Songs and ballads by Samuel Lover :: :: University of Virginia Library

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn,
He was bold as a hawk,—she as soft as the dawn;
He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,
And he thought the best way to do that was to teaze.
“Now, Rory, be aisy,” sweet Kathleen would cry,
(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,)
“With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about,
Faith you've teazed till I've put on my cloak inside out.”
“Oh! jewel,” says Rory, “that same is the way
You've thrated my heart for this many a day;
And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not to be sure?
For 'tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O'More.

“Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, “don't think of the like,
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike,
The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound,”
“Faith,” says Rory, “I'd rather love you than the ground”
“Now Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go;
Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!”
“Oh,” says Rory, “that same I'm delighted to hear,
For drames always go by conthrairies, my dear;
Oh! jewel, keep draming that same till you die,
And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie!
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not to be sure?
Since 'tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O'More.

“Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teazed me enough,
Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff;
And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,
So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest.”
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,
And he look'd in her eyes that were beaming with light,
And he kiss'd her sweet lips; don't you think he was right?
“Now Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more,
That's eight times to-day you have kissed me before.”
“Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure,
For there's luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O'More.

Paddy's mode of asking a girl to name the day.

THE MAY-DEW.

[_]

To gather the dew from the flowers on May-morning, before the sun has risen, is reckoned a bond of peculiar power between lovers

Come with me, love, I'm seeking
A spell in young year's flowers;
The magical May-dew is weeping
Its charm o'er the summer bow'rs;
Its pearls are more precious than those they find
In jewell'd India's sea;
For the dew-drops, love, might serve to bind
Thy heart, for ever, to me!
Oh come with me, love, I'm seeking
A spell in the young year's flowers;
The magical May-dew is weeping
It's charm o'er the summer bowers.

Haste, or the spell will be missing
We seek in the May-dew now,
For soon the warm sun will be kissing
The bright drops from the blossom and bough;
And the charm is so tender the May-dew sheds
O'er the wild flowers' delicate dyes,
That e'en at the touch of the sunbeam, 'tis said,
The mystical influence flies.
Oh, come with me, love, I'm seeking
A spell in the young year's flowers;
The magical May-dew is weeping
Its charm o'er the summer bowers.

OH! WATCH YOU WELL BY DAYLIGHT.

[_]

The Irish peasant says, “Watch well by daylight, for then your own senses are awake to guard you: but keep no watch in darkness, for then God watches over you.” This, however, can hardly be called a superstition, there is so much of rightful reverence in it: for though, in perfect truth, we are as dependent on God by day as by night, yet some allowance may be made for the poetic fondness of the saying.

Oh! watch you well by daylight,
By daylight may you fear,
But take no watch in darkness—
The angels then are near;
For Heav'n the gift bestoweth
Our waking life to keep,
But tender mercy showeth
To guard us in our sleep.
Then watch you well by daylight.

Oh! watch you well in pleasure,
For pleasure oft betrays,
But take no watch in sorrow
When joy withdraws its rays:
For in the hour of sorrow,
As in the darkness drear,
To Heav'n entrust the morrow—
The angels then are near.
Then watch you well by daylight.

THE FALLING STAR.

[_]

It is believed that a wish expressed while we see a star falling, shall be fulfilled.

I saw a star that was falling,
I wish'd the wish of my soul,
My heart on its influence calling
To shed all its gentle control.
Hope whisper'd my wish would be granted,
And fancy soon waved her bright wand,
My heart in sweet ecstacy panted,
At the visions were smiling beyond.
Oh! like the meteors,—sweeping,
Thro' darkness their luminous way,
Are the pleasures too worthless for keeping,
As dazzling, but fleeting as they.

I saw a star that was beaming
Steady and stilly and bright,
Unwearied its sweet watch 'twas seeming
To keep through the darkness of night:
Like those two stars in the heaven,
Are the joys that are false and are true,
I felt as a lesson 'twas given,
And thought my own true love of you.
When I saw the star that was beaming
Steady, and stilly, and bright,
Unwearied its sweet watch 'twas seeming
To keep through the darkness of night

THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK.

[_]

A four-leaved Shamrock is of such rarity, that it is supposed to endue the finder with magic power.

I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock in all the fairy dells,
And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I'll weave my spells!
I would not waste my magic might on diamond, pearl, or gold,
For treasure tires the weary sense,—such triumph is but cold;
But I would play th' enchanter's part, in casting bliss around,—
Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found

To worth I would give honour!—I'd dry the mourner's tears,
And to the pallid lip recall the smile of happier years,
And hearts that had been long estrang'd, and friends that had grown cold,
Should meet again—like parted streams—and mingle as of old.
Oh! thus I'd play th' enchanter's part, thus scatter bliss around,
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found!

The heart that had been mourning o'er vanished dreams of love,
Should see them all returning—like Noah's faithful dove,
And Hope should launch her blessed bark on Sorrow's dark'ning sea,
And Mis'ry's children have an ark, and saved from sinking be;
Oh! thus I'd play th' enchanter's part, thus scatter bliss around,
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found!

THE LETTER.

[_]

A small spark, attached to the wick of a candle is considered to indicate the arrival of a letter to the one before whom it burns.

Fare-thee-well, love, now thou art going
Over the wild and trackless sea;
Smooth be its waves, and fair the wind blowing—
Tho' 'tis to bear thee far from me.
But when on the waste of Ocean,
Some happy home-bound bark you see,
Swear by the truth of thy heart's devotion,
To send a letter back to me.

Think of the shore thou'st left behind thee,
Even when reaching a brighter strand;
Let not the golden glories blind thee
Of that gorgeous Indian land;
Send me not its diamond treasures,
Nor pearls from the depth of its sunny sea,
But tell me of all thy woes and pleasures,
In a long letter back to me.

And while dwelling in lands of pleasure,
Think, as you bask in their bright sunshine,
That while the ling'ring time I measure,
Sad and wintry hours are mine;
Lonely by my taper weeping
And watching, the spark of promise to see—
All for that bright spark, my night-watch keeping,
For oh! 'tis a letter, love, from thee!
To say that soon thy sail will be flowing
Homeward to bear thee over the sea:
Calm be the waves and swift the wind blowing,
For oh! thou art coming back to me!

THE FAIRY TEMPTER.

[_]

They say mortals have sometimes been carried away to Fairy-land.

A fair girl was sitting in the greenwood shade,
List'ning to the music the spring birds made,
When sweeter by far than the birds on the tree,
A voice murmur'd near her, “Oh come, love, with me,
In earth or air,
A thing so fair
I have not seen as thee!
Then come love, with me.”

“With a star for thy home, in a palace of light,
Thou wilt add a fresh grace to the beauty of night;
Or, if wealth be thy wish, thine are treasures untold,
I will show thee the birthplace of jewels and gold—
And pearly caves,
Beneath the waves,
All these, all these are thine,
If thou wilt be mine”

Thus whisper'd a Fairy to tempt the fair girl,
But vain was his promise of gold and of pearl;
For she said, “Tho' thy gifts to a poor girl were dear
My father, my mother, my sisters are here:
Oh! what would be
Thy gifts to me,
Of earth, and sea, and air,
If my heart were not there?”

THE MORNING DREAM.

[_]

The superstitious believe the dream of the night to be false, and that of the morning true.

The eye of weeping
Had closed in sleeping,
And I dreamt a bright dream of night,
And that sweet dreaming,
Had all the seeming
Of truth, in a softer light;
I saw thee, smiling,
And light beguiling
Beam'd soft from that eye of thine,
As in a bower,
You own'd love's power,
And fondly vow'd thou would'st be mine.

The dream deceived me—
For I believed thee
In sleep, as in waking hours;
But even slumber,
Few joys could number,
While resting in dreamy bowers;

For soon my waking
The soft spell breaking,
I found fancy false as you;
'Twas darkness round me,
The night-dream bound me,
And I knew the dream was then untrue.

Again I slumber'd,
And woes unnumber'd,
Weigh'd on my aching heart,
Thy smile had vanish'd,
And I was banish'd,
For ever doom'd to part.
From sleep I started,
All broken-hearted,
The morn shone as bright as you!
The lark's sweet singing,
My heart's knell ringing—
For I knew the morning dream was true.

THE FAIRY BOY.

[_]

When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place.

A mother came when stars were paling,
Wailing round a lonely spring,
Thus she cried, while tears were falling
Calling on the Fairy King:
“Why, with spells my child caressing,
Courting him with fairy joy,
Why destroy a mother's blessing,
Wherefore steal my baby boy?

“O'er the mountain, thro' the wild wood,
Where his childhood loved to play,
Where the flow'rs are freshly springing,
There I wander day by day;
There I wander, growing fonder
Of the child that made my joy,
On the echoes wildly calling
To restore my fairy boy.

“But in vain my plaintive calling,
Tears are falling all in vain,
He now sports with fairy pleasure,
He's the treasure of their train!
Fare-thee-well! my child, for ever,
In this world I've lost my joy,
But in the next we ne'er shall sever,
There I'll find my angel boy.”

THE NEW MOON.

[_]

When our attention is directed to the New Moon by one of the opposite sex, it is considered lucky.

Oh, don't you remember the lucky New Moon,
Which I show'd you as soon as it peep'd forth at eve?
When I spoke of omens, and you spoke of love,
And in both, the fond heart will for ever believe!
And while you whisper'd soul-melting words in my ear,
I trembled—for love is related to fear—
And before that same moon had declined in its wane,
I held you my own, in a mystical chain;
Oh, bright was the omen, for love follow'd soon,
And I bless'd as I gazed on the lovely New Moon.

