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AIR. - Sios agus sios liom,

WHERE is the slave so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,

Who, could he burst

His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly ?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decay'd it,

When thus its wing

At once may spring
To the throne of Him who made it ?
Farewell, ERIN !-farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouch'd, and blowing,

Than that, whose braid

Is pluck'd to shade
The brows with victory glowing !
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,

The friends we've tried

Are by our side,
And the foe we hate before us!
Farewell, ERIN ! farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall !

AIR.-Lough Sheeling.

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer!
Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last!

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro'glory and shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast call’d me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, –
Thro' the furnace, upshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too!

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AIR.--Savournah Deelish.

'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking,

Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking,

Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled!
'Tis gone and the gleams it has left of its burning
But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning,
That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,
And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee.

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting

Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world;
When truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,

Atonce, like a sun-burst, her banner unfurld.*
Oh, never shall earth see a moment so splendid !
Then, then-had one Hymn of Deliverance blended
The tongues of all nations-how sweet had ascended
The first note of Liberty, ERIN, from thee!

But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing!

And shame on the light race, unworthy its good,
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing

The young hope of Freedom, baptized it in blood !
Then vanish'd for ever that fair, sunny vision,
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright and elysian,

As first it arose, my lost ERIN, on thee. * « The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the Royal Banner.


AIR.-- Miss Molly.

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,

A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;
I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone!

Ah ! such is the fate of our life's early promise,

So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known ; Each wave, that we danc'd on at morning, ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning

The close of our day, the calm eve of our night ;-
Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning,
Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,

When passion first wak'd a new life thro' his frame,
And his soul - like the wood, that grows precious in burning-

Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame!


AIR.-Bob and Joan.


FILL the bumper fair !

Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.
Wit's electric flame

Ne'er so swiftly passes,
As when thro' the frame

It shoots from brimming glasses.
Fill the bumper fair !

Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.


Sages can, they say,

Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray

From the starr'd dominions :So we, Sages, sit,

And, 'mid bumpers brightning, From the Heaven of Wit Draw down all its lightning!


Wouldst thou know what first

Made our souls inherit This ennobling thirst

For wine's celestial spirit? It chanc'd upon that day,

When, as bards inform us, PROMETHEUS stole away The living fires that warm us :


The careless Youth, when up

To Glory's fount aspiring, Took nor urn nor cup,

To hide the pilfer'd fire in.
But oh his joy! when, round

The halls of Heaven spying,
Amongst the stars he found
A bowl of BACCHUS lying.


Some drops were in that bowl,

Remains of last night's pleasure With which the Sparks of Soul

Mix'd their burning treasure. Hence the goblet's shower

Hath such spells to win us— Hence its mighty power

O'er that Flame within us. Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

AIR, New Langolee.

DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,

The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, * When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,

And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song ! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness

Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
That ev’n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my Country, farewell to thy numbers,

This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!
Go, sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,

Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; I was but on the wind, passing heedlessly over,

And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own. * In that rebellious but beautiful Song, “When Erin first rose,”

;" there is, if I recollect right, the following line :“ The dark chain of Silence was thrown o'er the deep !”

The Chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almhaim, where the attending Bards, anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the chain of Silence, and fung themselves among the ranks.” See also the Ode to Gaul, the Son of Morni, in Miss BROOKE's Reliques of Irish Poetry

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