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sake and our own, of the interest which this purely

Chosen leaf Irish Work has excited, and so anxious lest a particle

Of bard and chief, of that interest should be lost by any ill-judged pro- Old Erin's native Shamrock! fraction of its existence, that we think it wiser to take away the cup from the lip, while its flavour is yet,

Says Valour, “See, we trust, fresh and sweet, than to risk any longer

They spring for me, trial of the charm, or give so much as not to leave Those leafy gems of morning !". some wish for more. In speaking thus I allude en

Says Love, “No, no, tirely to the Airs, which are, of course, the main at

For me they grow, traction of these volumes; and, though we have still My fragrant path adorning!" many popular and delightful Melodies to produce,

But Wit perceives yet it cannot be denied that we should soon expe

The triple leaves, rience some difficulty in equalling the richness and And cries, “Oh! do not sever novelty of the earlier Numbers, for which, as we had

A type that blends the choice of all before us, we naturally selected only

Three god-like friends, the most rare and beautiful. The Poetry, too, would Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!” be sure to sympathize with the decline of the Music, Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock i and, however feebly my words have kept pace with

Chosen leaf the excellence of the Airs, they would follow their

Of bard and chief, falling off, I fear, with wonderful alacrity. So that, Old Erin's native Shamrock! altogether, both pride and prudence counsel us to stop, while the Work is yet, we believe, flourishing

So, firmly fond and attractive, and, in the imperial attitude, “stantes

May last the bond mori,” before we incur the charge either of altering They wove that morn together, for the worse, or, what is equally unpardonable, con

And ne'er may fall tinuing too long the same.

One drop of gall We beg, however, to say, it is only in the event of On Wit's celestial feather! our failing to find Airs as exquisite as most of those

May Love, as shoot we have given, that we mean thus to anticipate the

His flowers and fruit, natural period of dissolution, like those Indians who Of thorny falsehood weed 'em! put their relatives to death when they become feeble.

May Valour ne'er
T. M.

His standard rear
Mayfield Cottage, Ashbourne,

Against the cause of Freedom !
December, 1813.

Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of bard and chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock!
OH, THE SHAMROCK!

Air-Alley Croker.
Through Erin's Isle,
To sport awhile,

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.
As Love and Valour wander'd,

AIR—Molly, my Dear.
With Wit, the sprite,

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
Whose quiver bright

To the lone vale we loved when life was warm in
A thousand arrows squander'd;
Where'er they pass,

And I think that if spirits can steal from the regions
A triple grass?

of air Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,

To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to As softly green

me there, As emeralds, seen

And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky! Through purest crystal gleaming! Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock, Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear,

When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on 1 Among these is Savourna Deelish, which I have hitherto only withheld, from the diffidence I feel in treading And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad ori upon the same ground with Mr. Campbell, whose beautiful

son rolls, words to this fine air have taken too strong possession of all ears and hearts, for me to think of producing any impression

I think, oh, my love ! 't is thy voice from the kingafter him. I suppose, however, I must attempt it for the

dom of souls,' next Number.

Faintly answering still the notes that once were so 2 Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil, in Ireland called the Shamrock, in explaining

dear. the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, 1 “There are countries,” says Montaigne, " where they was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, "standing believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in her in delightful fields; and that it is those souls, repeating the

thine eye,

the ear,

words we utter, which we call Echo."

hand.”

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

AIR-Moll Roe in the Morning. ONE bumper at parting!-though many Have circled the board since we met, The fullest, the saddest of any

Remains to be crown'd by us yet. The sweetness that pleasure has in it Is always so slow to come forth, That seldom, alas, till the minute

It dies, do we know half its worth! But fill-may our life's happy measure

Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of pleasure,
They die 'midst the tears of the cup.
As onward we journey, how pleasant
To pause and inhabit awhile

Those few sunny spots, like the present,
That 'mid the dull wilderness smile!

But Time, like a pitiless master,

Cries, "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours; And never does Time travel faster

Than when his way lies among flowers.
But, come-may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of pleasure,
They die 'midst the tears of the cup.
This evening we saw the sun sinking
In waters his glory made bright-
Oh! trust me, our farewell of drinking
Should be like that farewell of light.
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;
'T was born on the bosom of pleasure,
It dies 'mid the tears of the cup!

T IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. AIR-Groves of Blarney.

'Tis the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,

And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away!

When true hearts lie wither'd,

And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

THE YOUNG MAY-MOON.
AIR-The Dandy O!

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!

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

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,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under!
The harp he loved 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!"

THE SONG OF O'RUARK, PRINCE OF

BREFFNI.2

AIR-The pretty Girl milking her Cow.
THE Valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind;

1 "Steals silently to Morna's grove."

See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's collec tion, 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.

2 These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland, if, as we are told by our

1

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!
I flew to her chamber-'t was lonely
As if the loved 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 waked 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, through a million of foemen,

Who dared but to doubt thee in thought!
While now-oh, degenerate daughter

Of ERIN-how fall'n is thy fame!
And, through ages of bondage and slaughter,
Our country shall bleed for thy shame.

Already the curse is upon her,

And strangers her vallies 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.

OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE
OF OUR OWN.
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!

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 Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad filed 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 mischiefs in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy."

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, We should love, as they loved 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!

FAREWELL!-BUT, WHENEVER YOU
WELCOME THE HOUR.

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 welcomed 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 lingering 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 bless'd, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmur'd, "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 used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd!
Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd-
You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

OH! DOUBT ME NOT.
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 awaked by Love
Although 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 awaked by Love.
And though 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 through many a garden roves,

Far better lights shall win me And hums his lay of courtship o'er,

Along the path I've yet to roam,— But, when he finds the flower he loves,

The mind that burns within me, He settles there, and hums no more.

And pure smiles from thee at home.
Then doubt me not-the season

Thus, when the lamp that lighted
Is o'er when Folly kept me free,

The traveller, at first goes out,
And now the vestal Reason

He feels awhile benighted,
Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.

And looks around, in fear and doubt.
But

soon, the prospect clearing,

By cloudless star-light on he treads,
YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.'

And thinks no lamp so cheering
AIR-Were I a Clerk.

As that light which Heaven sheds !
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.

No. VI.
Together they toil'd through winds and rains,

Till William at length, in sadness, said, “We must seek our fortune on other plains ;"

In presenting this Sixth Number as our last, and Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.

bidding adieu to the Irish Harp for ever, we shall not

answer very confidently for the strength of our resoThey roam'd a long and a weary way,

lution, nor feel quite sure that it may not prove, after Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease,

all, to be only one of those eternal farewells which a When now, at close of one stormy day,

lover takes of his inistress occasionally. Our only They see a proud castle among the trees. motive indeed for discontinuing the Work was a fear “To-night,” said the youth, “ we'll shelter there; that our treasures were beginning to be exhausted, The wind blows cold, the hour is late:"

and an unwillingness to descend to the gathering of So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air,

mere seed-pearl, after the very valuable gems it has And the porter bow'd as they pass'd the gate. been our lot to string together. But this intention,

which we announced in our Fifth Number, has ex“Now, welcome, Lady !” exclaim'd the youth," This castle is thine, and these dark woods all.” pleasant and flattering, but highly useful to us; for

cited an anxiety in the lovers of Irish Music, not only She believed him wild, but his words were truth,

the various contributions we have received in conFor Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall!

sequence have enriched our collection with so many And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves

choice and beautiful Airs, that, if we keep to our reWhat William the stranger woo'd and wed;

solution of publishing no more, it will certainly be an And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,

instance of forbearance and self-command unexamIs pure as it shone in the lowly shed.

pled in the history of poets and musicians.
Mayfield, Ashbourne,

T. M.

March, 1815.
I'D MOURN THE HOPES.

AIR-The Rose Tree.
I'd mourn the hopes that leave me,

COME O’ER THE SEA.
If thy smiles had left me too ;

AIR-Cuishlih ma Chree.
I'd weep when friends deceive me,

COME o'er the sea,
If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But, while I've thee before me,

Maiden! with me,
With heart so warm and eyes so bright,

Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows! No clouds can linger o'er me,

Seasons may roll,
That smile turns them all to light!

But the true soul

Burns the same, where'er it goes. 'T is not in fate to harm me,

Let fate frown on, so we love and part not ;
While fate leaves thy love to me;

'Tis life where thou art, 't is death where thou art not. 'T is not in joy to charm me,

Then, come o'er the sea,
Unless joy be shared with thee.

Maiden! with me,
One minute's dream about thee

Come wherever the wild wind blow;
Were worth a long, an endless year

Seasons may roll,
Of waking bliss without thee,

But the true soul
My own love, my only dear!

Burns the same, where'er it goes
And, though the hope be gone, love,

Is not the sea
That long sparkled o'er our way,

Made for the free,
Oh! we shall journey on, love,

Land for courts and chains alone ?
More safely without its ray.

Here we are slaves, 1 This Ballad was suggested by a well-known and inte

But, on the waves, resting story, told of a certain noble family in England. 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 through sunshine, storm, and snows!

Seasons may roll,

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

Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken

To such benign, bless'd sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort ! 't was like the stealing

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

Of all my soul echoed to its spell ! 'T was whisper'd balm-'t was sunshine spoken!

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

By such benign, bless'd sounds again!

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.

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, though false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.

But go, deceiver! go,

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

Deserves that thou shouldst break it!

1

HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS

SHADED?

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?TI child of misfortune! come her,

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 shineBut, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allured 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,

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

Has Hope been that bird to thee?
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;
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.

2

When every tongue thy follies named,

I fled the unwelcome story;
Or found, in even the faults they blamed,

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

Conspired 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, though youth its bloom has shed,

No lights of age adorn thee;
The few who loved thee once have fled,

And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,

No genial ties enwreathe it;
The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank, cold hearts beneath it!
Go-go—though 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 received thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believed thee.
Go-go—'t is vain to curse,

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

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.

Air-Luggelaw.
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,Than came that voice, when, all forsaken,

This heart long had sleeping lain,

1 Our Wicklow Gold-Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, the character here given of them.

2" 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,” etc.-Arabian Nights, Story of Kummir al Zummaun and the Princess of China.

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