And don't you remember those two trembling stars?
That rose up, like gems, from the depths of the sea,
Or like two young lovers who stole forth at eve
To meet in the twilight, like you love and me;
And we thought them a type of our meeting on earth,
Which show'd that our love had in heaven its birth.
The moon's waning crescent soon faded away,
But the love she gave birth to will never decay!
Oh, bright was the omen, for love follow'd soon,
And I bless when I gaze on the lovely New Moon.

THE CHARM.

[_]

They say that a flower may be found in a valley opening to the West, which bestows on the finder the power of winning the affection of the person to whom it is presented. Hence, it is supposed, has originated the custom of presenting a bouquet.

They say there's a secret charm which lies
In some wild flow'rets bell,
That grows in a vale where the west wind sighs,
And where secrets best might dwell;
And they who can find the fairy flower,
A treasure possess that might grace a throne,
For oh! they can rule with the softest power,
The heart they would make their own.

The Indian has toil'd in the dusky mine,
For the gold that has made him a slave;
Or, plucking the pearl from the sea-god's shrine,
Has tempted the wrath of the wave;
But ne'er has he sought, with a love like mine,
The flower that holds the heart in thrall;
Oh! rather I'd win that charm divine,
Than their gold and their pearl and all!

I've sought it by day, from morn till eve,
I've won it—in dreams at night;
And then how I grieve my couch to leave,
And sigh at the morning's light:
Yet sometimes I think in a hopeful hour,
The blissful moment I yet may see
To win the fair flower from the fairy's bower
And give it love—to thee.

THE RING AND THE WINDING-SHEET.

Why sought you not the silent bower,
The bower, nor hawthorn tree;
Why came you not at evening hour,
Why came you not to me?
Say, does thy heart beat colder now,
Oh! tell me, truly tell,
Than when you kissed my burning brow,
When last you said “Farewell?”

As late my taper I illumed,
To sigh and watch for thee,
It soon thy mystic form assumed
Which lovers smile to see;
But fondly while I gazed upon
And trimm'd the flame with care,
The pledge of plighted love was gone,
The sign of death was there!

Oh say, was this forboding truth?
And wilt thou break thy vow?
And wilt thou blight my opening youth?
And must I—must I now
Meet death's embrace for that chaste kiss,
That holy kiss you vow'd?
And must I, for my bridal dress,
Be mantled in the shroud?

A small exfoliation of wax from the candle, called, by the superstitious, “a ring,” and considered indicative of marriage.

When this waxen symbol, instead of being circular, becomes lengthened and pendulous, it is then called “a winding-sheet,” and forebodes death.

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.

[_]

A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that when a child smiles in its sleep, it is “talking with angels.”

A baby was sleeping,
It's mother was weeping,
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;
And the tempest was swelling
Round the fisherman's dwelling,
And she cried, “Dermot, darling, oh come back to me!”

Her beads while she numbered,
The baby still slumbered
And smil'd in her face as she bended her knee;
“O blest be that warning,
My child, thy sleep adorning,
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

“And while they are keeping
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,
Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me!
And say thou would'st rather
They'd watch o'er thy father!—
For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.”

The dawn of the morning
Saw Dermot returning,
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see;
And closely caressing
Her child, with a blessing,
Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.”

The beautiful superstition on which this song has been founded, has an Oriental as well as a Western prevalence; and, in all probability reached the Irish by being borrowed from the Phœnicians. Amongst the Rabinnical traditions which are treasured by the Jews, is the belief, that before the creation of Eve, another companion was assigned to Adam in Paradise, who bore the name of Lilith. But proving arrogant and disposed to contend for superiority, a quarrel ensued; Lilith pronounced the name of Jehovah, which it is forbidden to utter, and fled to conceal herself in the sea. Three angels, Sennoi, Sansennoi, and Sammangeloph, were dispatched by the Lord of the Universe to compel her to return; but on her obstinate refusal, she was transformed into a demon, whose delight is in debilitating and destroying infants. On condition that she was not to be forced to go back to Paradise, she bound herself by an oath to refrain from injuring such children as might be protected by having inscribed on them the name of the mediating angels—hence the practice of the Eastern Jews to write the names of Sennoi, Sansennoi, and Sammangeloph, on slips of paper and bind them on their infants to protect them from Lilith. The story will be found in Buxtorf's Synagoga Judaica, ch. iv. p. 81; and in Ben Sira, as edited by Bartolocci, in the first volume of his Bibliotheca Rabbinica, p. 69.

Emech Hammelech, a Rabbinnical writer, quoted by Stehelin, says, “when a child laughs in its sleep, in the night of the Sabbath or the new moon, that Lilith laughs and toys with it, and that it is proper for the mother, or any one that sees the infant laugh, to tap it on the nose, and say ‘Lilith begone, thy abode is not here.’ This should be said three times, and each repetition accompanied by a gentle tap.”—See Allen's Account of the Traditions, Rites, and Ceremonies of the Jews, ch. x. p. 168–9—ch. xvi. p. 291.

Legendary and Traditional Ballads.

TRUE LOVE CAN NE'ER FORGET.

[_]

It is related of Carolan, the Irish bard, that when deprived of sight, and after the lapse of twenty years, he recognised his first love by the touch of her hand. The lady's name was Bridget Cruise; and though not a pretty name, it deserves to be recorded, as belonging to the woman who could inspire such a passion.

“True love can ne'er forget;
Fondly as when we met,
Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one!”
Thus sung a minstrel gray
His sweet impassion'd lay,
Down by the Ocean's spray,
At set of sun.
But wither'd was the minstrel's sight,
Morn to him was dark as night,
Yet his heart was full of light,
As thus the lay begun;
“True love can ne'er forget,
Fondly as when we met,
Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one!”

“Long years are past and o'er
Since from this fatal shore,
Cold hearts and cold winds bore
My love from me.”
Scarcely the minstrel spoke,
When quick with flashing stroke,
A boat's light oar the silence broke,
Over the sea;

Soon upon her native strand
Doth a lovely lady land,
While the minstrel's love-taught hand
Did o'er his wild harp run;
“True love can ne'er forget
Fondly as when we met,
Dearest, I love thee yet,
My darling one!”

Where the minstrel sat alone,
There, that lady fair hath gone,
Within his hand she placed her own,
The bard dropped on his knee;
From his lips soft blessings came,
He kiss'd her hand with truest flame,
In trembling tones he named—her name
Though her he could not see;
But oh!—the touch the bard could tell
Of that dear hand, remember'd well;
Ah!—by many a secret spell
Can true love find his own!
For true love can ne'er forget;
Fondly as when they met,
He loved his lady yet,
His darling one.

MACARTHY'S GRAVE.

A LEGEND OF KILLARNEY.

The breeze was fresh, the morn was fair,
The stag had left his dewy lair,
To cheering horn and baying tongue
Killarney's echoes sweetly rung.

With sweeping oar and bending mast,
The eager chase was following fast,
When one light skiff a maiden steer'd
Beneath the deep wave disappeared;
While shouts of terror wildly ring,
A boatman brave, with gallant spring
And dauntless arm, the lady bore—
But he who saved—was seen no more!

Where weeping birches wildly wave,
There boatmen show their brother's grave;
And while they tell the name he bore,
Suspended hangs the lifted oar;
The silent drops thus idly shed,
Seem like tears to gallant Ned;
And while gently gliding by,
The tale is told with moistened eye.
No ripple on the slumb'ring lake
Unhallowed oar doth ever make;
All undisturb'd the placid wave
Flows gently o'er Macarthy's grave.

NED OF THE HILL.

[_]

Many legends are extant of this romantic minstrel freebooter, whose predatory achievements sometimes extended to the hearts of the gentle sex.

Dark is the evening and silent the hour;
Who is the minstrel by yonder lone tow'r
His harp all so tenderly touching with skill?
Oh, who should it be but Ned of the Hill!
Who sings, “Lady love, come to me now,
Come and live merrily under the bough,
And I'll pillow thy head,
Where the fairies tread,
If thou wilt but wed with Ned of the Hill!”

Ned of the Hill has no castle nor hall,
Nor spearmen nor bowmen to come at his call,
But one little archer of exquisite skill
Has shot a bright shaft for Ned of the Hill;
Who sings, “Lady love, come to me now
Come and live merrily under the bough,
And I'll pillow thy head,
Where the fairies tread,
If thou wilt but wed with Ned of the Hill.’

'Tis hard to escape from that fair lady's bower,
For high is the window, and guarded the tower,
“But there's always a way where there is a will,”
So Ellen is off with Ned of the Hill!
Who sings, “Lady love, thou art mine now!
We will live merrily under the bough,
And I'll pillow thy head,
Where the fairies tread,
For Ellen is bride to Ned of the Hill!”

THE BEGGAR.

'Twas sunset when
Adown the glen,
A beggar came with glee;
His eye was bright,
His heart was light,
His step was bold and free:
And he danced a merry measure
To his rollick roundelay;
“Oh a beggar's life is pleasure,
For he works nor night nor day!”

“Let fathers toil,
Let mothers moil,
And daughters milk the kine;
What lord can boast
So brave a host
Of servants as are mine?
The world is my wide mansion,
Mankind my servants be,
And many a lady in the land,
Would live and beg with me!”

The beggar laugh'd,
The beggar quaff'd,
While many a jest he told;
The miller swore
He ne'er before
Such beggar did behold;
The mother filled his can,
And the daughter smiled as he
Did toast her as the loveliest lass
That eyes did ever see.

