!
It dies, do we know half its worth!

How sweet to rove
But fill-may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;

Through Morna's grove,'

While the drowsy world is dreaming, love. They're born on the bosom of pleasure,

Then awake!-the heavens look bright, my dear! They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

"T is never too late for delight, my dear! As onward we journey, how pleasant

And the best of all ways To pause and inhabit awhile

To lengthen our days, Those few sunny spots, like the present,

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!
That 'mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,

Now all the world is sleeping, love!
Cries, “ Onward!" and spurs the gay hours; But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love!
And never does Time travel faster

And I, whose star,
Than when his way lies among flowers.

More glorious far, But, come-may our life's happy measure

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love! Be all of such moments made up;

Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear! They ’re born on the bosom of pleasure, The sage's glass we'll shun, my dear! They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light,
This evening we saw the sun sinking
In waters his glory made bright-

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear! Oh! trust me, our farewell of drinking

Should be like that farewell of light. You saw how he finish’d, by darting

THE MINSTREL-BOY His beam o'er a deep billow's brim

AIR-The Morec So fill up!-let's shine, at our parting,

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, In full liquid glory, like him.

the ranks of death you 'll find him; And oh! may our life's happy measure

His father's sword he has girded on, Of moments like this be made up;

And his wild harp slung behind him."T was born on the bosom of pleasure,

“ Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, It dies 'mid the tears of the cup!

“Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain Air-Groves of Blarney. "T is the last rose of summer,

Could not bring his proud soul under !

The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, Left blooming alone;

For he tore its chords asunder; All her lovely companions

And said, “No chains shall sully thee, Are faded and gone;

Thou soul of love and bravery! No flower of her kindred,

Thy songs were made for the pure and free No rose-bud is nigh,

They shall never sound in slavery !"
To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh!
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

THE SONG OF O'RUARK, PRINCE OF To pine on the stem;

BREFFNI.? Since the lovely are sleeping,

AIR~The pretty Girl milking her Cow. Go, sleep thou with them.

The valley lay smiling before me,
Thus kindly I scatter

Where lately I left her behind ;
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden

1 "Steals silently to Morna's grove." Lie scentless and dead.

See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's collec

tion, by John Brown, one of my earliest college companivas So soon may I follow,

and friends, whoso death was as singularly melancholy and When friendships decay,

unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and And from Love's shining circle

exemplary.

2 These staozas are founded upon an event of most mo The gems drop away!

lancholy importance to Ireland, if, as we are told by ou

Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, | There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, That sadden'd the joy of my mind.

We should love, as they loved in the first golden time; I look'd for the lamp, which she told me The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,

Should shine when her pilgrim return'd; Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there! But, though darkness began to infold me,

With affection, as free
No lamp from the battlements burn'd!

From decline as the bowers,

And with Hope, like the bee,
I flew to her chamber—'t was lonely

Living always on flowers,
As if the loved tenant lay dead !-

Our life should resemble a long day of light,
Ah! would it were death, and death only!

And our death come on, holy and calm as the night!
But no—the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute, that could soften

My very worst pains into bliss,
While the hand that had waked it so often

FAREWELL!-BUT, WHENEVER YOU
Now throbb’d to a proud rival's kiss

WELCOME THE HOUR. There was a time, falsest of women!

AIR--Moll Roone. When Breffni's good sword would have sought Farewell S-but, whenever you welcome the hour That man, through a million of foemen, That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,

Who dared but to doubt thee in thought! Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, While now-oh, degenerate daughter

And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. Of Erin:how fall'n is thy fame!

His griefs may return-not a hope may remain And, through ages of bondage and slaughter, Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain

Our country shall bleed for thy shame. But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw Already the curse is upon her,

Its enchantment around him, while lingering with And strangers her vallies profane;

you! They come to divide-to dishonour,

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up And tyrants they long will remain !

To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, But, onward !--the green banner rearing, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, Go, flesh every sword to the hilt ;

My-soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night, On our side is Virtue and Erin!

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
On theirs is The Saxon and Guilt.

And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles! -
Too bless'd, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer,

Some kind voice had murmur'd, “I wish he were OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE

here!"
OF OUR OWN.

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Air-Sheela na Guira.

Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own, Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care, In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone,

And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming bowers, Long, long be my heart with such memories fill’d! And the bee banquets on through a whole year of Like the vase in which roses have once been distillidflowers ;

You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will,
Where the sun loves to pause

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
With so fond a delay,
That the night only draws
A thin veil o'er the day;

OH! DOUBT ME NOT.
Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live,
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give !

AIR-Yellow Wat and the For.

Oh! doubt me not—the season Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of pro- Is o'er when Folly made me rove, fiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are

And now the vestal Reason the circumstances as related by O'Halloran. “The King of Leinster bad long conceived a violent affection for Dearb- Shall watch the fire awaked by Love horgil, daughter to the King of Meath, and though she had Although this heart was early blown, been for some time married to O'Ruark, Prince of Breflni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a pri

And fairest hands disturb'd the tree, vate correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark They only shook some blossoms down, intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent Its fruit has all been kept for thee. in those days,) and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she dotealed to a

Then doubt me not the season lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctanil, oboyed the

Is o'er when Folly made me rove,
summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of And now the vestal Reason
Ferns."--The Monarch Roderick espoored the cause of
O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtain-

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love ed the assistance of Henry II.

"Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis, (as I find him in an And though my lute no longer
old translation,) " is the variable and fickle nature of wo- May sing of Passion's ardent spell,
man, by whom all mischiofs in the world (for the most part)

Yet, trust me, all the stronger
do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius,
sud by the destruction of Troy.'

I feel the bliss I do not tell

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