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BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE. *

AIR.-The Brown Irish Girl.

I.

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er, +
Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint KEVIN, stole to sleep.
“ Here at least,” he calmly said,
“Woman ne'er shall find my bed.”
Ah! the good saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

II.
'Twas from KATHLEEN's eyes he flew—
Eyes of most unholy blue!
She had loved him well and long,
Wish'd him her's, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.

III.
On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of Heaven, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth, nor Heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be :
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
KATHLEEN O'er him leans and weeps.

IV.

Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And when morning met his view,

Her mild glances met it too. * This Ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the County of Wicklow.

+ There are many other curious traditions concerning this Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc.

Ah! your saints have cruel hearts !
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And, with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

V.
GLENDALOUGH! thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle KATHLEEN's grave;
Soon the saint (yet, ah! too late)
Felt her love and mourn'd her fate.
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!

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

AIR.-Open the Door.

I.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her, sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying !

II.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking.-
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking !

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

They were all that to life had entwined him,-
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

IV.

Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the West,

From her own loved Island of Sorrow!

NAY, TELL ME NOT.
AIR.-Dennis, don't be threatening.

I.
NAY, tell me not, dear! that the goblet drowns

One charm of feeling, one fond regret ;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.

Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream
That ever was shed from thy form or soul;

The balm of thy sighs,

The light of thine eyes,
Still float on the surface and hallow my bowl !
Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me!
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee !

II.
They tell us that Lovein his fairy bower

Had two blush-roses, of birth divine ;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,
But bathed the other with mantling wine.

Soon did the buds,

That drank of the floods
Distill’d by the rainbow, decline and fade;

While those which the tide

Of ruby had dyed
All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid !
Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine cau steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT,
AIR.-Crooghan a Venee.

I.
AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of ERIN *

On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd !* The words of this song were suggested by the very an cient Irish story, called “Deirdri, or the lamentable fate of

F

For every

fond
ege

he hath waken'd a tear in,
A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

II

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling, *

When ULAD's three champions lay sleeping in goreBy the billows of war which, so often, high swelling,

Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore !

III.

We swear to revenge them - no joy shall be tasted,

The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,
Qur halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted,

Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head!

IV.

Yes, monarch ! though sweet are our home recollections,

Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall; Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections,

Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all !

'“ This story

the sons of Usnach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr. O'FLANAGAN (see vol, 1. of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin), and upon which it appears that the “ Darthula” of Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Uspa, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. (says Mr.OʻFLANAGAN) has been from time immemorial, held in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Írish, These are," "The death of the children of Touran ;' The death of the children of Lear" (both regarding Tuatha de Danans) ; and this, "The death of the children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story."-It will be recollected, that in the Second Number of these Melodies, there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir; “ Silent, oh Moyle!" etc.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to an. tiquity, which Mr. O'FLANAGAN and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement they merit.

* « Oh Nasi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red.”

Deirdris Song. + Ulster.

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.
AIR.--The Yellow Horse.

I.
Ho-WHAT the bee is to the foweret,

When he looks for honey-dew
Through the leaves that close embower it,

That, my love, I'll be to you !
She. What the bank, with verdure glowing,

Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear !

II.
She.-But, they say, the bee's a rover,

That he'll fly, when sweets are gone;
And, when once the kiss is over,

Faithless brooks will wander on !
He.--Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,

If sunny banks will wear away,
'Tis but right, that bees and brooks

Should sip and kiss them, while they may.

LOVE AND THE NOVICE.
AIR.Cean Dubh Delish.

I.
“ HERE we dwell, in holiest bowers,

" Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; “ Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers " To Heaven in mingled odour ascend !

“ Do not disturb our calm, oh Love!

“So like is thy form to the cherubs above, “ It well might deceive such hearts as ours.

II.
Love stood near the Novice, and listen’d,

And Love is no novice in taking a hint;
His laughing blue eyes now with piety glisten'd;
His rosy wing turn'd to Heaven's own tint.

“ Who would have thought,” the urchin cries,

“ That Love could so well, so gravely disguise “ His wandering wings and wounding eyes ?”

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