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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 Breffne'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 fallin 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,

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,

Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return—not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brighten' his path-way of pain-
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you!


And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o’er with your smiles !
Too bless'd, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice bad murmur'd, “I wish he were here!"

III. Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy ; Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd! Like the vase, in which roses have once been distillidYou may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

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Oh! doubt me not the season

Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,
And now the yestal Reason

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love. Although this heart was early blown,

And fairest bands disturb'd the tree,
They only shook some blossoms down,
Its fruit has all been kept for thee.
Then doubt me doubt-the season

Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal Reason

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.


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And though my lute no longer

May sing of Passion's ardent spell,
Yet, trust me, all the stronger

I feel the bliss I do not tell.

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