Now all is still
Within the mill,
Even the goodwife's tongue;
All sleep but two—
You may guess who,
Or vainly I have sung.
The beggar cast his rags,
Her lover Mary spied,
The miller lost a daughter
And the hunter gained a bride!

THE HAUNTED SPRING.

[_]

It is said, Fays have the power to assume various shapes, for the purpose of luring mortals into Fairy-land. Hunters seem to have been particularly the objects of the lady fairies' fancies.

Gaily through the mountain glen
The hunter's horn did ring,
As the milk-white doe
Escaped his bow,
Down by the haunted spring;
In vain his silver horn he wound,—
'Twas echo answer'd back;
For neither groom nor baying hound
Was on the hunter's track;
In vain he sought the milk-white doe
That made him stray, and 'scaped his bow,
For, save himself, no living thing
Was by the silent haunted spring.

The purple heath-bells, blooming fair,
Their fragrance round did fling,
As the hunter lay,
At close of day,
Down by the haunted spring.
A lady fair, in robe of white,
To greet the hunter came;
She kiss'd a cup with jewels bright,
And pledg'd him by his name;
“Oh Lady fair,” the hunter cried,
“Be thou my love, my blooming bride,
A bride that well might grace a king!
Fair lady of the haunted spring.”

In the fountain clear, she stoop'd,
And forth she drew a ring;
And that bold knight
His faith did plight,
Down by the haunted spring.
But since the day his chase did stray,
The hunter ne'er was seen;
And legends tell, he now doth dwell
Within the hills so green.
But still the milk-white doe appears,
And wakes the peasant's evening fears,
While distant bugles faintly ring
Around the lonely haunted spring.

Fays and fairies are supposed to have their dwelling-places within old green hills.

THE BLARNEY.

[_]

There is a certain coign-stone on the summit of Blarney Castle, in the county of Cork, the kissing of which is said to impart the gift of persuasion. Hence the phrase, applied to those who make a flattering speech, —“you've kissed the Blarney Stone.”

Oh! did you ne'er hear of “the Blarney,”
That's found near the banks of Killarney?
Believe it from me,
No girl's heart is free,
Once she hears the sweet sound of the Blarney.
For the Blarney's so great a deceiver,
That a girl thinks you're there, though you leave her;
And never finds out,
All the tricks you're about,
Till she's quite gone herself,—with your Blarney.

Oh! say would you find this same “Blarney?”
There's a castle, not far from Killarney,
On the top of its wall—
(But take care you don't fall,)
There's a stone that contains all this Blarney.
Like a magnet its influence such is,
That attraction it gives all it touches;
If you kiss it, they say,
From that blessed day,
You may kiss whom you please with your Blarney.

THE PILGRIM HARPER.

The night was cold and dreary—no star was in the sky,
When, travel-tired and weary, the harper raised his cry.
He raised his cry without the gate, his night's repose to win,
And plaintive was the voice that cried, “Ah! won't you let me in?”

The portal soon was open'd, for in the land of song
The minstrel at the outer gate yet never lingered long;
And inner doors were seldom closed 'gainst wand'rers such as he,
For locks or hearts to open soon, sweet music is the key!

But gates if ope'd by melody, are closed by grief as fast,
And sorrow o'er that once bright hall its silent spell had cast;
All undisturb'd the spider there his web might safely spin,
For many a day no festive lay—no harper was let in.

But when this harper enter'd, and said he came from far,
And bore with him from Palestine the tidings of the war;
And he could tell of all who fell, or glory there did win,
The warder knew his noble dame would let that harper in.

They led him to the bower, the lady knelt in prayer;
The harper raised a well-known lay upon the turret stair;
The door was ope'd with hasty hand, true love its meed did win,
For the lady saw her own true knight, when that harper was let in!

GIVE ME MY ARROWS AND GIVE ME MY BOW.

[_]

In the Great North American lakes there are islands bearing the name of “Manitou,” which signifies “The Great Spirit,” and Indian tradition declares that in these islands the Great Spirit concealed the precious metals, thereby showing that he did not desire they should be possessed by man; and that whenever some rash mortal has attempted to obtain treasure from “The Manitou Isle,” his canoe was always overwhelmed by a tempest. The “Palefaces,” however, fearless of “Manitou's” thunder, are now working the extensive mineral region of the lakes.

Tempt me not, stranger, with gold from the mine,
I have got treasure more precious than thine;
Freedom in forest, and health in the chase,
Where the hunter sees beauty in Nature's bright face,
Then give me my arrows and give me my bow,
In the wild woods to rove where the blue rapids flow.

If gold had been good The Great Spirit had giv'n
That gift, like his others, as freely from Heav'n:—
The lake gives me Whitefish;—the deer gives me meat,
And the toil of the capture gives slumber so sweet:—
Then give me my arrows and give me my bow,
In the wild woods to rove where the blue rapids flow.

Why seek you death in the dark cave to find
While there's life on the hill in the health-breathing wind?
And death parts you soon from your treasure so bright—
As the gold of the sunset is lost in the night:—
Then give me my arrows and give me my bow,
In the wild woods to rove where the blue rapids flow.

THE CHAIN OF GOLD.

[_]

The Earl of Kildare, Lord-Deputy of Ireland, ruled justly, and was hated by the small oppressors whose practices he discountenanced. They accused him of favouring the Irish to the King's detriment, but he, in the presence of the King, rebutted their calumnies. They said, at last, “please your Highness, all Ireland cannot rule this Earl.”—“Then,” said Henry, “he is the man to rule all Ireland,” and he took the golden chain from his neck and threw it over the shoulders of the Earl who returned, with honour, to his government.

Oh, Moina, I've a tale to tell
Will glad thy soul, my girl;
The King hath giv'n a chain of gold
To our noble-hearted Earl.
His foes they rail'd—the Earl ne'er quailed—
But, with a front so bold,
Before the King did backward fling
The slanderous lies they told,
And the King gave him no iron chain—
No—he gave him a chain of gold!

Oh, 'tis a noble sight to see
The cause of truth prevail:
An honest cause is always proof
Against a treacherous tale.

Let fawning false ones court the great,
The heart in virtue bold
Will hold the right, in power's despite,
Until that heart be cold:
For falsehood's the bond of slavery,
But truth is the chain of gold.

False Connal wed the rich one
With her gold and jewels rare,
But Dermid wed the maid he lov'd,
And she clear'd his brow from care:
And thus, in our own hearts, love,
We may read this lesson plain,
Let outward joys depart, love,
So peace within remain—
For falsehood is an iron bond,
But love is the golden chain!

ST. KEVIN:

A LEGEND OF GLENDALOUGH.

At Glendalough lived a young saint,
In odor of sanctity dwelling,
An old-fashion'd odor, which now
We seldom or never are smelling;
A book or a hook were to him
The utmost extent of his wishes;
Now, a snatch at the “lives of the saints;”
Then, a catch at the lives of the fishes.

There was a young woman one day,
Stravagin along by the lake, sir;
She looked hard at St. Kevin, they say,
But St. Kevin no notice did take, sir.
When she found looking hard wouldn't do,
She look'd soft—in the old sheep's eye fashion;
But, with all her sheep's eyes, she could not
In St. Kevin see signs of soft passion.

“You're a great hand at fishing,” says Kate;
“'Tis yourself that knows how, faith, to hook them;
But, when you have caught them, agra,
Don't you want a young woman to cook them?”
Says the saint, “I am ‘sayrious inclined,’
I intend taking orders for life, dear.”
“Only marry,” says Kate, “and you'll find
You'll get orders enough from your wife, dear.”

“You shall never be flesh of my flesh,”
Says the saint, with an anchorite groan, sir;
“I see that myself,” answer'd Kate,
“I can only be ‘bone of your bone,’ sir.
And even your bones are so scarce,”
Said Miss Kate, at her answers so glib, sir;
“That I think you would not be the worse
Of a little additional rib, sir.”

The saint in a rage, seized the lass,
He gave her one twirl round his head, sir,
And, before Doctor Arnott's invention,
Flung her on a watery bed, sir.

Oh!—cruel St. Kevin!—for shame!
When a lady her heart came to barter,
You should not have been Knight of the Bath
But have bowed to the order of Garter.

Sauntering.

THE HOUR BEFORE DAY.

[_]

There is a beautiful saying amongst the Irish peasantry to inspire hope under adverse circumstances:—“Remember,” they say, “that the darkest hour of all is the hour before day.”

Bereft of his love, and bereaved of his fame,
A knight to the cell of an old hermit came;
“My foes they have slander'd and forced me to fly,
Oh! tell me, good father, what's left but to die?”
Despair not, my son;—thou'lt be righted ere long—
For heaven is above us to right all the wrong!
Remember the words the old hermit doth say,—
“'Tis always the darkest the hour before day!”

“Then back to the tourney and back to the court,
And join thee, the bravest, in chivalry's sport;
Thy foes will be there—and thy lady-love too,
And shew both, thou'rt a knight that is gallant and true!”
He rode in the lists—all his foes he o'erthrew,
And a sweet glance he caught from a soft eye of blue:
And he thought of the words the old hermit did say,
For her glance was as bright as the dawning of day.

The feast it was late in the castle that night,
And the banquet was beaming with beauty and light;
But brightest of all is the lady who glides
To a porch where a knight with a fleet courser bides.
She paused 'neath the arch, at the fierce ban dog's bark,
She trembled to look on the night—'twas so dark;
But her lover he whisper'd, and thus did he say,
“Sweet love it is darkest the hour before day.”

