That star of the field, which so often has pour'd
Its beam on the battle, is set ;

But enough of its glory remains on each sword
To light us to victory yet!

Mononia; when nature embellish'd the tint
Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
The footstep of Slavery there?

No, Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,

That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine
Than to sleep but a moment in chains!

Forget not our wounded companions, who stood4
In the day of distress by our side;

While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,
They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died!

The sun, that now blesses our arms with his light,
Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain :-

Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night,
To find that they fell there in vain!

Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes.

Air-Aileen Aroon.

Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in the skies;

Shining through sorrow's stream,
Sadd'ning through pleasure's beam,
Thy sons, with doubtful gleam,
Weep while they rise!

Erin! thy silent tear never shall cease,

Erin! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,
Till, like the rainbow's light,

Thy various tints unite,

And form, in Heaven's sight,

One arch of peace!

Oh! breathe not his name.

Air-The Brown Maid.

Oh! breathe not his name-let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid!
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head!

But the night-dew that falls, tho' in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps, And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

When he who adores thee.

Air-The Fox's Sleep.

When he who adores thee has left but the name5

Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

Oh say! wilt thou weep when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resign'd?

Yes, weep! and, however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee!

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love,
Every thought of my reason was thine :-
In my last humble pray'r to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!

Oh! bless'd are the lovers and friends who shall live,
The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give, Is the pride of thus dying for thee!

The harp that once through Tara's Halls.

Air-Gramachree.

The harp that once, through Tara's halls,

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul were fled :-

So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er ;

And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;

The chord, alone, that breaks the night,

Its tale of ruin tells :

:

Thus freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives!

Fly not yet.

Air-Planxty Kelly.

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flow'r,
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon!

"Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing!

Oh! stay,-oh! stay,-
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that, oh! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet; the fount that play'd,
In times of old, through Ammon's shade,6
Though icy cold by day it ran,

Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

To burn when night was near;

And thus should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter-brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay,-oh! stay,-

When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here!

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light.

Air-John O'Reilly the Active.

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light,

And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow: No, life is a waste of wearisome hours,

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns :