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IF I had consulted only my own judgment, this Work would not have extended beyond the Six Numbers already published; which contain, perhaps, the flower of our National Melodies, and have attained a rank in public favour, of which I would not willingly risk the forfeiture, by degenerating, in any way, from those merits that were its source. Whatever treasures of our music were still in reserve, (and it will be seen, I trust, that they are numerous and valuable,) I would gladly have left to future poets to glean, and, with the ritual words “ tibi trado," would have delivered up the torch into other hands, before it had lost much of its light in my own. But the call for a continuance of the work has been, as I understand from the Publisher, so general, and we have received so many contributions of old and beautiful airs, * the suppression of which, for the enhancement of those we have published, would resemble too much the policy of the Dutch in burning their spices, that I have been persuaded, though not without considerable diffidence in my success, to commence a new series of the Irish Melodies.

T. M. * One Gentleman, in particular, whose name I shall feel happy in being allowed to mention, has not only sent us nearly forty ancient airs, but has communicated many curious fragments of Irish poetry, and some interesting traditions, current in the country where he resides, illustrated by sketches of the romantic scenery to which they refer; all of which, though too late for the present Number, will be of infinite service to us in the prosecution of our task.


No. VII.


AIR.- The Coina, or Dirge.


My gentle Harp ! once more I waken

The swe less of thy slumb'ring strain; In tears our last farewell was taken,

And now in tears we meet again. No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,

But-like those harps, whose heavenly skill Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spokenThou hang'st upon the willows still.


And yet, since last thy chord resounded,

An hour of peace and triumph came, And many an ardent bosom bounded

With hopes—that now are turn’d to shame. Yet even then, while Peace was singing

Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Though joy and hope to others bringing,
She only brought new tears to thee.

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,

My drooping Harp, from chords like thine? Alas, the lark's gay morning measure

As ill would suit the swan's decline ! Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,

Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains, When even the wreaths in which I dress thee,

Arc sadly mix'd-half flowers, half chains !

But come,- if yet thy frame can borrow

One breath of joy-oh, breathe for me,
And show the world, in chains and sorrow,

How sweet thy music still can be; How gaily even’mid gloom surrounding,

Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrillLike Memnon's broken image, sounding,

'Mid desolation tuneful still ! *

AIR.--The Girl I left behind me.

As slow our ship her foamy track

Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still look'd back

To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loath we part from all we love,

From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, where'er we rove,

To those we've left behind us !


When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years

We talk with joyous seeming,—
With smiles, that might as well be tears,

So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again

Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then

To those we've left behind us !


And when, in other climes, we meet

Some isle, or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild and sweet,

And nought but love is wanting; * Dimidio magicæ resonant ubi Memnone chordæ, Atque vetus Thebe centum jacet obruta portis.


We think how great had been our bliss,

If Heaven had but assign'd us
To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us !

As trav'llers oft look back, at eve,

When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave

Still faint behind them glowing -
So, when the close of pleasure's day

To gloom hath near consign'd us,
We turn to catch one fading ray

Of joy that's left behind us.


AIR.-The little Harvest Rose.

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,

And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin,
When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own,

And the light that surrounds us is all from within ; Oh it is not, believe me, in that happy time

We can love, as in hours of less transport we may ;-
Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime,
But affection is warmest when these fade away.

When we see the first glory of youth pass us by,

Like a leaf on the stream that will never return;
When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high,

First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn;
Then, then is the moment affection can sway

With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew ;
Love, nurs’d among pleasures, is faithless as they,
But the Love, born of Sorrow, like Sorrow is true.

In climes full of sunshine, though splendid their dyes,

Yet faint is the odour the flow'rs shed about ;
'Tis the clouds and the mists of our own weeping skies

That call the full spirit of fragrancy out.

So the wild glow of passion may kindle from mirth,

But 'tis only in grief true affection appears ; And ev’n tho' to smiles it may first owe its birth,

All the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears

AIR.-Limerick's Lamentation.

When cold in the earth lies the friend thon hast loved,

Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then; Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed,

Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again. And oh! if'tis pain to remember how far

From the path-ways of light he was tempted to roam, Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star

That arose on his darkness, and guided him home.


From thee and thy innocent beauty first came

The revealings, that taught him true Love to adore, To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame

From the idols he blindly had knelt to before.
O’er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild,

Thou camest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea ;
And, if happiness purely and glowingly smiled
On his evening horizon, the light was from thee.

And tho', sometimes, the shade of past folly would rise,

And though falsehood again would allure him to stray, He but turn'd to the glory that dwelt in those eyes,

And the folly, the falsehood, soon vanish'd away.
As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim,

At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair,
So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him,

He but flew to that smile, and rekindled it there,

AIR,Castle Tirowen,

REMEMBER thee! yes, while there's life in this heart,
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art,


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