O'Donohue's mistress.

Air-The little and great mountain.

Of all the fair months, that round the sun
In light-link'd dance their circles run,

Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the smooth lakes where daylight leaves His lingering smile on golden eves,

Fair lake, fair lake, thou'rt dear to me; For when the last April sun grows dim,

Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him

Who dwells, who dwells, bright lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds that ever bore
Young plum'd chiefs on sea or shore,

White steed, white steed, most joy to thee, Who still with the first young glance of spring From under that glorious lake dost bring,

Proud steed, proud steed, my love to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls
When newly launch'd, thy long mane curls,

Fair steed, fair steed, as white and free;
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,
Fair steed, around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,

Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be, Which under the next May evening's light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, Dear love, dear love, I'll die for thee.

Echo.

Air-The Wren.

How sweet the answer echo makes
To music at night,

When roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.

Yet love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,

Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star,

Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,
The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh in youth sincere,

And only then,——

The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear,

Is by that one, that only dear,

Breath'd back again'

Oh, banquet not.

Air-Planxty Irwine.

Oh banquet not in those shining bowers,
Where youth resorts-but come to me,
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,
More fit for sorrow, for age and thee.
And there we shall have our feasts of tears,
And many a cup of silence pour-
Our guests, the shade of former years,
Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs Their lifeless leaves around us shed,

We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,

To friends long lost, the chang'd, the dead. Or, as some blighted laurel waves Its branches o'er the dreary spot, We'll drink to those neglected graves, Where valour sleeps, unnam'd, forgot!

Thee, thee, only thee.

Air-Staca an Mharaga.-(The Market-stake.)

The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking, The night's long hours still find me thinking Of thee, thee, only thee.

When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,

And smiles are near, that once enchanted, Unreach'd by all that sunshine round, My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could waken My spirit once, is now forsaken

For thee, thee, only thee.

Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries-resting never—
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet, when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.

Like spells, that nought on earth can break,

Till lips, that know the charm have spoken, This heart, howe'er the world may wake Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken By thee, thee, only thee.

Shall the harp then be silent?

Air-M'Farlane's lamentation.

Shall the harp then be silent when he, who first gave To our country a name, is withdrawn from our eyes? Shall a minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave, Where the first, where the last of her patriots lies?

No-faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips, Though his harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost,

Yet, yet it shall sound, mid a nation's eclipse,

And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost!

What a union of all the affections and powers,
By which life is exalted, embellish'd, refin'd,
Was embrac'd in that spirit-whose centre was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

Oh, who that loves Erin-or who that can see,
Thro' the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime—
Like a pyramid, rais'd in the desert-where he
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time!

That one lucid interval, snatched from the gloom And the madness of ages, when, fill'd with his soul, A nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom, And for one sacred instant, touch'd liberty's goal!