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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!”
The Minstrel fell !--but the eman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under ;
For he tore its chords asunder ;
" Thou soul of love and bravery!
“ They shall never sound in slavery!"
THE SONG OF O'RUARK, PRINCE OF
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.
Should shine when her Pilgrim return'd,
No lamp from the battlements burn'd!
I flew to her chamber-'twas lonely
As if the loved tenant lay dead!-
But no--the young false one had fled.
My very worst pains into bliss,
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 ;
And tyrants they long will remain !
Go, flesh every sword to the hilt;
On theirs is The Saxon and Guilt.
OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE
OF OUR OWN!
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,
That the night only draws
A thin veil o'er the day;
With affection, as free
From decline as the bowers,
Living always on flowers,
FAREWELL!—BUT, WHENEVER YOU WELCOME
AIR. --Moll Roone.
I. FAREWELL!—but, whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,