Miscellaneous Songs.

MOLLY CAREW.

Och hone! and what will I do?
Sure my love is all crost
Like a bud in the frost;
And there's no use at all in my going to bed,
For 'tis dhrames and not sleep comes into my head,
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 prettiest star that shines out of the sky,
And by this and by that,
For the matter o' that,
You're more distant by far than that same
Och hone! weirasthru!
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!
Troth, 'twould take him a week
Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather.

Then your lips! oh, machree!
In their beautiful glow,
They a pattern 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! weirasthru!
I'm alone in this world without you.

Och hone! by the man in the moon,
You taze me all ways
That a woman can plaze,
For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat Magee,
As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me,
Tho' the piper I bate,
For fear the owld chate
Wouldn't play you your favourite tune;
And when you're at mass
My devotion you crass,
For 'tis thinking of you
I am, Molly Carew,
While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep,
That I can't at your sweet purty face get a peep,
Oh! lave off that bonnet,
Or else I'll lave on it
The loss of my wandherin sowl!
Och hone! weirasthru!
Och hone! like an owl,
Day is night, dear, to me, without you!

Och hone! don't provoke me to do it;
For there's girls by the score
That loves me—and more,
And you'd look very quare if some morning you'd meet
My wedding all marching in pride down the street,
Troth, you'd open your eyes,
And you'd die with surprise,
To think 'twasn't you was come to it!
And faith Katty Naile,
And her cow, I go bail,
Would jump if I'd say,
“Katty Naile, name the day.”
And tho' you're fair and fresh as a morning in May,
While she's short and dark like a cold winter's day,
Yet if you don't repent
Before Easter, when Lent
Is over I'll marry for spite!
Och hone! weirasthru!
And when I die for you,
My ghost will haunt you every night.

LISTEN.

How sweet 'tis to listen when some one may tell
Of the friend that we love and remember so well,
While, 'midst the soft pleasure, we wonder if thus
The friend so beloved ever thinks upon us;
While the eye with the dew of affection may glisten,
How sweet to the praise of the loved one to listen!
Sweet, sweet 'tis to listen!

How sweet 'tis to listen when soft music floats
O'er the calm lake below, in some favourite notes,
Whose intervals sweet waken slumbering thought,
And we listen—altho' not quite sure that we ought;
While in soul-melting moonlight the calm waters glisten,
How sweet, but how fatal it may be to listen!
Sweet, sweet 'tis to listen!

How sweet 'tis to listen, with too willing ear,
To words that we wish for—yet tremble to hear,
To which “No” would be cruel, and “Yes” would be weak,
And an answer is not on the lip, but the cheek,
While in eloquent pauses the eyes brightly glisten,—
Take care what you say, and take care how you listen.
Take care how you listen—take care!

THE MOUNTAIN DEW.

By yon mountain tipp'd with cloud,
By the torrent foaming loud,
By the dingle where the purple bells of heather grew,
Where Alpine flowers are hid,
And where bounds the nimble kid,
There we've wander'd both together through the mountain dew.
With what delight, in summer's night, we trod the twilight gloom,
The air so full of fragrance from the flow'rs so full of bloom,
And our hearts so full of joy—for aught else there was no room,
As we wander'd both together through the mountain dew.

Those sparkling gems that rest
On the mountain's flow'ry breast
Are like the joys we number—they are bright and few;
For a while to earth are given,
And are called again to heaven,
When the spirit of the morning steals the mountain dew.
But memory, angelic, makes a heaven on earth for men,
Her rosy light recalleth bright the dew-drops back again,
The warmth of love exhales them from that well-remembered glen,
Where we wandered both together through the mountain dew.

WOULD YOU KNOW WHO HAS MY VOW?

Would you know who has my vow,
She who holds my heart in keeping,
Graceful as the willow bough,
O'er the streamlet weeping;
With lips so bright, and teeth so white,
And eyes that shame the stars at night,
Oh, could I tell her beauties right,
It would mar your sleeping!

Would you know who has my vow,
She, whose voice, like echo, telling
That there is an answering part
Within her young heart dwelling;
The softest sound that e'er did wake
The echoes of some fairy lake,
Ne'er bore the breeze along the brake
A tone so softly swelling!

Could you know who has my vow,
You would wonder at my daring,
For, to grace so fair a brow,
A crown is worth the sharing!
With step as light as mountain fawn,
And blush as lovely as the dawn,
No form by fancy ever drawn
With her's can hold comparing!

MY NATIVE TOWN.

We have heard of Charybdis and Scylla of old;
Of Maelstrom the modern enough has been told;
Of Vesuvius's blazes all travellers bold
Have established the bright renown;
But spite of what ancients and moderns have said
Of whirlpools so deep, or volcanoes so red,
The place of all others on earth that I dread,
Is my beautiful native town.

Where they sneer if you're poor, and they snarl if you're rich;
They know every cut that you make in your flitch;
If your hose should be darn'd, they can tell every stitch,
And they know when your wife got a gown;
The old one, they say, was made new for the brat,
And they're sure you love mice—for you can't keep a cat:
In the hot flame of scandal how blazes the fat
When it falls in your native town.

If a good stream of blood chance to run in your veins,
They think to remember it not worth the pains,
For losses of caste are to them all the gains,
So they treasure each base renown;
If your mother sold apples—your father his oath,
And was cropp'd of his ears, yet you'll hear of them both,
For loathing all low things, they never are loath,
In your virtuous native town.

If the dangerous heights of renown you should try,
And give all the laggards below the go-by,
For fear you'd be hurt with your climbing so high,
They're the first to pull you down.
Should Fame give you wings, and you mount in despite,
They swear Fame is wrong, and that they're in the right,
And reckon you there, though you're far out of sight
Of the owls of your native town.

Then give me the world, boys! that's open and wide,
Where, honest in purpose and honest in pride,
You are taken for just what you're worth, when you're tried
And have paid your reckoning down;
Your coin's not mistrusted;—the critical scale
Does not weigh every piece—like a huxter at sale,
The mint mark is on it—although it might fail
To pass in your native town.

MY DARK-HAIR'D GIRL.

My dark-hair'd girl, thy ringlets deck,
In silken curl, thy graceful neck;
Thy neck is like the swan, and fair as the pearl,
And light as air the step is of my dark-hair'd girl

My dark-hair'd girl, upon thy lip
The dainty bee might wish to sip;
For thy lip it is the rose, and thy teeth they are pearl,
And diamond is the eye of my dark-hair'd girl!

My dark-hair'd girl, I've promis'd thee,
And thou thy faith hast given to me,
And oh! I would not change for the crown of an earl,
The pride of being loved by my dark-hair'd girl!

THE FLAG IS HALF-MAST-HIGH.

A BALLAD OF THE WALMER WATCH.

[_]

Arthur, Field-Marshal the Duke of Wellington, died on the 14th of September, 1852, at Walmer Castle, where his body lay in state under a guard of honour.

A guard of honour kept its watch in Walmer's ancient hall,
And sad and silent was the ward beside the Marshal's pall,
The measur'd tread beside the dead thro' echoing space might tell
How solemnly the round was paced by lonely sentinel;
But in the guard-room, down below, a war-worn veteran gray
Recounted all The Hero's deeds, through many a glorious day,
How, 'neath the red-cross flag he made the foes of Britain fly—
“Though now, for him,” the veteran said, “that flag is half-mast-high!”

“I mark one day, when far away the Duke on duty went,
That Soult came reconnoitering our front with fierce intent;
But when his ear caught up our cheer, the cause he did divine,
He could not doubt why that bold shout came ringing up the line;
He felt it was the Duke come back, his lads to reassure,
And our position, weak before, he felt was then secure,
He beat retreat, while we did beat advance, and made him fly
Before the conquering flag—that now—is drooping half-mast-high!”

And truly might the soldier say his presence ever gave
Assurance to the most assured, and bravery to the brave;
His prudence-tempered valour—his eagle-sighted skill,
And calm resolves, the measure of a hero went to fill.
Fair Fortune flew before him; 'twas conquest where he came—
For Victory wove her chaplet in the magic of his name:
But while his name thus gilds the past, the present wakes a sigh,
To see his flag of glory now—but drooping half-mast-high!

In many a by-gone battle, beneath an Indian sun,
That flag was borne in triumph o'er the sanguine plains he won;
Where'er that flag he planted impregnable became,
As Torres Vedras' heights have told in glittering steel and flame.

'Twas then to wild Ambition's Chief he flung the gaunlet down,
And from his iron grasp retrieved the ancient Spanish crown;
He drove him o'er the Pyrenees with Victory's swelling cry,
Before the red-cross flag—that now—is drooping half-mast-high!

And when once more from Elba's shore the Giant Chief broke loose,
And startled nations waken'd from the calm of hollow truce,
In foremost post the British host soon sprang to arms again,
And Fate in final balance held the world's two foremost men.
The Chieftains twain might ne'er again have need for aught to do,
So, once for all, we won the fall at glorious Waterloo—
The work was done, and Wellington his saviour-sword laid by,
And now, in grief, to mourn our Chief—the flag is half-mast-high!

This incident, which occurred in the Pyrennees, is related in Napier's “History of the Peninsular War.”

THE FOUNTAIN AND THE FLOWER.

