Shoots

up,

with dew-drops streaming, As sostly green

As emeralds, seen Through purest crystal gleaming ! Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock ! !

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock !

II.
Says VALOUR,“ See,

“ They spring for me,
“ Those leafy gems of morning!"-

Says Love, “ No, no,

6. For me they grow,
“My fragrant path adorning!"-

But Wit perceives

The triple leaves,
And cries " Oh! do not sever

“A type that blends

in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this planı as a national emblem. "Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, “standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in her hand.”

“ Three god-like friends, “Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!” Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock !

III.
So, firmly fond

May last the bond
They wove that morn together,

And ne'er may fall

One drop of gall
On Wit's celestial feather!

May Love, as shoot

His flowers and fruit,
Of thorny falsehood weed 'em!

May Valour ne'er

His standard rear Against the cause of Freedom ! Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock !

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.

AIR.—Molly, my Dear.

1. At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life was warm in thine

eye, And I think that, if spirits can steal from the regions

of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me

there, And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!

II. Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear, When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on

1

the ear;

And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison

rolls, I think, oh, my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom

of souls,* Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

* “ There are countries,” says MONTAIGNE, "where they

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

AIR.—Moll Roe in the Morning.

I.
One bumper at parting!-though many

Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any

Remains to be crown’d by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure has in it,

Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute

It dies, do we know half its worth !
But fill-may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made

up;
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,

They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

II.
As onward we journey, how pleasant
To
pause

and inhabit a while

a

believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields; and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo.”

Those few sunny spots, like the present,

That 'mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,
Cries, “Onward!” and

spurs

the
gay

hours ; And never does Time travel faster,

Than when his way lies among flowers. But, come-may our life's happy measure

Be all of such moments made up; They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,

They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

III.
This evening, we saw the sun sinking

In waters his glory made bright-
Oh! trust me, our farewell of drinking

Should be like that farewell of light.
You saw how he finish’d, by darting

His beam o'er a deep billow's brim-
So, fill up!-let's shine at our parting,

In full liquid glory, like him.
And oh! may our life's happy measure

Of moments like this be made up;
'Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure,

It dies ’nnid the tears of the cup!