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The next sun's ray
Soon melted away Every trace on the path where the false Lord came;
But there's a light above,
Which alone can remove
Let Erin remember the days of old,
Ere her faithless sons betray'd her; When Malachi wore the collar of gold, *
Which he won from her proud invader; When her kings, with standard of green unfurld,
Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger ;-+
* “ This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered successively hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory."-WARNER's History of Ireland, vol. i. book
9. +“ Military orders of knighals were very early established in
Ere the emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger.“
On Lough Neaga's bank as the fisherman strays,*
When the clear, cold eve's declining,
In the wave beneath him shining !
Catch a glimpse of the days that are over ; Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time
For the long faded glories they cover!
Ireland. Long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe na Craoibhe ruadh, or the knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagh na Craoibhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bron-bhearg, or the house of the sorrowful soldier.”-O'Halloran's Introduction, etc. part i. chap. 5.
* It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water Piscatores aquæ illius turres ecclesiasticas, quæ more patriæ arctæ sunt et altæ, necnon et rotundè, sub undis manifeste, sereno tempore conspiciunt et extraneis transeuntibus, reique causas admirantibus, frequenter ostendunt.—Topogr. Hib. Dist. 2. c. 9.
THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.*
SILENT, oh Morle! be the roar of thy water,
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. When shall the swan, her death-note singing,
Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd ? When will Heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?
Sadly, oh MOYLE! to thy winter wave weeping,
Fate bids me languish long ages away ; * To make this story intelligible in a song, would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorised to inflict
upon an audience at once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed into a Swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her release. -I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira,
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,
Still doth the pure light its dawning delay! When will that day-star, mildly springing,
Warm our isle with peace and love? When will Heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit to the fields above?
COME SEND ROUND THE WINE.
AIR.—We brought the Summer with us.
Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief
To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools ; This moment's a flower too fair and brief,
To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple and mine may be blue,
But, while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl, The fool who would quarrel for difference of hue
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,
If he kneel not before the same altar with me? From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly,
To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss ? No! perish the hearts, and the laws that try
Truth, valour, or love by a standard like this!
STBLDIE WAS THE WARNING.
AIR.— The Black Joke.
1. SUBLIME was the warning which Liberty spoke, And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke
Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain ! Oh, Liberty! let not this spirit have rest, Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the westGive the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, Nor, oh! be the Shamrock of Erin forgot,
While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain!
II. If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd with their rights, Give to country its charm, and to home its delights,