A gentle flow'r of pallid hue,
Beside a sportive fountain grew,
And, as the streamlet murmur'd by,
Methought the flow'ret seem'd to sigh
“Yes, you may speed, in sparkling track,
Your onward course, nor e'er come back,
And murmur still your flattering song,
To ev'ry flower you glide along.”
And fancy said, in tender dream,
“The flow'r is Woman, Man the stream.”

And fancy still, in fev'rish dream,
Pursued the course of that wild stream,
O'er rocks and falls all heedless cast,
And in the ocean lost at last:
“Glide on,” methought the flow'ret cried,
“Bright streamlet, in thy sparkling pride;
But when thro' deserts far you roam,
Perchance you'll sigh for early home,
And, sorrowing, think of that pale flow'r
You hurried by at morning hour.”

THE HAPPIEST TIME IS NOW.

Talk not to me of future bliss!
Talk not to me of joys gone by!
For us, the happiest hour is this,
When love bids time to fly:
The future—doubt may overcast,
To shadow hope's young brow;
Oblivion's veil may shroud the past—
The happiest time is now!

Tho' flowers in spicy vases thrown
Some odour yet exhale,
Their fragrance, e'er the bloom was flown,
Breathed sweeter on the gale:
Like faded flowers, each parted bliss
Let memory keep—but how,
Can joy that's past be like to this?
The happiest time is now!

Unmark'd our course before us lies
O'er time's eternal tide;
And soon the sparkling ripple dies
We raise, as on we glide;
Our barks the brightest bubbles fling
For ever from the prow:—
Then let us gaily sail and sing
“The happiest time is now!”

BEAUTY AND TIME.

Time met Beauty one day in her garden,
Where roses were blooming fair;
Time and Beauty were never good friends,
So she wonder'd what brought him there.
Poor Beauty exclaim'd, with a sorrowful air,
“I request, Father Time, my sweet roses you'll spare,”
For Time was going to mow them all down,
While Beauty exclaim'd with her prettiest frown,
“Fie, Father Time!”

“Well,” said Time, “at least let me gather
A few of your roses here,
'Tis part of my pride, to be always supplied
With such roses, the whole of the year.”
Poor Beauty consented, tho' half in despair;
And Time, as he went, ask'd a lock of her hair,
And, as he stole the soft ringlet so bright,
He vow'd 'twas for love—but she knew 'twas for spite.
Oh fie, Father Time!

Time went on—and left Beauty in tears;
He's a tell-tale, the world well knows,
So he boasted, to all, of the fair lady's fall,
And show'd the lost ringlet and rose.
So shocked was poor Beauty to find that her fame
Was ruin'd,—tho' she was in nowise to blame,
That she droop'd—like some flow'r that is torn from its clime,
And her friends all mysteriously said,—“It was Time.”
Oh fie, Father Time!

THE CHILD AND THE GOSSAMER.

A sunbeam was playing thro' flow'rs that hung
Round a casement that look'd to the day,
And its bright touch waken'd a child, who sung
As it woke, and begun its play;
And it play'd with the gossamer beam that shed
Its fairy brightness around its head:
Oh 'twas sweet to see that child so fair,
At play with the dazzling things of air.

Oh ne'er was a lovelier plaything seen,
To childhood's simplicity given:
It seem'd like a delicate link between
The creatures of earth and heaven.
But the sunbeam was cross'd by an angry cloud,
And the gossamer died in the shadowy shroud,
And the child look'd sad when the bright things fled,
And its smile was gone—and its tears were shed.

Oh gentle child, in thy infant play,
An emblem of life hast thou seen;
For joys are like sunbeams, more fleeting than they,
And sorrows cast shadows between,
And friends, that in moments of brightness are won,
Like gossamer, only are seen in the sun:
Oh! many a lesson of sadness may
Be learn'd, from a joyous child at play.

WHO ARE YOU?

[_]

“There are very impudent people in London,” said a country cousin of mine in 1837. “As I walked down the Strand, a fellow stared at me and shouted, ‘Who are you?’ Five minutes after another passing me, cried, ‘Flare up’—but a civil gentleman, close to his heels loudly asked ‘How is your mother?’”

[This mere trifle is almost unintelligible now, but, when first published, was so effective and popular, as illustrating genteely the slang cries of the street, that it was honored by French and Italian versions from the sparkling pen of the renowned “Father Prout,” in Bentley's Miscellany.]

“Who are you? who are you?
Little boy that's running after
Every one, up and down,
Mingling sighing with your laughter?”
“I am Cupid, lady Belle;
I am Cupid, and no other.”
“Little boy, then prythee tell
How is Venus?—How's your mother?
Little boy, little boy,
I desire you tell me true,
Cupid—oh! you're altered so,
No wonder I cry, Who are you?

“Who are you? who are you?
Little boy, where is your bow?
You had a bow, my little boy—”
“So had you, Ma'am—long ago.”
“Little boy, where is your torch?”
“Madam, I have given it up:
Torches are no use at all
Hearts will never now flare up.”
“Naughty boy, naughty boy,
Such words as these I never knew;
Cupid oh! you're altered so,
No wonder I say, Who are you?”

MY GENTLE LUTE.

My gentle lute, alone with thee
I wake thy saddest tone,
It seems as if thou mourn'st with me
For hours of gladness gone.
If, haply, 'mongst thy wailing strings
My finger lightly fall,
Some vision of the past it brings
Of days we can't recall.

My gentle lute how oft have we
Beneath the moonlight ray,
To beauty's ear breath'd harmony
In many a love-taught lay!
But she who loved—and he who sung
Are changed, my lute, and thou,
That oft to lays of love hast rung,
Must tell of sorrow now.

Some happier hand in future hours
May wake thy liveliest string,
And wreathe thee o'er, my lute, with flow'rs
As I did—in my spring.
But yield, till then, before we part,
Thy saddest tone to me,
And let thy mourning master's heart
An echo find in thee.

THE ANGEL'S WING.

[_]

There is a German superstition, that when a sudden silence takes place in a company, an angel at that moment makes a circuit among them, and the first person who breaks the silence is supposed to have been touched by the wing of the passing seraph. For the purposes of poetry, I thought two persons preferable to many, in illustrating this very beautiful superstition.

When by the evening's quiet light
There sit two silent lovers,
They say, while in such tranquil plight,
An angel round them hovers;
And further still old legends tell,
The first who breaks the silent spell
To say a soft and pleasing thing,
Hath felt the passing angel's wing.

Thus a musing minstrel stray'd
By the summer ocean,
Gazing on a lovely maid
With a bard's devotion:—
Yet his love he never spoke
Till now the silent spell he broke;—
The hidden fire to flame did spring,
Fann'd by the passing angel's wing.

“I have loved thee well and long,
With love of Heaven's own making!—
This is not a poet's song,
But a true heart speaking;
I will love thee still, untired!”
He felt—he spoke—as one inspired—
The words did from Truth's fountain spring,
Upwaken'd by the angel's wing.

Silence o'er the maiden fell,
Her beauty lovelier making;—
And by her blush he knew full well
The dawn of love was breaking.
It came like sunshine o'er his heart!
He felt that they should never part,
She spoke—and oh!—the lovely thing
Had felt the passing angel's wing.

SONG OF THE SPANISH PEASANT.

How oft have we met
Where the gay castanet
In the sprightly fandango was sounding,
Where no form seem'd so light,
Nor no eye beam'd so bright
As thine, my Lorenca, to me;
Though many, surrounding,
Were lovely as maidens might be,
In form and in face,—
Oh! they wanted the grace
That ever is playing round thee.

My pretty brunette,
Can'st thou ever forget
How I trembled, lest hope should deceive me,
When, under the shade
By the orange grove made,
I whisper'd my passion to thee?
And oh, love! believe me,
Like that ever blossoming tree,
Thro' sunshine and shade,
In this heart, dearest maid,
Is love ever blooming for thee.

The orange-tree blossoms through the whole year.

CAN'T YOU GUESS?

Can't you guess why your friends all accuse you
Of moping, and pleasing the less?
And why nothing in life can amuse you?
Can't you guess?
And why now your slumbers are broken,
By dreams that your fancy possess,
In which a sweet name is oft spoken,
Can't you guess?

Can't you guess why you always are singing
The songs that we heard the last spring?
Do you think of their musical ringing,
Or how sweetly the Captain can sing?
With him you were always duetting,
And your solos were singing the less;
Now which is the best for coquetting?
Can't you guess?

Tis an accident scarce worth repeating,
Yet people you know, dear, will talk;
But 'tis strange how you always are meeting
With—some one you know, when you walk.
You are fond of the grove,—'tis so shady,
Besides, 'tis frequented the less:
Is a tale there best told to a lady?—
But if you won't tell—I can guess!

FĀG AN BEALACH.

[_]

This song occurs in a scene of political excitement described in the story of “He would be a Gentleman,” but might equally belong to many other periods of the history of Ireland,—a harassed land, which has been forced to nurse in secret many a deep and dread desire.

Fill the cup, my brothers,
To pledge a toast,
Which, beyond all others,
We prize the most;
As yet 'tis but a notion
We dare not name;
But soon o'er land and ocean
'Twill fly with fame!
Then give the game before us
One view holla,
Hip! hurra! in chorus,
Fāg an Bealach.

We our hearts can fling, boys,
O'er this notion,
As the sea bird's wing, boys,
Dips the ocean.

'Tis too deep for words, boys,
The thought we know,
So, like the ocean bird, boys,
We touch and go:
For dangers deep surrounding,
Our hopes might swallow;
So, through the tempest bounding,
Fāg an Bealach.

This thought with glory rife, boys,
Did brooding dwell,
'Till time did give it life, boys,
To break the shell;
'Tis in our hearts yet lying,
An unfledged thing,
But soon, an eaglet flying,
'Twill take the wing!
For 'tis no timeling frail, boys,—
No summer swallow,—
'Twill live through winter's gale, boys,
Fāg an Bealach.

Lawyers may indite us
By crooked laws,
Soldiers strive to fright us
From country's cause;
But we will sustain it
Living—dying—
Point of law, or bay'net
Still defying!
Let their parchment rattle—
Drums are hollow:
So is lawyer's prattle—
Fāg an Bealach.

Better early graves, boys—
Dark locks gory,
Than bow the head as slaves, boys,
When they're hoary.
Fight it out we must, boys,
Hit or miss it,
Better bite the dust, boys,
Than to kiss it!
For dust to dust at last, boys,
Death will swallow—
Hark! the trumpet's blast, boys,
Fāg an Bealach.

Pronounced Faug a bollagh, meaning “clear the road,” or “leave the way.”

OUR OWN WHITE CLIFF.

The boat that left yon vessel's side—
Swift as the sea-bird's wing,
Doth skim across the sparkling tide
Like an enchanted thing!
Enchantment, there, may bear a part,
Her might is in each oar,
For love inspires each island heart
That nears its native shore;
And as they gaily speed along,
The breeze before them bears their song;
“Oh! merrily row boys—merrily!
Bend the oar to the bounding skiff,
Of every shore
Wide ocean o'er,
There's none like our own White Cliff!”

Through sparkling foam they bound—they dart—
The much-loved shore they nigh—
With deeper panting beats each heart,
More brightly beams each eye;
As on the crowded strand they seek
Some well-known form to trace,
In hopes to meet some blushing cheek,
Or wife, or child's embrace;
The oar the spray now faster flings,
More gaily yet each seaman sings;
“Oh! merrily row boys—merrily!
Bend the oar to the bounding skiff,
Of every shore,
Wide ocean o'er,
There's none like our own White Cliff!”

THE LADY'S HAND.

To horse! to horse! the trumpet sings,
'Midst clank of spear and shield;
The knight into his saddle springs,
And rushes to the field;
A lady look'd from out her bow'r,
A stately knight drew near,
And from her snowy hand she dropt
Her glove upon his spear;
He placed it on his helmet's crest,
And join'd the gallant band;
“The lady's glove but now is mine,
But soon I'll win the hand!”

Above the plunging tide of fight
The plumes now dance, like spray,
Where many a crest of note and might
Bore proudly through the fray;
But still the little glove was seen
The foremost of the band,
And deadly blows the fiercest fell
From that fair lady's hand;
Before the glove each foeman flies!
Its onset none can stand:—
More fatal e'en than lady's eyes
Was that fair lady's hand.

And now the trumpet sounds retreat,
The foeman drops his crest,
The fight is past, the sun has set,
And all have sunk to rest—
Save one—who spurs his panting steed
Back from the conquering band,
And he who won the lady's glove,
Now claims the lady's hand;—
'Tis won,—'tis won!—that gallant knight
Is proudest in the land:—
Oh! what can nerve the soldier's arm
Like hope of lady's hand!

THE SILENT FAREWELL.

In silence we parted, for neither could speak,
But the tremulous lip and the fast-fading cheek
To both were betraying what neither could tell—
How deep was the pang of that silent farewell.

There are signs—ah! the slightest, that love understands,
In the meeting of eyes—in the parting of hands—
In the quick breathing sighs that of deep passion tell—
Oh! such were the signs of our silent farewell!

There's a language more glowing love teaches the tongue
Than poet e'er dreamed, or than minstrel e'er sung,
But oh! far beyond all such language could tell,
The love that was told in that silent farewell!

'TIS TIME TO FLY.

Beware the chain love's wreathing
When some sweet voice you hear,
Whose gentlest, simplest breathing
Is music to thine ear;
And when in glances fleeting,
Some deep and speaking eye
With thine is often meeting—
Oh! then—'tis time to fly!

If there be form of lightness
To which thine eyes oft stray,
Or neck of snowy whiteness—
Remember'd—when away,
These symptoms love resemble—
And when some hand is nigh,
Whose touch doth make thee tremble—
Oh! then—'tis time to fly!

But if that voice of sweetness,
Like echo, still return;
And if that eye of brightness
With fascination burn;
To 'scape thou art not able,
No effort vainly try,
For, like the bird in fable,
Alas! thou can'st not fly.

WHEN GENTLE MUSIC.

When gentle music's sounding—
Such as this;
'Tis sweet when friends surrounding
Share our bliss:
But love them as we may,
We love them less when near,
Than when, through mem'ry's tear,
We view them—far away!

When over deserts burning,
Far we roam,
'Tis sweet, at last, returning
To our home:
Be't happy as it may,
That home no bliss bestows,
To fairy—bright, as those,
We fancied, when away.

And when fond hearts are meeting,
Beating high;
How sweet the brilliant greeting
Of the eye:
But tho' so bright its ray,
To lovers far more dear
Is the sad, the secret tear
Shed for one—who's far away.

MOTHER, HE'S GOING AWAY.

Mother
Now what are you crying for, Nelly?
Don't be blubbering there like a fool;
With the weight o' the grief, faith, I tell you
You'll break down the three-legged stool.
I suppose now you're crying for Barney,
But don't b'lieve a word that he'd say,
He tells nothing but big lies and blarney,
Sure you know how he sarved poor Kate Karney.

Daughter.
But, mother?

Mother.
Oh, bother!

Daughter.
Oh, mother, he's going away,
And I dreamt th' other night
Of his ghost—all in white! [Mother speaks in an under tone.

The dirty blackguard!]

Daughter.
Oh, mother, he's going away.

Mother.
If he's going away all the better,—
Blessed hour when he's out o' your sight!
There's one comfort—you can't get a letter—
For yiz neither can read nor can write.
Sure, 'twas only last week you protested,
Since he coorted fat Jinney Mc Cray,
That the sight o' the scamp you detested—
With abuse sure your tongue never rested—

Daughter.
But, mother?

Mother.
Oh, bother!

Daughter.
Oh, mother, he's going away! [Mother, speaking again with peculiar parental piety,

May he never come back!]

Daughter.
And I dream of his ghost
Walking round my bed-post—
Oh, mother, he's going away!

Ye.

UNDER THE ROSE.

If a secret you'd keep there is one I could tell,
Though I think, from my eyes, you might get it as well,
But as it might ruffle another's repose,
Like a thorn let it be;—that is—under the rose.

As Love, in the garden of Venus, one day,
Was sporting where he was forbidden to play,
He fear'd that some Sylph might his mischief disclose,
So he slily concealed himself—under a rose.

Where the likeness is found to thy breath and thy lips,
Where honey the sweetest the summer bee sips,
Where Love, timid Love, found the safest repose,
There our secret we'll keep, dearest,—under the rose.

The maid of the East a fresh garland may wreathe,
To tell of the passion she dares not to breathe:
Thus, in many bright flowers she her flame may disclose,
But in one she finds secresy;—under the rose.

THE SOLDIER.

'Twas a glorious day, worth a warrior's telling,
Two kings had fought, and the fight was done,
When, 'midst the shout of victory swelling,
A soldier fell on the field he won!
He thought of kings and of royal quarrels,
And thought of glory, without a smile;
For what had he to do with laurels?
He was only one of the rank-and-file!
But he pulled out his little cruiskeen,
And drank to his pretty colleen,
“Oh, darling!” says he, “when I die
You won't be a widow—for why?
Ah! you never would have me, vourneen.”

A raven tress from his bosom taking,
That now was stained with his life stream shed,
A fervent prayer o'er that ringlet making,
He blessings sought on the loved one's head;
And visions fair of his native mountains
Arose, enchanting his fading sight—
Their emerald valleys and crystal fountains
Were never shining more green and bright;
And grasping his little cruiskeen,
He pledged his dear Island of Green—
“Though far from thy valleys I die,
Dearest Isle, to my heart thou art nigh,
As though absent I never had been.”

A tear now fell, for, as life was sinking,
The pride that guarded his manly eye
Was weaker grown, and his last fond thinking
Brought heaven, and home, and his true love, nigh.
But with the fire of his gallant nation,
He scorn'd surrender without a blow!
He made with death capitulation,
And with war-like honours he still would go;
For draining his little cruiskeen,
He drank to his cruel colleen,
To the emerald land of his birth—
And lifeless he sank to the earth,
Brave a soldier as ever was seen!

A dram bottle.

Girl.

A term of endearment.

HOW SWEET 'TIS TO RETURN.

How sweet, how sweet 'tis to return
Where once we've happy been,
Tho' paler now life's lamp may burn,
And years have roll'd between;
And if the eyes beam welcome yet
That wept our parting then,
Oh! in the smiles of friends, thus met,
We live whole years again.

They tell us of a fount that flow'd
In happier days of yore,
Whose waters bright, fresh youth bestow'd,
Alas! the fount's no more.
But smiling memory still appears,
Presents her cup, and when
We sip the sweets of vanished years,
We live those years again.

MEMORY AND HOPE.

Oft have I mark'd, as o'er the sea
We've swept before the wind,
That those whose hearts were on the shore
Cast longing looks behind;
While they, whose hopes have elsewhere been,
Have watch'd with anxious eyes,
To see the hills that lay before,
Faint o'er the waters rise.

