Avenging and bright. Air-Crooghan a Venee. 36 Avenging and bright falls the swift sword of Erin, For ev'ry fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade. By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling, 37 When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in By the billows of war which, so often, high swelling, Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore!— We swear to revenge them!-no joy shall be tasted, The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted, Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head! Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections, Tho' sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall; Tho'sweetare our friendships, our hopes and affections, Revenge on a tyrant the sweetest of all! What the bee is to the floweret. Air-The Yellow Horse. HE.-What the bee is to the floweret, Through the leaves that close embower it, SHE.-But, they say, the bee's a rover, That he'll fly, when sweets are gone; 'Tis but right, that bees and brooks Love and the novice. Air-Cean dubh Delish. "Here we dwell, in holiest bowers, "Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; "Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers "To heaven in mingled odour ascend! "Do not disturb our calm, oh Love! "So like is thy form to the cherubs above, "It well might deceive such hearts as ours." Love stood near the Novice, and listen'd, And Love is no novice in taking a hint; His laughing blue eyes soon with pity glisten'd; His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint. "Who would have thought," the urchin cries, "That Love could so well, so gravely disguise "His wandering wings, and wounding eyes?" Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, And angels themselves would admit such a guest, If he came to them, cloth'd in Piety's vest. This life is all checker'd. Air-The Bunch of Green Rushes that grew at the Brim. This life is all checker'd with pleasures and woes, That chase one another like waves of the deep; Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows, Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. So closely our whims or our miseries tread, That the laugh is awak'd ere the tear can be dried; And as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed, The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, Be ours the light grief that is sister to joy, And the short brilliant folly that flashes and dies! When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Thro' fields full of sunshine, with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. 39 Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted The fountain that runs by philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, And left their light urns all as empty as mine! But pledge me the goblet-while Idleness weaves Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see One bright drop or two, that has fall'n on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me! Oh! the Shamrock. Air-Alley Croker. Through Erin's isle, Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, As emeralds, seen Through purest crystal gleaming! Oh the shamrock, the green, immortal shamrock! Chosen leaf Of bard and chief, Old Erin's native shamrock! Says Valour," See, "They spring for me, "Those leafy gems of morning!" Says Love," No, no, "For me they grow, "My fragrant path adorning!' But Wit perceives The triple leaves, And cries, "Oh! do not sever "A type, that blends "Three godlike friends, "Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!" Oh the shamrock, the green, immortal shamrock! Chosen leaf Of bard and chief, Old Erin's native shamrock! |