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IRISH MELODIES.

WWWM

No. VIII.

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

Arr.—My Husband's a Journey to Portugal gone.

I.

Ne’ER ask the hours-what is it to us

How Time deals out his treasures? The golden moments, lent us thus,

Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. If counting them over could add to their blisses,

I'd number each glorious second; But moments of joy are,

like LESBIA's kisses, Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd.

Then fill the cup-what is it to us

How Time his circle measures? The fairy hours we call up

thus Obey no wand but Pleasure's!

II.
Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,

Till Care, one summer's morning,
Set up among his smiling flowers

A dial, by way of warning:
But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,

As long as its light was glowing,
Than to watch with old Care how the shadow

stole on,

And how fast that light was going. So fill the cup-what is it to us

How Time his circle measures? The fairy hours we call up thus

Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

AIR.--The Humming of the Ban.

I.

Sail on,

sail
on,

thou fearless bark Wherever blows the welcome wind, It cannot lead to scenes more dark,

More sad than those we leave behind. Each wave that passes seems to say,

+ Though death beneath our smile may be, “Less cold we are, less false than they

“Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee."

II.

Sail on, sail on-through endless space

Through calm-through tempest-stop no more ; The stormiest sea's a resting-place

To him who leaves such hearts on shore. Or--if some desert land we meet,

Where never yet false-hearted men Profaned a world, that else were sweetThen rest thee bark, but not till then.

THE PARALLEL.

AIR.--1 would rather than Ireland.

I.

Yes, sad one of Sion*-if closely resembling,

In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up heart-
If drinking deep, deep, of the same cup of trembling
Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.

II.
Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken,

And fallen frona her head is the once royal crown; In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken,

And “while it is day yet, her sun hath gone

down.

III. Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning,

Die far from the home it were life to behold;

Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning

Remember the bright things that bless'd them of old! * These verses were written after the perasal of a treatise by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews.

+ “Her sun is gone down while it was yet day.”

"-Jer. 19.9.

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