IRISH MELODIES.

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No. IV.

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LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

AIR.—The Old Woman.

I.
Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright

My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night, ,

Was love, still love!
New hope may bloom,

And days may come

Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream!
Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream!

II.

Though the bard to purer fame may soar,

When wild youth's past;
Though he win the wise, who frown'd before,

To smile at last;
He'll never meet
A joy so sweet,

In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear

His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blush'd to hear

The one loved name!

III.
Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,

Which first-love traced ;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot

On memory's waste!
'Twas odour fled

As soon as shed;

'Twas morning's winged dream;
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream!
Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream!

Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget

them, And smile through our tears, like a sun-beam in

showers; There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More form’d to be grateful and bless'd than ours!

But, just when the chain

Has ceased to pain, And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers,

There comes a new link

Our spirit to sinkOh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,

Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay; But, though 'twere the last little spark in our souls,

We must light it up now on our Prince's Day.

a

a

* This song was written for a fête in honour of the Prince of Wales's Birth-Day, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.

IT. Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal! Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are

true ; And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.

While cowards who blight

Your fame, your right,
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,

The Standard of Green

In front would be seen-
Oh!
my
life on your

faith!
were you

summon'd this minute, You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,

When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

III.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded

In hearts which have suffer'd too much to forget ; And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded, And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet!

The gem may be broke
By many a stroke,