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WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.

AIR.—O Patrick ! fly from me.

I.
When first I met thee, warm and young,

There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,

I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw thee change, yet still relied,

Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.

But go, deceiver! go,

The heart, whose hopes could make it Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou shouldst break it!

II.
When every tongue thy follies named,

I fled th' unwelcome story;
Or found, in even the faults they blamed,

Some gleams of future glory.
I still was true, when nearer friends

Conspired to wrong, to slight thee ;

The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee.

But go, deceiver! go,

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream, to know

The grief of hearts forsaken.

III.
Even now, though youth its bloom has shed,

No lights of age adorn thee;
The few who loved thee once have fled,

And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,

No genial ties enwreathe it;
The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank, cold hearts beneath it!

Go-go-though worlds were thine,

I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendour !

IV.
And days may come, thou false one! yet,

When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,

On her thou'st lost for ever!

On her who, in thy fortune's fall,

With smiles bad still received thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believed thee.

Go-go-o'tis vain to curse,

'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.

AIR.—Paddy Whack.

I.
While History's Muse the memorial was keeping

Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of ERIN stood weeping,

For her's was the story that blotted the leaves. But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole

pages

of sorrow and shame, She saw History write,

With a pencil of light That illumed all the volume, her WELLINGTON's name!

II.

“ Hail, Star of my Isle!” said the Spirit, all sparkling

With beams, such as break from her own dewy

skies ;

66

Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,

“ I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. “ For, though Heroes I've number’d, unbless'd was

their lot, “ And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame ;

" But, oh! there is not

“ One dishonouring blot " On the wreath that encircles my WELLINGTON'S

name!

III.
“ Yet, still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,

“ The grandest, the purest even thou hast yet known;
Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,

“ Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. " At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast

stood, “Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame

“ And, bright o'er the flood

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“ Of her tears and her blood, “Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's

name!'

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

AIR.—Peas upon a Trencher.

1.
The time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing

The light that lies
In Woman's

eyes,
Has been my heart's undoing. .
Though Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorn'd the lore she brought me,

My only books

Were Woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me.

II.
Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,

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