While, far from the footstep of coward or slave,

The young spirit of freedom shall shelter their grave Beneath shamrocks of Erin and olives of Spain !

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms.

Air-My Lodging is on the cold Ground.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts, fading away,-

Thou wouldst still be ador'd as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will;

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still!

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofan'd by a tear,
That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear!
Oh! the heart, that has truly lov'd, never forgets,

But as truly loves on to the close;

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,

The same look which she turn'd when he rose !

Erin! oh Erin!

Air-Thamama Hulla.

Like the bright lamp that lay on Kildare's holy shrine, And burn'd through long ages of darkness and storm, Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain, Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm! Erin! oh Erin! thus bright, through the tears

Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears!

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,
Thy sun is but rising, when others are set :
And, tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin! oh Erin! though long in the shade,

Thy star will shine out, when the proudest shall fade!

Unchill'd by the rain, and unawaked by the wind,

The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour, Till the hand of spring her dark chain unbind,

And daylight and liberty bless the young flower. 21 Erin! oh Erin! thy winter is past,

And the hope, that lived thro' it, shall blossom at last!

Drink to her.

Air-Heigh ho! my Jackey.

Drink to her, who long

Hath wak'd the poet's sighThe girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy! Oh! woman's heart was made For minstrel hands alone; By other fingers play'd

It yields not half the tone. Then here's to her, who long Hath wak'd the poet's sighThe girl who gave to song What gold could never buy!

At Beauty's door of glass,

When Wealth and Wit once stood, They ask'd her, "Which might pass?" She answer'd, "He who could." With golden key Wealth thought To pass-but 'twould not do; While Wit a diamond brought,

Which cut his bright way through!

Then here's to her, who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh-

The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy !

!

The love that seeks a home
Where wealth or grandeur shines,
Is like the gloomy gnome,

That dwells in dark gold mines;
But oh! the poet's love

Can boast a brighter sphere;
Its native home's above,

Though woman keeps it here!
Then drink to her, who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh-
The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy!

22

Oh! blame not the bard.2

Air-Kitty Tyrrel.

Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers
Where pleasure lies carelessly smiling at fame;
He was born for much more, and, in happier hours,
His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame.
The string that now languishes loose o'er the lyre

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart ;23
And the lip which now breathes but the song of desire,

Might have pour'd the full tide of the patriot's heart!

But, alas for his country! her pride is gone by,
And that spirit is broken which never would bend :
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend ! Unpriz'd are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray; Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their

sires:

And the torch that would light them thro' dignity's way, Must be caught from the pile where their country

expires!

Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream, He should try to forget what he never can heal! Oh! give but a hope-let a vista but gleam

Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!

That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down Ev'ry passion it nurs'd, ev'ry bliss it ador'd;

While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown, Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.24

But, tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away,

Thy name, loved Erin! shall live in his songs; Not e'en in the hour when his heart is most gay, Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy

wrongs!

The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains; The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!