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AIR.—Nora Creina.


1. Lesbia hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth ; Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they, aim at no one dreameth! Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

My Nora's lid, that seldom rises;
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises !

Oh, my Nora CREINA, dear!
My gentle, bashful NORA CREINA !

Beauty lies

many eyes,
But love in yours, my Nora Creina !

II. LESBIA wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of Beauty's mould Presumes to stay where Nature placed it!


Ob! my

for me,

Nora's gown
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving every beauty free
To sink or swell, as Heaven pleases !

Yes, my Nora Creina, dear!
My simple, graceful Nora Creina!

Nature's dress

Is loveliness-
The dress you wear, my NORA CREINA!


III. Lesbia hath a wit refined,

But, when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're design'd

To dazzle merely or to wound us ? Pillow'd on my Nora's heart,

In safer slumber Love reposes.
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear!
My mild, my artless Nora Creina !

Wit, though bright,

Hath not the light
That warms your eyes, my Nora Creina!

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I saw thy form in youthful prime,

Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of time,

And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light

Which fleets not with the breath ; And life ne'er look'd more truly bright

Than in thy smile of death, Mary!


As streams that run o'er golden mines,

Yet humbly, calmly glide,
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines

Within their gentle tide, Mary!
So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise,

Thy radiant genius shone,
And that which charm’d all other eyes

Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,

Thou ne'er hadst lest that sphere;
Or, could we keep the souls we love,

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,

Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet

Than to remember thee, MARY! *


AIR.—The Brown Irish Girl.

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er, S


* I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of Shenstone's, “ Heu! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse !"

+ This Ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the County of Wicklow. There are many other curious traditions conce

ncerning this Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc.

Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
6. Here at least,” he calmly said,
" Woman ne'er shall find


bed.” Ah! the good saint little knew What that wily sex can do.


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'Twas from KATHLEEN'S


he flew Eyes of most unholy blue ! She had loved him well and long, Wish'd him her's, nor thought it wrong. Wheresoe'er the saint would fly, Still he heard her light foot nigh; East or west, where'er he turn'd, Still her


before him burn'd.


On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of Heaven, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth, nor Heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be :


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