ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SEVENTH NUMBER. HAD I consulted only my own judgment, this Work would not have extended beyond the Six Numbers already published; which contain the flower, perhaps, of our national melodies, and have now attained a rank in public favor, of which I would not willingly risk the forfeiture, by degenerating, in any way, from those merits that were its source. Whatever treasures of our music were still in reserve, (and it will be seen, I trust, that they are numerous and valuable,) I would gladly have left to future poets to glean, and, with the ritual words “tibi trado," would have delivered up the torch into other hands, before it had lost much of its light in my own. But the call for a continuance of the work has been, as I understand from the Publisher, so general, and we have received so many contributions of old and beautiful airs,'-the suppression of which, for the en much resemble the policy of the Dutch in burning their spices,-that I have been persuaded, though not without much diffidence in my success, to commence a new series of the Irish Melodies. T. M. IN presenting this Sixth Number to the Public as our last, and bidding adieu to the Irish Harp forever, we shall not answer very confidently for the strength of our resolution, nor feel quite sure that it may not turn out to be one of those eternal farewells which a lover takes occasionally of his mistress, merely to enhance, perhaps, the pleasure of their next meeting. Our only motive, indeed, for discontinuing the Workhancement of those we have published, would too was a fear that our treasures were nearly exhausted, and a natural unwillingness to descend to the gathering of mere seed-pearl, after the really precious gems it has been our lot to string together. The announcement, however, of this intention, in our Fifth Number, has excited a degree of 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 should we adhere to our present resolution of publishing no more, it would certainly furnish an instance of forbearance unexampled in the history of poets and musicians. To one gentleman in particular, who has been for many years resident in England, but who has not forgot, among his various pursuits, either the language or the melodies of his native country, we beg to offer our best thanks for the many interesting communications with which he has favored us. We trust that neither he nor any other of our kind friends will relax in those efforts by which we have been so considerably assisted; for, though our work must now be looked upon as defunct, yet-as Reaumur found out the art of making the cicada sing after it was dead-it is just possible that we may, some time or other, try a similar experiment upon the Irish Melodies. Mayfield, Ashbourne, March, 1815. T. M. 1 One gentleman, in particular, whose name I shall feel happy in being allowed to mention, has not only sent us nearly forty ancient airs, but has communicated many curious fragments of Irish poetry, and some interesting traditions DEDICATION ΤΟ THE MARCHIONESS OF HEADFORT, PREFIXED TO THE TENTH NUMBER. It is with a pleasure, not unmixed with melancholy, that I dedicate the last Number of the Irish Melodies to your Ladyship; nor can I have any doubt that the feelings with which you receive the tribute will be of the same mingled and saddened tone. To you, who, though but little beyond the season of childhood when the earlier numbers of this work appeared, lent the aid of your beautiful voice, and, even then, exquisite feeling for music, to the happy circle who met, to sing them together, under your father's roof, the gratification, whatever it may be, which this humble offering brings, cannot be otherwise than darkened by the mournful reflection, current in the country where he resides, illustrated by sketches of the romantic scenery to which they refer; al f which, though too late for the present Number, will be of infinite service to us in the prosecution of our task how many of the voices, which then joined with supplementary songs, which follow this Tenth Numours, are now silent in death! ber, have been added. I am not without hope that, as far as regards the grace and spirit of the Melodies, you will find this closing portion of the work not unworthy of what has preceded it. The Sixteen Airs of which the Number and the Supplement consists, have been selected from the immense mass of Irish music, which has been for years past accumulating in my hands; and it was from a desire to include all that appeared most worthy of preservation, that the four Trusting that I may yet again, in remembrance of old times, hear our voices together in some of the harmonized airs of this Volume, I have the honor to subscribe myself, Your Ladyship's Sloperton Cottage, May, 1834. faithful Friend and Servant, THOMAS MOORE. NATIONAL AIRS. ADVERTISEMENT. It is Cicero, I believe, who says, "naturâ ad modos ducimur;" and the abundance of wild, indigenous airs, which almost every country, except England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The lovers of this simple, but interesting kind of music, are here presented with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of those half creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in search of the remainder of themselves through the world. To supply this other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies which have hitherto had none, or only such as are unintelligible to the generality of their hearers,-is the object and ambition of the present work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as an estray swan, and enrich our humble Hippocrene with its song. T M. NATIONAL AIRS. A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSH' P.' (SPANISH AIR.) "A Temple to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted, "I'll build in this garden,-the thought is divine!" Her temple was built, and she now only wanted An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent; But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. "Oh! never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining "An image, whose looks are so joyless and dim ;"But yon little god, upon roses reclining, "We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him." So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove: "Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden "Who came but for Friendship and took away Love." 1 The thought is taken from a song by Le Prieur, called "La Statue de l'Amitié." SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES. (PORTUGUESE AIR.) SHOULD those fond hopes e'er forsake thee,' Which now so sweetly thy heart employ; Should the cold world come to wake thee From all thy visions of youth and joy; "There it is," Quoth Folly, "old quiz !” (Folly was always good-natured, 'tis said,) "Under the sun "There's no such fun, "As Reason with my cap and bells on his head, "Reason with my cap and bells on his head!" Should the gay friends, for whom thou wouldst But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore, banish Him who once thought thy young heart his own, All, like spring birds, falsely vanish, And leave thy winter unheeded and lone ; Oh! 'tis then that he thou hast slighted That Beauty now liked him still less than before; While Folly took Old Reason's book, And twisted the leaves in a cap of such ton, That Beauty vow'd (Though not aloud,) Would come to cheer thee, when all seem'd o'er; She liked him still better in that than his own, Yes,-liked him still better in that than his own. FARE THEE WELL, THOU LOVELY ONE! (SICILIAN AIR.) FARE thee well, thou lovely one! Lovely still, but dear no more; Once his soul of truth is gone, Love's sweet life is o'er. Thy words, whate'er their flatt'ring spell, Could scarce have thus deceived; But eyes that acted truth so well Were sure to be believed. Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one! Lovely still, but dear no more; Once his soul of truth is gone, Love's sweet life is o'er. Yet those eyes look constant still, True as stars they keep their light; Still those cheeks their pledge fulfil Of blushing always bright. "Tis only on thy changeful heart The blame of falsehood lies; Love lives in every other part, But there, alas! he dies. Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one! case,-where the metre has been necessarily sacrificed to the structure of the air |