'Tis thus as o'er the sea of life
Our onward course we track,
That anxious sadness looks before,
The happy still look back;
Still smiling on the course they've pass'd,
As earnest of the rest:
'Tis Hope's the charm of wretchedness,
While Mem'ry woos the blest.

THEY SAY MY SONGS ARE ALL THE SAME.

They say my songs are all the same,
Because I only sing of thee:
Then be it so—and let them blame—
Such thoughts are dearer far to me
Than all the voice of Fame!
Let plaudits ring and fame reply,
Ah, sweeter far thy gentle sigh!
Let critics frown—I laugh the while—
What critic's frown is worth thy smile?
They say, &c., &c.

Poor critic!—had'st thou but the chance
To win my Stella's dazzling glance
When votive wreath of song I twine,
To lay on love's immortal shrine,
Could'st thou but see the mantling blush
Rewarding passion's lay,
Thou would's not bid me nay—
Then, loveless critic, hush!
They say, &c., &c.

Go, blame the rose's lovely hue,
Blame the bright sky for being blue,
Blame time when made of happiest hours,
Blame perfume shed from sweetest flowers,
And then blame me for being fond
Of something, all these sweets beyond!
Then be my songs still all the same,
For I will always sing of thee:
Thus be it so—and let them blame—
Such thoughts are dearer far to me
Than all the voice of fame!

THE VENETIAN LOVE CHASE.

A sea-nymph, fond and fair,
She loved a gondolier,
Who loved her songs to hear
Upon the stilly air,
Over the deep lagune,
When the midnight moon
Her silver path display'd—
(A path for lovers made)
But ah! that light,
So soft and bright,
Is sometimes crossed by shade.
But, lovers, do not fear,
Tho' the moon forsake the night:
For heaven hath other light
For a faithful gondolier.

And, night by night, more far
The gondolier would stray,
Allured by that soft lay,
And lit by one bright star.
Bolder and bolder, he,
Over the sounding sea
Pursued that witching strain,
But, ah! the lover's pain,
When to the shore,
With weary oar,
He sadly turned again.
But still he kept good cheer,
“For so fair a prize,” said he,
“I still must bolder be!”
Oh! fearless gondolier.

At length so bold he grew,
That, when the storm would rise,
And rayless were the skies,
Across the deep he flew,
Seeking that syren sound—
When tempests raged around,
He deadly dangers sought;
For life he held at nought,
Unless the charm
That nerved his arm
Love's sweet rewardings brought.
Oh! timid lovers, hear,
How the blue-eyed nymph at last,
For his dangers, bravely past,
Bless'd her gallant gondolier.

THE TRYSTING TREE.

Now the golden sun hath set,
And I am at the trysting tree,
Dearest, you will not forget
That here to meet you promised me.
Now is every flower closing,
Falling is the ev'ning dew,
Birds are with their mates reposing—
Where, my true Love, where are you?

Darkness is around descending,
See the lovely ev'ning star
Like a brilliant page, attending
On the young moon's silver car!
While together thus they wander
Through the silent summer sky,
So on earth, less bright, but fonder,
Dearest, so will you and I.

LOVE AND HOME AND NATIVE LAND.

When o'er the silent deep we rove
More fondly then our thoughts will stray
To those we leave—to those we love,
Whose prayers pursue our watery way.
When in the lonely midnight hour,
The sailor takes his watchful stand,
His heart then feels the holiest power
Of love and home and native land.

In vain may tropic climes display
Their glittering shores—their gorgeous shells;
Though bright birds wing their dazzling way,
And glorious flowers adorn the dells,
Though Nature, there prolific, pours
The treasures of her magic hand,
The eye—but not the heart adores:
The heart still beats for native land.

KITTY CREAGH.

“Oh! tell me now where you are going
Sweet Kitty Creagh?”
“To the glen where the hazels are growing,
I'm taking my way.”
“The nuts are not ripe yet, sweet Kitty,
As yet we're but making the hay:
An autumn excuse
Is in summer no use
Sweet Kitty Creagh.”

“What is it to you where I'm going—
Misther Maguire?
The twigs in the hazel glen growing
Make a good fire.”
“The turf in the bog's nearer, Kitty,
And fitter for firing they say;
Don't think me a goose,
Faith I twig your excuse,
Sly Kitty Creagh.

“We're saving our turf for the winther,
Misther Maguire;
And your gibes and your jokes shall not hindher
What I require.”
“Ah, I know why you're going there, Kitty,
Not fire, but a flame you should say
You seek in the shade
Of the hazel wood glade—
Sly Kitty Creagh!”

“There's a stream through that hazel wood flowing,
Sweet Kitty Creagh;
Where I see, with his fishing rod going,
Phelim O'Shea;
'Tis not for the nuts you are seeking,
Nor gathering of fuel in May,
And 'tis not catching throut
That young Phelim's about—
Sweet Kitty Creagh!”

MARY MACHREE.

The flower of the valley was Mary Machree,
Her smiles all bewitching were lovely to see,
The bees round her humming, when summer was gone,
When the roses were fled, might take her lip for one;
Her laugh it was music—her breath it was balm—
Her heart, like the lake, was as pure and as calm,
Till love o'er it came, like a breeze o'er the sea,
And made the heart heave of sweet Mary Machree

She loved—and she wept: for was gladness e'er known
To dwell in the bosom that Love makes its own?
His joys are but moments—his griefs are for years—
He comes all in smiles—but he leaves all in tears.
Her lover was gone to a far distant land,
And Mary, in sadness, would pace the lone strand,
And tearfully gaze o'er the dark rolling sea
That parted her soldier from Mary Machree.

THE ROAD OF LIFE;

OR, SONG OF THE IRISH POST-BOY.

Oh! youth, happy youth! what a blessing!
In thy freshness of dawn and of dew;
When hope, the young heart is caressing,
And our griefs are but light and but few:
Yet in life, as it swiftly flies o'er us,
Some musing for sadness we find;
In youth—we've our troubles before us,
In age—we leave pleasure behind.

Aye—Trouble's the post-boy that drives us
Up hill till we get to the top;
While Joy's an old servant behind us
We call on for ever to stop;
“Oh! put on the drag, Joy, my jewel,
As long as the sunset still glows;
Before it is dark 'twould be cruel
To haste to the hill-foot's repose.

But there stands an inn we must stop at,
An extinguisher swings for the sign;
That house is but cold and but narrow—
But the prospect beyond it—divine!
And there—whence there's never returning,
When we travel—as travel we must—
May the gates be all free for our journey!
And the tears of our friends lay the dust!

TEA TABLE TACTICS.

They may talk of the ruin
That Bacchus is brewing,
But if my advice a young soldier would ask, sir,
I would say that the hiccups
Are safer than tea-cups,
So beware of the chaynee and stick to your flask, sir.
Had I stood to my bowl,
Like a gay jovial soul,
By this time I might be a general officer;
But I dallied with Sally,
And Betty, and Ally,
And lost all my time with their tay and their coffee, sir—
Oh! tay is a dangerous drink,
When the lady that makes it's a beauty;
With her fingers so nate,
She presents you a plate,
And to cut bread and butter she puts you on duty;

Then she pouts her bright lips,
While the Congou she sips,
And her sweet mouth some question demanding,
Puts your heart beyond all self-commanding,
Through the steam of the teapot her eyes shine like stars,
And Venus again makes a conquest of Mars.

When I entered the army,
At first it did charm me;
Says I, “by St. Patrick, I'll yet live in story,
When war is announced—”
But a petticoat flounced
With a nate bit of lace, it ensnar'd me from glory.
Had I mounted the breach,
Glory's lesson to teach,
I might have escaped, and a pension be paying me;
Instead of soft folly,
With Nancy or Molly,
Which bound me, like Sampson, while Cupid was slaying me.
Oh! tay is a dangerous drink, &c., &c.

LADY MINE.

Lady mine! Lady mine!
Take the rosy wreath I twine;
All its sweets are less than thine,
Lady, lady mine!
The blush that on thy cheek is found,
Bloometh fresh the whole year round;
Thy sweet breath as sweet, gives sound,
Lady, lady mine!

Lady mine! lady mine!
How I love the graceful vine,
Whose tendrils mock thy ringlet's twine,
Lady, lady mine!
How I love that gen'rous tree
Whose ripe clusters promise me
Bumpers bright—to pledge to thee
Lady, lady mine!

Lady mine! lady mine!
Like the stars that nightly shine,
Thy sweet eyes shed light divine,
Lady, lady mine!
And as sages wise, of old
From the stars could fate unfold,
Thy bright eyes my fortune told,
Lady, lady mine!

I LEAVE YOU TO GUESS.

There's a lad that I know; and I know that he
Speaks softly to me
The cushla-ma-chree.
He's the pride of my heart, and he loves me well,
But whom the lad is,—I'm not going te tell.

He's as straight as a rush, and as bright as the stream
That around it doth gleam,
Oh! of him how I dream;
I'm as high as his shoulder—the way that I know
Is, he caught me one day, just my measure to show.

He whisper'd a question one day in my ear;
When he breathed it,—oh dear!
How I trembled with fear!
What the question he ask'd was, I need not confess,
But the answer I gave to the question was—“Yes.”

His eyes they are bright, and they looked so kind,
When I was inclined
To speak my mind;
And his breath is so sweet—oh, the rose's is less,
And how I found it out,—why, I leave you to guess.

DERMOT O' DOWD.

