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AIR. The Moreen.


The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death.you'll find him, His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.“ Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,

“ Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

" One faithful harp shall praise thee!”

C h



The Minstrel fell !--but the eman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under ;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder ;
And said “ No chains shall sully thee,

" Thou soul of love and bravery!
" Thy songs were made for the pure and free,

“ They shall never sound in slavery!"



AIR.The pretty Girl milking her Cow.


The valley lay smiling before me,

Where lately I left her behind;

* These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland, if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances as related by O'Halloran. “ The King of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the King of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O’Ruark, Prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad tov punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns.”—Themonarch Roderic espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.

“Such,” adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation), “is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy."


Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,

That sadden'd the joy of my mind.
I look'd for the lamp, which she told me

Should shine when her Pilgrim return'd,
But, though darkness began to infold me,

No lamp from the battlements burn'd!


I flew to her chamber-'twas lonely

As if the loved tenant lay dead!-
Ah! would it were death, and death only!

But no--the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute, that could soften

My very worst pains into bliss,
While the hand that had waked it so often

Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.


There was a time, falsest of women!

When BREFFNI's good sword would have sought That man, through a million of foemen,

Who dared but to doubt thee in thought! While now-oh, degenerate daughter

Of Erin !-how fall’n is thy fame!

And, through ages of bondage and slaughter,

Our country shall bleed for thy shame.

IV. Already the curse is upon her,

And strangers her valleys profane ;
They come to divide-to dishonour,

And tyrants they long will remain !
But, onward the green banner rearing,

Go, flesh every sword to the hilt;
On our side is VIRTUE and ERIN !

On theirs is The Saxon and Guilt.



AIR.-Sheela na Guira.

1. Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own, In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming bowers, And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers;

Where the sun loves to pause

With so fond a delay,

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That the night only draws

A thin veil o'er the day;
Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live,
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give !

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,
We should love, as they loved in the first golden time;
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there!

With affection, as free

From decline as the bowers,
And with Hope, like the bee,

Living always on flowers,
Our life should resemble a long day of light,
And our death come on, holy and calm as the night!



AIR. --Moll Roone.

I. FAREWELL!—but, whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,

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