"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 that proud soul under;
The harp he lov'd 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.43
Air-The Pretty Girl milking her Cow.
The valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind;
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-'twas lonely
As if the lov'd 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 wak'd it so often,'
Now throbb'd to my 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 dar'd 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,
Thy country shall bleed for thy shame.
Already the curse is upon her,
And strangers her valleys profane ;
They come to divide-to dishonour-
And tyrants they long will remain !
But onward!--the green banner rearing,
Go, flesh ev'ry 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.
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 thro' 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 joys that life elsewhere can give!.
There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,
We should love as they lov'd 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.
Farewell!-but, whenever you welcome the hour,
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bow'r,
Then think of the friend who once welcom❜d 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 blest, 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 us'd 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!
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 awak'd 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 awak'd by love.
And though my lute no longer,
May sing of passion's ardent spell, Oh! trust me, all the stronger
I feel the bliss I do not tell. The bee through many a garden roves, And hums his lay of courtship o'er, But when he finds the flower he loves, He settles there and hums no more.
Then doubt me not-the season.
Is o'er, when folly kept me free, And now the vestal, reason,
Shall guard the flame awak'd by thee.
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