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AIR.— Yellow Wat and the Fox.

Oh! doubt me not the season

Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal, Reason,

Shall watch the fire awak'd by love.
Altho' this heart was early blown,

And fairest hands disturb'd the tree,
They only shook some blossoms down,
Its fruit has all been kept for thee.
Then doubt me not the season

Is o'er, when folly made me rove,
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall watch the fire awak'd by Love.

And tho'my lute no longer

May sing of Passion's ardent spell,
Yet, trust me, all the stronger

I feel the bliss I do not tell.
The bee thro' many a garden roves,

And hums his lay of courtship o'er,
But when he finds the flower he loves,
He settles there, and hums no more.
Then doubt me not-the season

Is o'er when folly kept me free,
And now the vestal, Reason,

Shall guard the flame awak'd by thee.

AIR.-Were I a Clerk.

You remember ELLEN, our hamlet's pride,

How meekly she bless'd her humble lot,
When the stranger, WILLIAM, had made her his bride,

And love was the light of their lowly cot.
Together they toil'd through winds and rains,

Till WILLIAM at length, in sadness, said,
“We must seek our fortune on other plains ;'-

Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed. * This ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting story told of a certain noble family in England.

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They roam'd a long and a weary way,

Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease,
When now, at close of one stormy day,

They see a proud castle among the trees. “To-night,” said the youth, “we'll shelter there;

“ The wind blows cold, the hour is late :" So, he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, And the Porter bow'd, as they pass'd the gate.

Now, welcome, Lady!” exclaim'd the youth,

“ This castle is thine, and these dark woods all,” She believ'd him wild, but his words were truth,

For ELLEN is Lady of Rosna Hall ! And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves

What WILLIAM the stranger woo'd and wed; And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,

Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed.

AIR-The Rose Tree.

I'd mourn the hopes that leave me,

If thy smiles had left me too;
I'd weep, when friends deceive me,

If thou wert, like them, untrue,
But while I've thee before me,

With heart so warm and eyes so bright,
No clouds can linger o'er me,
That smile turns them all to light.

'Tis not in fate to harm me,

While fate leaves thy love to me;
'Tis not in joy to charm me,

Unless joy be shared with thee.
One minute's dream about thee

Were worth a long, an endless year
Of waking bliss without thee,

My own love, my only dear!

And, tho' the hope be gone, love,

That long sparkled o'er our way,
Oh! we shall journey on, love,

More safely, without its ray, Far better lights shall win me

Along the path I've yet to roam.-
The mind, that burns within me,
And pure smiles from thee at home.

Thus, when the lamp that lighted

The traveller, at first goes out,
He feels awhile benighted,

And looks round, in fear and doubt. But soon the prospect clearing,

By cloudless star-light on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering

As that light which Heaven sheds.


In presenting this Sixth Number to the Public as our last, and bidding adieu to the Irish Harp for ever, we shall not answer very confidently for the strength of our resolution, nor feel quite sure that it may not prove, after all, to be only one of those eternal farewells which a lover takes of his mistress oc'casionally. Our only motive, indeed, for discontinuing the Work, was a fear that our treasures were beginning to be exhausted, and an unwillingness to descend to the gathering of mere seed-pearl, after the very valuable gems it has been our lot to string together. But this intention, which we announced in our Fifth Number, has excited an anxiety in the lovers of Irish Music, not only pleasant and flattering, but highly useful to us; for the various contributions we have received in consequence, have enriched our collection with so many choice and beautiful Airs, that, if we keep to our resolution of publishing no more, it will certainly be an instance of forbearance and self-command, unexampled in the history of poets and musicians. To one gentleman in particular, who has been many years resident in England, but who has not forgot, among his various pursuits, either the language or the melodies of his native country, we beg to offer our best thanks for the many interesting communications with which he has favoured us; and we trust that he and our other friends will not relax in those efforts by which we have been so considerably assisted ; for, though the Work must now be considered as defunct, yet, as Reaumur, the naturalist, found out the art of making the cicada sing after it was dead—it is not impossible that, sometime or other, we may try a similar experiment upon the Irish Melodies.

T. M. Mayfield Ashbourne, March, 1815.

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No. VI.


AIR. -Cuishlih ma Chree,

COME o'er the sea,

Maiden! with me,
Mine thro'sunshine, storm,

and snows!
Seasons may roll,

But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes. Let fate frown on, so we love and part not, 'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not.

Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden! with me,
Come wherever the wild wind blows;

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Is not the Sea

Made for the Free,
Land for courts and chains alone ?

Here we are slaves,

But, on the waves,
Love and Liberty's all our own.
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us-

Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden! with me,
Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows !

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul
Burns the same, where'erit goes.

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