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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;
'Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure,

It dies ’mid the tears of the cup!


AIR.--Groves of Blarney.

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AIR.— The Dandy 0!

The young May-moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,

How sweet to rove

Through Morna's grove, *
While the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake !- the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

And I, whose star,

More glorious far,
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love!
Then awake !-till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,

Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light,
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!

AIR.-The Moreen.

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.-
“ Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,

“ Tho' all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praisthee !"

* “ Steals silently to Morna's Grove." See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's collection, by John Brown, one of my earliest college companions and friends, whose death was as singularly melancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and exemplary.

The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder ;
And said, “No chains shall sully thee,

“ Thou soul of love and bravery!
* Thy songs were made for the pure and free,

“ They shall never sound in slavery!”

AIR.— The pretty Girl milking her Cow.

The valley lay smiling before me,

Where lately I left her behind;
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,

That sadden'd the joy of my mind.
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! 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 first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances, as related by O'Halloran. “The 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 summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns.”—The monarch Roderic espoused the cause of O’Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.

“ Such,” adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation)," is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy.

I flew to her chamber-'twas lonely

As if the lov'd 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 wak'd 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, thro' a million of foemen,

Who dar'd but to doubt thee in thought !
While now-oh degenerate daughter

Of Erin, how fall’n is thy fame;
And, thro' 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.


AIR.-Sheela na Guira.

Oh! 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 lov'd 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!


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 welcom'd 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 pathway of pain
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring 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 your smiles !
Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmurd, “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 us’d to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd!
Like the vase, in which roses have once been distillid
You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.


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