tions,

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.

So closely our whims on our miseries tread,

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed, The goose-feathers of folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, Be ours the light Grief that is sister to Joy, And the short brilliant Folly that flashes and dies!

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of sun-shine, with heart full of play,

Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,
And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.'
Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have
tasted

The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine,
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,
And left their light urns all as empty as mine!
But pledge me the goblet-while Idleness weaves
ller 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!

No. V.

Ir is but fair to those who take an interest in this Work, to state that it is now very near its termination, 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 still less from any abatement of zeal or industry, that we have adopted the resolution of bringing our task to a close; but we feel so proud, for our country's sake and our own, of the interest which this purely Irish Work has excited, and so anxious lest a particle of that interest should be lost by any ill-judged protraction of its existence, that we think it wiser to take away the cup from the lip, while its flavour is yet, we trust, fresh and sweet, than to risk any longer trial of the charm, or give so much as not to leave some wish for more. In speaking thus I allude entirely to the Airs, which are, of course, the main attraction of these Volumes; and, though we have still many popular and

Proposito florem prætulit officio.-Propert, lib. 1. eleg, 30.

delightful Melodies to produce, yet it cannot be denied that we should soon experience some difficulty in equalling the richness and novelty of the earlier Numbers, for which, as we had the choice of all before us, we naturally selected only the most rare and beautiful. The Poetry, too, would be sure to sympathize with the decline of the Music, and, however feebly my words have kept pace with the excellence of the Airs, they would follow their falling off, I fear, with wonderful alacrity. So that, altogether, both pride and prudence counsel us to stop, while the Work is yet, we believe, flourishing and attractive, and, in the imperial attitude, «stantes mori,» before we incur the charge either of altering for the worse, or, what is equally unpardonable, continuing too long the same.

We beg, however, to say, it is only in the event of our failing to find Airs as exquisite as most of those we have given, that we mean thus to anticipate the natural period of dissolution, like those Indians who put their relatives to death when they become feeble.

Mayfield Cottage, Ashbourne,

December, 1813.

T. M.

Among these is Savourna Deelish, which I have hitherto only withheld, from the diftidene I feel in treading upon the same ground with Mr Campbell, whose beautiful words to this fine air have taken too strong possession of all ears and hearts, for me to think of producing any impression after him. I suppose, however, I must attempt it for

the next Number.

* Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil, in Ireland called the Shamrock, in explaining 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, was sometimes represented as a beautiful chel1, estanding upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in her hand,

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.

AIR-Molly, my Dear.

Ar the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the loue vale we loved when life was warm in thine

eve,

And I think that if spirits can steal from the regions

of air

To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to

me there,

And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear, When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on

the car,

And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison

rolls,

I think, oh, my love! 't is thy voice from the kingdom of souls, t

Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.
AIR-Moll Roe in the Morning.
ONE bumper at parting!—though many
Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any

Remains to be crown'd by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure has in it
Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute

It dies, do we know half its worth!
But fill-may our life's happy measure

Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of pleasure,

They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

There are countries, says Montaigne, where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful tielūs, and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call

How sweet to rove

As onward we journey, how pleasant

and inhabit awhile

Το pause Those few sunny spots, like the present, That 'mid the dull wilderness smile! But Time, like a pitiless master,

Cries, «Onward!» and spurs the

And never does Time travel faster

gay hours;

Than when his way lies among flowers.
But, come--may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They 're born on the bosom of pleasure,
They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

This evening, we saw the sun sinking
In waters his glory made bright-
Oh! trust me, our farewell of drinking
Should be like that farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, by darting

His beam o'er a deep billow's brim-
So fill up!-let's shine, at our parting,
In full liquid glory, like him.
And oh! may our life's happy measure

Of moments like this be made up; "T was born on the bosom of pleasure, It dies 'mid the tears of the cup!

'T IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

AIR-Groves of Blarney.

"T is the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them,

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

THE YOUNG MAY-MOON. AIR-The Dandy 0! THE young May-moon is beaming, love! The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love!

ran.

