Oh! they want the wild sweet briery fence,

Which round the flowers of Erin dwells, Which warns the touch, while winning the sense,

Nor charms us least when it most repels. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, Through this world whether eastward or westward

you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

III.

In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail,

On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail,

But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye! While the daughters of ERIN keep the boy

Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, Through billows of woe and beams of joy

The same as he look'd when he left the shore. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, Through this world whether eastward or westward

you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

EVELEEN'S BOWER.

AIR.—Unknown.

I.
On! weep for the hour,

When to Eveleen's bower
The Lord of the valley with false vows came;

The moon hid her light

From the heavens that night, And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.

The clouds pass'd soon

From the chaste cold moon,
And Heaven smiled again with her vestal flame;

But none will see the day

When the clouds shall pass away,
Which that dark hour left upon EVELEEN's fame.

II.
The white snow lay

On the narrow path-way,
Where the Lord of the valley cross'd over the moor;

And many a deep print

On the white snow's tint
Show'd the track of his footstep to EVELEEN's door.

The next sun's

ray Soon melted away Every trace on the path where the false Lord came;

But there's a light above,

Which alone can remove That stain upon the snow of fair EVELEEN's fame.

LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD.

AIR.--The Red Fox.

I.

Let Erin remember the days of old,

Ere her faithless sons betray'd her;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold, *

Which he won from her proud invader;
When her kings, with standard of green unfurld,

Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger ;-
* “ This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the
Monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in
which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he en-
countered successively hand to hand, taking a collar of gold
from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other,
as trophies of his victory."-WARNER's History of Ireland,
vol. i. book 9.

t" Military orders of knights were very early established in

Ere the emerald gem of the western world

Was set in the crown of a stranger.

On Lough Neaga's bank as the fisherman strays,*

When the clear, cold eve's declining,
He sees the round towers of other days,

In the wave beneath him shining !
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,

Catch a glimpse of the days that are over ;
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time

For the long faded glories they cover! Ireland. Long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe na Craoibhe ruadh, or the knights of the Red Brancb, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagh na Craoibhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bron-bhearg, or the house of the sorrowful soldier."--O’HALLORAN's Introduction, etc. part i. chap. 5.

THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.*

AIR.- Arrah

my

dear Eveleen.

I.

SILENT, oh Moyle! be the roar of thy water,

Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter

Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. When shall the swan, her death-note singing,

Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd ? When will Heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

Call my spirit from this stormy world?

II.

Sadly, oh Moyle! to thy winter wave weeping,

Fate bids me languish long ages away;

* To make this story intelligible in a song, would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorised to inflict upon an audience at once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed into a Swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her release. - I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira.