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AIR.-Sly Patrick.

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,

As clouds o'er the morning fleet ?
Too fast have those young days faded,

That, even in sorrow, were sweet!
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear?-

Then, child of misfortune! come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has Love to that soul, so tender,

Been like our Lagenian mine, *
Where sparkles of golden splendour

All over the surface shine?
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allur'd by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,t

That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory-

Has Hope been that bird to the e?
On branch after branch alighting,

The gem did she still display,
And when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the sweet hours have fleeted

When Sorrow herself look'd bright;
If thus the fond hope has cheated,

That led thee along so light; * Our Wicklow Gold Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, the character here given of them.

+ “The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it; but, as he approached, the bird took wing and settled again,” &c.-Arabian Nights,-Story of Kummir el Zummaun and the Princess of China.

If thus, too, the cold world wither

Each feeling that once was dear;-
Come, child of misfortune! come hither,

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.


No, not more welcome the fairy numbers

Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

He thinks the full quire of heaven is near,Then came that voice, when, all forsaken,

This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort ! 'twas like the stealing

Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shellEach secret winding, each inmost feeling

Of all my soul echoed to its spell ! 'Twas whisper'd balm-'twas sunshine spoken !

I'd live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken

By such benign blessed sounds again!

AIR-O Patrick ! fly from me.

When first I met thee, warm and young,

There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,

I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw thee change, yet still relied,

Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, tho'false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.

But go, deceiver! g0,

The heart, whose hopes could make it Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou shouldst break it !


When every tongue thy follies nam’d,

I fled th’unwelcome story;
Or found, in even the faults they blam'd,

Some gleams of future glory.
I still was true, when nearer friends

Conspir'd to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart, that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee.

But go, deceiver ! go,

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream, to know

The grief of hearts forsaken.


Even now, tho’youth its bloom has shed,

No lights of age adorn thee;
The few, who lov'd thee once, have fled,

And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledg'd to slaves,

No genial ties enwreath it;
The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank cold hearts beneath it!

Go-go-tho’worlds were thine,

I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendour!


And days may come, thou false one! yet,

When even those ties shall sever; When thou wilt call, with vain regret,

On her thou'st lost for ever!
On her who, in thy fortune's fall,

With smiles had still receiv'd thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believ'd thee.

Go--go-'tis vain to curse,

'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

Air.- Paddy Whack.

While History's Muse the memorial was keeping

Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,

For her's was the story that blotted the leaves. But oh ! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,

She saw History write,

With a pencil of light That illum'd the whole volume, her WELLINGTON's name!

II. “ Hail, Star of my Isle !” said the Spirit, all sparkling

With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies“ Thro'ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,

I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. “ For tho' Heroes I've number'd, unblest was their lot, “And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame ;

« But oh! there is not

“ One dishonouring blot “On the wreath that encircles my WELLINGTON's name!


“ Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,

“The grandest, the purest, ev’n thou hast yet known; “Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,

Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. “ At the foot of that throne, for whose weal' thou has

stood, “Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame

And, bright o'er the flood

“Of her tears and her blood, “Let the rainbow of Hope be her WelLINGTON's name!"

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AIR.--Peas upon a Trencher.

The time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing

The light, that lies

In woman's eyes,
Has been my heart's undoing.
Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorn'd the lore she brought me,

My only books

Were Woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me.


Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,

Like him, the Sprite, *

Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me,

If once their ray

Was turn'd away,
0! winds could not outrun me.


And are those follies going ?
And is my proud heart growing

Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing ?
No-vain alas ! th' endeavour
From bonds so sweet to sever ;

Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever !

* This alludes to a kind of Irish Fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields, at dusk ;-as long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power;—but the moment you

look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady MORGAN (in a note upon her national and interesting Novel, O'Donnel) has given a very different account of that Goblin. .

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