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SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND.

POOR PAT MUST EMIGRATE.-Continued.

MOLLY CAREW.

With spirits bright and purses light, my boys, we can no longer OCH hone! and what will I do?

Sure my love is all crost
Like a bud in the frost,

stay,

For the shamrock is immediately bound for America;
For there is bread and work, which I cannot get in Donegal,
I told the truth, by great Saint Ruth, believe me what I say.
Good night, my boys, with heart and hand, all you who take Ire-
land's part,

I can no longer stay at home, for hear of being too late;
If ever again see this land, I hope it will be with a Fenian band,
So God be with old Ireland; poor Pat must emigrate.

GOUGAUNE BARRA.

THERE is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra,
Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow;
In deep-valleyed Desmond-a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains.
There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow;
As, like some gay child that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.

And its zone of dark hills-oh, to see them bright'ning,
When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning,
And the waters rush down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle,
Like clans from the hills at the voice of the battle;
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,
And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming,
Oh, where is the dwelling in valley, or highland,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island?

How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara,
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,

Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean,
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion,
And thought of thy bards, when assembling together,
In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depths of thy heather,
They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,
And waked their last song by the rush of thy water!

And there's no use at all in my going to bed;
For 'tis dhrames and not sleep comes into my

head:

High sons of the lyre, oh, how proud was the feeling,
To think while alone through that solitude stealing,
Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number,
I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,

And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains
The songs even echo forgot on her mountains;
And gleaned each gray legend, that darkly was sleeping
Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty were creeping.

I, too, shall be gone-but my name shall be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken;
Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming,
When freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean,
Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river,
O'er the heart, and the harp, that are weeping forever.

And 'tis all about you,
My sweet Molly Carew-

And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame:

You're complater than Nature
In every feature,

The snow can't compare
With your forehead so fair,
And I rather would see just one blink of your

eye

Than the purtiest star that shines out of the

sky

Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit
The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit,
With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me,
Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me,
Still-still in those wilds might young liberty rally,
And send her strong shout over mountain and valley;
The star of the west might yet rise in its glory,
And the land that was darkest be brightest in story.

And by this and by that,
For the matter o' that,

You're more distant by far than that
same!

Och hone! wirrasthrue!

I'm alone in this world without you.

Och hone! but why should I spake
Of your forehead and eyes,
When your nose it defies
Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in

rhyme?

Tho' there's one Burke, he says, that would call it snublime.

And then for your cheek!

Throth, 'twould take him a week
Its beauties to tell as he'd rather.
Then your lips! oh Machree!
In their beautiful glow
They a patthern might be
For the cherries to grow.

'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we

know

For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago;

But at this time o' day,

'Pon my conscience, I'll say Such cherries might tempt a man's father!

Och hone! wirrasthrue!

I'm alone in this world without you.

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THE SIEGE OF MAYNOOTH.-Continued.

"Sir John! "_" Hush, man, and answer me! Till then thou

art in bale

Till then mine enemy and thrall!" The fallen chief turned pale. "Say, have I kept good faith with thee?"- Thou hast good faith and true!

"I owe thee nought, then?" Nought, Sir John; the gold lies here to view." "Thou art the Earl's own foster brother?"-"Yes, and bosoin friend!

""

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THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN. THE shades of eve had crossed the glen That frowns o er infant Avonmore; When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men, We stopped before a cottage door. "God save all here," my comrade cries, And rattles on the raised latch-pin; "God save you kindly," quick replies

A clear sweet voice, and asks us in.

We enter; from the wheel she starts,

A rosy girl with soft black eyes;
Her fluttering court'sy takes our hearts,
Her blushing grace and pleased surprise.
Poor Mary, she was quite alone,

For, all the way to Glenmalure,
Her mother had that morning gone
And left the house in charge with her.
But neither household cares, nor yet
The shame that startled virgins feel,
Could make the generous girl forget
Her wonted hospitable zeal.

She brought us in a beechen bowl,
Sweet milk, that smacked of mountain
thyme,

Oat cake, and such a yellow roll
Of butter-it gilds all my rhyme!
And while we ate the grateful food,

(With weary limbs on bench reclined),
Considerate and discreet, she stood
Apart, and listened to the wind.
Kind wishes both our souls engaged
From breast to breast spontaneous ran
The mutual thought-we stood and

pledged,

THE MODEST ROSE ABOVE LOCH DAN. "The milk we drink is not more pure,

Sweet Mary-bless those budding charms! Than your own generous heart, I'm sure,

Nor whiter than the breast it warms!" She turned and gazed, unused to hear Such language in that homely glen; But, Mary, you have nought to fear, Though smiled on by two stranger men.

Not for a crown would I alarm

Your virgin pride by word or sign; Nor need a painful blush disarm

My friend of thoughts as pure as mine. Her simple heart could not but feel

The words we spoke were free from guile; She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her

wheel,

"Tis all in vain-she can't but smile!
Just like sweet April's dawn appears
Her modest face-I see it yet-
And though I lived a hundred years
Methinks I never could forget
The pleasure, that, despite her heart,
Fills all her downcast eyes with light,
The lips reluctantly apart,

The white teeth struggling into sight;
The dimples eddying o'er her cheek,-

The rosy cheek that won't be still!O! who could blame what flatterers speak, Did smiles like this reward their skill? For such another smile, I vow,

Though loudly beats the midnight rain, I'd take the mountain-side e'en now, And walk to Luggelaw again!

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