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AIR.-Open the Door.


She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her, sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying!

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking.-
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,

They were all that to life had entwined him,
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow ;
They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the West,

From her own loved Island of Sorrow!


AIR.-Dennis, don't be threatening.

1. NAY, tell me not, dear! that the goblet drowns

One charm of feeling, one fond regret; Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Are all I've sunk in its bright waye yet.

Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream
That ever was shed from thy form or soul;

The balm of thy sighs,

The light of thine eyes, Still float on the surface and hallow my bowl! Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me! Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee!

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower

Had two blush-roses, of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,

But bathed the other with mantling wine.

Soon did the buds,

That drank of the floods
Distill’d by the rainbow, decline and fade;

While those which the tide

Of ruby had dyed All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid ! Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me ; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.


AFR.-Crooghan a Venee.

I. Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of ERIN*

On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd !

* The words of this song were suggested by the very

ancient Irish story, called “Deirdri, or the lamentable fate of the sons of Usnach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr. O'FLANAGAN (see vol. 1. of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin), and upon which it appears that the “Darthula” of Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which

For every


he hath waken'd a tear in, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er ler


II. By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,"

When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in gore-+ 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;

terminated in the destruction of Eman. “ This story (says Mr. O’FLANAGAN) has been from time immemorial held in bigh repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are,

The death of the children of Touran;' The death of the children of Lear' (both regarding Tuatha de Danans); and this, “The death of the children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story.”-It will be recollected, that in the Second Number of these Melodies there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir: “Silent, oh Moyle!”


Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to anliquity, which Mr. O'FLANAGAN and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement which they merit.

*“Oh Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red.” -Deirdri's Song.

+ Ulster.

Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted,

Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head !

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Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollections,

Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall;
Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affec-

Revenge' on a tyrant is sweetest of all !

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He.—What the bee is to the floweret,

When he looks for honey-dew
Through the leaves that close embower it,

That, my love, I'll be to you !
She.-What the bank, with verdure glowing,

Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,

That I'll be to you, my dear!

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