2 These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland, if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the hrst opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances as related by O'HalloThe King of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the King of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the sum

I look'd for the lamp, which she told me Should shine when her pilgrim return'd But, though darkness began to infold me, No lamp from the battlements burn'd!

I flew to her chamber-'t was lonely
As if the loved tenant lay dead !—-
Ah! would it were death, and death only!
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
Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.

There was a time, falsest of women!

When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man, through a million of foemen,

Who dared but to doubt thee in thought! While now-oh, degenerate daughter

Of ERIN-how fall'n is thy fame!

Aud, through ages of bondage and slaughter,
Our country shall bleed for thy shame.

Already the curse is upon her,

And strangers her valleys profane; They come to divide-to dishonour, And tyrants they long will remain! But, onward!-the green banner rearing, Go, flesh every sword to the hilt; On our side is VIRTUE and ERIN!

On theirs is THE SAXON and GUILT.

OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN!

AIR-Sheela na Guira.

On! had we some bright little isle of our own,
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone,
Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming bowers,
And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers;
Where the sun loves to pause

With so fond a delay,

That the night only draws

A thin veil o'er the day;

Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give!

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,
We should love, as they loved in the first golden time;
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there!

With affection, as free

From decline as the bowers,
And with Hope, like the bee,

Living always on flowers,

Our life should resemble a long day of light,

And our death come on, holy and calm as the night!

FAREWELL!-BUT, WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

AIR-Moll Roone.

FAREWELL!-but, whenever you welcome the hour
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return-not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brighten'd his path-way of pain-
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you!
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me beaming all o'er with smiles!-
your
Too bless'd, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmur'd, «I wish he were here!»
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be heart with such memories fill'd!
Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd-
You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

my

OH! DOUBT ME NOT.
AIR-Yellow Wat and the Fox.

On! doubt me not-the season

Is o'er when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal Reason

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love. Although this heart was early blown,

And fairest hands disturb'd the tree,
They only shook some blossoms down,-
Its fruit has all been kept for thee.
Then doubt me not-the season
Is o'er when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal Reason

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.
And though my lute no longer

May sing of Passion's ardent spell,
Yet, trust me, all the stronger
I feel the bliss I do not tell.

The bee through many a garden roves,

And hums his lay of courtship o'er, But, when he finds the flower he loves, He settles there, and hums no more. Then doubt me not-the season Is o er when Folly kept me free, And now the vestal Reason Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.'
AIR-Were I a Clerk.
You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,
How meekly she bless'd her humble lot,

This Ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting stert. told of a certain noble family in England.

When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,
And love was the light of their lowly cot.
Together they toil'd through winds and rains,
Till William at length, in sadness, said,
« We must seek our fortune on other plains;>>
Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.

They roam'd a long and a weary way,

Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, When now, at close of one stormy day,

They see a proud castle among the trees. «To-night,» said the youth, «< we 'll shelter there; The wind blows cold, the hour is late:»So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air,, And the porter bow'd as they pass'd the gate.

Now, welcome, Lady!» exclaim'd the youth,<< This castle is thine, and these dark woods all.» She believed him wild, but his words were truth, For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall!— And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves

What William the stranger woo'd and wed; And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves, Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed.

No. VI.

In presenting this Sixth Number as our last, and bidding adieu to the Irish Harp for ever, we shall not answer very confidently for the strength of our resolution, nor feel quite sure that it may not prove, after all, to be only one of those eternal farewells which a lover takes of his mistress occasionally. Our only motive indeed for discontinuing the Work was a fear that our treasures were beginning to be exhausted, and an unwillingness to descend to the gathering of mere seed-pearl, after the very valuable gems it has been our lot to string together. But this intention, which we announced in our Fifth Number, has excited an anxiety in the lovers of Irish Music, not only pleasant and flattering, but highly useful to us; for the various contributions we have received in consequence have enriched our collection with so many choice and beautiful Airs, that, if we keep to our resolution of publishing no more, it will certainly be an instance of forbearance and self-command unexampled in the history of poets and musicians.

Mayfield, Ashbourne,

March, 1815.

T. M.