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Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,

Sweet May, sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the smooth lakes, where daylight leaves
His lingering smile on golden eves,

Fair Lake, fair Lake, thou’rt dear to me;
For when the last April sun grows dim,
Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him

Who dwells, who dwells, bright Lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,

White Steed, white Steed, most joy to thee,
Who still with the first young glance of spring
From under that glorious lake dost bring,

Proud Steed, proud Steed, my love to me.

Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning, threw herself into the Lake.

IV. While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, When newly launch'd, thy long mane* curls,

Fair Steed, fair Steed, as white and free ; And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,

Fair Steed, around my love and thee.

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Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold waye lie,

Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be, Which under the next May-evening's light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,

Dear love, dear love, I'll die for thee.

* The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, “O'Donohue's white horses."


AIR.-The Wren.

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To Music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,

Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,
Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,

The songs repeat.

III. 'Tis when the sigh in youth sincere,

And only then, The sigh, that's breathed for one to hear, Is by that one, that only dear,

Breathed back again!


AIR.Planxty Irwine.

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Oh banquet not in those shining bowers,

Where Youth resorts—but come to me,
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,
More fit for sorrow,


and thee.
And there we shall have our feast of tears

And many a cup in silence pour-
Our guests, the shades of former years

Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.

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There, while the myrtle's withering boughs

Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,

To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.
Or, as some blighted laurel waves

Its branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected graves

Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot!

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The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking

Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,

And smiles are near that once enchanted,
Unreach'd by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted

By thee, thee, only thee.

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Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken

For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark

To the ocean hurriès-resting never-
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever

To thee, thee, only thee.

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