III.
Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping,

Young Novice; to him all thy orisons arise ;
He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping,
He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs.

Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast,

And angels themselves would admit such a guest, If he came to them, clothed in Piety's vest.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH PLEASURES

AND WOES.
AIR.-The Bunch of Green Rushes that grew at the Brim.

İ.
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. 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 !

II.
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

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

From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me!

* Proposito fiorem prætulit officio.-Propert. lib. 1. eleg. 20.

Ít 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. Three Volumes will than have been completed, according to the original plan, and the Proprietors desire me to say that a List of Subscribers will be published with the concluding Number.

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 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 sympa. thize 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, “Slantes 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--and they who wish to retard this Euthanasia of the Irish Melodies, cannot better effect it than by contributing to our collection, not what are called curious Airs, for we have abundance of them, and they are, in

general, only curious, but any really sweet and expressive Songs of our Country, which either chance or research may have brought into their hands.

T. M. Mayfield Cottage, Ashbourne, December, 1813.

* Among these is Savourna Deelish, which I have hitherto only withheld from the diffidence 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 sup pose, however, I must attempt it for the next Number,

IRISH MELODIES.

No. V.

OH, THE SHAMROCK !"
AIR.--Alley Croker.

I.
THROUGH ERIN's Isle

To sport awhile,
As Love and VALOUR Wander'd,

With Wit, the sprite,

Whose quiver bright
A thousand arrows squander'd;

Where'er they pass,

A triple grass
Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,

As softly green

As emeralds, seen
Through purest crystal gleaming!
Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock !

II.
Says VALOUR,“ See,

“ They spring for me,
“Those leafy gems of morning !"-

Says LOVE, “ No, no,

“ For me they grow,

“My fragant path adorning!". Saint Patrick is said to have made of use of that species of the trefoil, to which in Ireland we give the name of 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. HỌPE, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in ber hand.

But Wir perceives

The triple leaves,
And cries “ Oh! do not sever

“ A type that Blends

“ Three god-like friends,

LOVE, VALOUR, Wit, for ever!"
Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock !

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,
Old ERIN's native Shamrock!

III.
So, firmly fond

May last the bond
They wove that morn together,

And ne'er may fall

One drop of gall
On WIt's celestial feather!

May LOVE, as shoot

His flowers and fruit,
Of thorny falsehood weed'em!

May VALOUR ne'er

His standard rear
Against the cause of freedom !
Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,
Old ERIN's native Shamrock!

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.
AIR.–Molly, my Dear.

I.
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we loved, when life was warm in thine eye,

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 !

II. Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear, When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear; And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,

I think, oh, my love !'tis thy voice from the kingdom of souls,* Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.
AIR.-Moll Roe in the Morning,

I.
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 ʼmidst the tears of the cup.

II.
As onward we journey, how pleasant

To pause and inhabit a while
Those few sunny spots, like the present,

That’mid the dull wilderness smile !
But Time, like a pitiless master,

Cries, “Onward! and spurs the gay hours;
And never does Time travel faster,

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.

III.
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. “There are countries,” says MONTAIGNE," where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields ; and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo.”