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AFTER THE BATTLE.

AIR.—Thy Fair Bosom.

1. Night closed around the conqueror's way,

And lightnings show'd the distant hill, Where those, who lost that dreadful day,

Stood few and faint, but fearless still ! The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,

For ever dimm’d, for ever cross'dOh! who shall say what heroes feel,

When all but life and honour's lost!

II.

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,

And valour's task, moved slowly by, While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam

Should rise, and give them light to die! There is a world, whère souls are free,

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss; If death that world's bright opening be,

Oh! who would live a slave in this ?

OH! 'TIS SWEET TO THINK.

Air.—Thady, you Gander.
AIR

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I.

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OH! 'tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,

We are sure to find something blissful and dear; And that, when we're far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near! * The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing

It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be doom’d to find something, still, that is dear,

* I believe it is Marmontel, who says Quand on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a.”—There are so many matter-of-fact people, who take such jeux d'esprit as this defence of inconstancy, to be the actual and genuine sentiments of him who writes them, that they compel one, in self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind them, that Democritus was not the worse physiologist for having playfully contended that snow was black; nor Erasmus in any degree the less wise for having written an ingenious encomium of folly,

And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near.

II.

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'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,

To make light of the rest, if the rose is not there ; And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,

Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,

They are both of them bright, but they're change

able too,

And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,

It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue! Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be doom'd to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.

AIR.

I. Through grief and through danger thy smile hath

cheer'd my way, Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round

me lay; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love

burn'd, Till shame into glory, till fear into real was turn’d : Oh ! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless'd even the sorrows, that made me more dear

to thee.

II. Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and

scorn'd; Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows

adorn'd; She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves; Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were

slaves ;

Yet, cold in the earth, at thy feet I would rather be, Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.

III. They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frailHadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less

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pale !

They say too, so long thou hast worn those lingering

chains, That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile

stainsOh! do not believe them-no chain could that soul

subdue Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too !*

ON MUSIC.

AIR.Banks of Banna.

I.
When through life unbless'd we rove,

Losing all that made life dear,
* “Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.”—St.
Paul, 2 Corinthians, iii, 17.

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