When Dermot o' Dowd coorted Molly M'Cann,
They were as sweet as the honey and as soft as the down,
But when they were wed they began to find out
That Dermot could storm, and that Molly could frown;
They would neither give in—so the neighbours gave out—
Both were hot, till a coldness came over the two,
And Molly would flusther, and Dermot would blusther,
Stamp holes in the flure, and cry out “weirasthru!
Oh murther! I'm married,
I wish I had tarried;
I'm sleepless, and speechless—no word can I say,
My bed is no use—
I'll give back to the goose
The feathers I plucked on last Michaelmas day.”

“Ah!” says Molly, “you once used to call me a bird.”
“Faix you're ready enough still to fly out,” says he.
“You said then my eyes were as bright as the skies,
And my lips like the rose—now no longer like me.”
Says Dermot, “Your eyes are as bright as the morn,
But your brow is as black as a big thunder cloud,
If your lip is a rose, faith your tongue is a thorn
That sticks in the heart of poor Dermot o' Dowd.”

Says Molly, “You once said my voice was a thrush,
But now it's a rusty old hinge with a creak,”
Says Dermot, “You called me a duck when I coorted,
But now I'm a goose every day in the week:—
But all husbands are geese, though our pride it may shock,
From the first 'twas ordained so by Nature I fear;
Ould Adam himself was the first of the flock,
And Eve, with her apple sauce, cooked him, my dear.”

WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE?

“What will you do, love, when I am going,
With white sail flowing,
The seas beyond—
What will you do, love, when waves divide us
And friends may chide us
For being fond?”
“Tho' waves divide us—and friends be chiding,
In faith abiding
I'll still be true!
And I'll pray for thee on the stormy ocean,
In deep devotion—
That's what I'll do!”

“What would you do, love, if distant tidings
Thy fond confidings
Should undermine?—
And I, abiding 'neath sultry skies,
Should think other eyes
Were as bright as thine?”
“Oh, name it not!—tho' guilt and shame
Were on thy name
I'd still be true:
But that heart of thine—should another share it—
I could not bear it!
What would I do?”

“What would you do, love, when home returning,
With hopes high burning,
With wealth for you,
If my bark, which bounded o'er foreign foam,
Should be lost near home—
Ah! what would you do?”
“So thou wert spared—I'd bless the morrow
In want and sorrow,
That left me you;
And I'd welcome thee from the wasting billow
This heart thy pillow—
That's what I'd do!”

THE DREAMER.

“Dreaming—dreaming—dreaming!—
Dreamer, what dreamest thou?”
“I dream of a lovely valley,
I dream of a mountain brow,

I dream of a mouldering ruin,
I dream of a turret tall,
And I dream of the verdant ivy
That clings to the castle wall:
And I think as I gaze
Through Fancy's haze,
Of a fairy hand, so fair,
That pluck'd the bright leaf
In an hour—too brief,
And wreathed it in her dark hair.”

“Dreaming—dreaming—dreaming!—
Dreamer, awake, and rise!
For sparkling things are round thee,
To win for thine own bright prize.
Of the past there is no returning,
The future uncertain gleams,
Be thine, then, the joys of the present,
Away with thy bardic dreams!”
“No—the dream is more sweet
Of those hours—too fleet,
When that fairy hand, so fair,
Did pluck the bright flow'r
From her own sweet bow'r
To wreathe in the raven hair.”

THE ROYAL DREAM.

Upon a couch of royal state a lady fair reposed,
And, wrapt in pleasing visions bright, her soft blue eye was closed,
And, in that dream so beautiful, a mountain sprite was seen,
Whose brow was circled with a wreath of triple leaves so green.

Then sang the sprite, “Ah! lady bright! why seek a foreign shore,
And leave, unseen, thine island green, where loyal hearts adore?
You never met such welcome yet—ne'er saw such sunny smile,
As will greet thee on thy landing in thine own Emerald Isle.”

And as the lady dreamed, she smiled, and waking, spoke her mind—
“Prepare my bravest ships, and spread their white wings to the wind,
And bear me to the verdant isle the spirit showed to me,
The fairest spot I yet have seen within my subject sea.”
The fav'ring gale soon filled the sail—the brave ships make the shore—
A fairy bark then seeks the strand amid the cannon's roar;
And her banner glitter'd in the sun—for heaven itself did smile
On the landing of the lady in her own Emerald Isle.

But the lady hears the million-shout above the cannon's roar,
That thunder-shout of loyal hearts along the echoing shore!
And her noble heart it echoed too—and thus did echo say,
“I ne'er so proudly felt my power as on this glorious day!”
It was a glorious day indeed—fond bosoms beating high—
A blessing hung on every tongue—devotion lit each eye:
Oh! brightest day of all her sway, the day she won the smile
That did greet the lady, landing in her own Emerald Isle!

THE SUNSHINE IN YOU.

It is sweet when we look round the wide world's waste,
To know that the desert bestows
The palms where the heavy head may rest,
The spring that in purity flows.
And where have I found
In this wilderness round,
That spring and that shelter so true;
Unfailing in need—
And my own, indeed?—
Oh! dearest, I've found it in you!

And, oh! when the cloud of some darkening hour
O'ershadows the soul with its gloom;
Then where is the light of the vestal pow'r,
The lamp of pale hope to illume?
Oh! the light ever lies
In those fond bright eyes,
Where heaven has impress'd its own blue,
As a seal from the skies;
And my heart relies
On that gift of its sunshine in you!

PADDY'S PASTORAL RHAPSODY.

When Molly th' other day, sir,
Was makin' of the hay, sir,
I ask'd her for to be my bride,
And Molly she began to chide;

Says she, “You are too young, dear Pat.”
Says I, “My jew'l, I'll mend o' that.”
“You are too poor,” says she, beside,
When to convince her, then, I tried,
That wealth is an invintion
The wise should never mintion,
And flesh is grass, and flowers will fade,
And its better be wed than die an owld maid.

The purty little sparrows
Have neither ploughs nor harrows,
Yet they live at aise and are contint,
Bekase, you see, they pay no rint;
They have no care nor flustherin',
About diggin' or industherin'
No foolish pride their comfort hurts—
For they eat the flax and wear no shirts—
For wealth is an invintion, &c., &c.

Sure nature clothes the hills dear,
Without any tailor's bills, dear,
And the bees they sip their sweets, my sowl,
Though they never had a sugar bowl,
The dew it feeds the rose of June—
But 'tis not with a silver spoon:
Then let us patthern take from those,
The birds and bees, and lovely rose,
For wealth is an invintion, &c., &c.

Here's a cup to you my darlin',
Though I'm not worth a farthin',
I'll pledge my coat, to drink your health,
And then I'll envy no man's wealth;

For when I'm drunk I think I'm rich,
I've a feather bed in every ditch,
I dhrame o' you, my heart's delight,
And how could I pass a pleasanter night?
For wealth is an invintion, &c., &c.

THE TWO BIRDS.

A bright bird lived in a golden cage,
So gently tended by groom and page,
And a wild bird came, her pomp to see,
And said, “I wish I could live like thee;
For thou cans't sing,
And prune thy wing,
While dainty fare
Thy slaves prepare.”
The wild bird came her pomp to see,
And said, “I wish I could live like thee!”

Then from the cage came a plaintive voice,
Which bade the wild bird to rejoice,
“For I'd give my golden cage,” said she,
“For thy humble perch on the wild-wood tree;
For thou cans't sing
On freedom's wing
These bars of gold
A slave enfold;”
“I'd give my golden cage,” said she,
“For thy humble perch on the wild-wood tree.”

Then, when the bird of the wild-wood knew
The bright one weary of bondage grew,
He set the pining captive free,
And away they flew singing “Liberty.”
In joy they roam
Their leafy home,
And trill the lay
The live long day—
The lay of love, from hearts set free,
For love was blest with liberty!

THE LOW-BACKED CAR.

When first I saw sweet Peggy
'Twas on a market day,
A low-backed car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay;
But when that hay was blooming grass,
And deck'd with flowers of spring,
No flower was there
That could compare
To the blooming girl I sing,
As she sat in her low-backed car—
The man at the turnpike bar
Never asked for the toll—
But just rubb'd his owld poll,
And look'd after the low-backed car!

In battle's wild commotion,
The proud and mighty Mars,
With hostile scythes, demands his tithes
Of Death, in warlike cars;

But Peggy—peaceful goddess—
Has darts in her bright eye,
That knock men down
In the market town,
As right and left they fly—
While she sits in her low-backed car,
Than battle more dangerous far,
For the doctor's art
Cannot cure the heart
That is hit from that low-backed car.

Sweet Peggy, round her car, sir,
Has strings of ducks and geese,
But the scores of hearts she slaughters
By far outnumber these;
While she among her poultry sits,
Just like a turtle dove,
Well worth the cage,
I do engage,
Of the blooming God of Love!
As she sits in her low-backed car,
The lovers come near and far,
And envy the chicken
That Peggy is pickin'
As she sits in the low-backed car.

I'd rather own that car, sir,
With Peggy by my side,
Than a coach and four, and goold galore,
And a lady for my bride;

For the lady would sit forninst me
On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would sit beside me,
With my arm around her waist,
As we drove in the low-backed car,
To be married by Father Maher—
Oh! my heart would beat high
At her glance and her sigh—
Tho' it beat in a low-backed car.

Plenty.

Before.

ASK ME NOT WHAT I AM THINKING.

Ask me not what I am thinking—
Why pale sadness sits on my cheek—
Not when the full heart is sinking
Is the fit moment to speak;
Wait—only wait till to-morrow,
When morn on my parting shall shine,
Perchance in thine own silent sorrow,
Thou'lt guess at the meaning of mine.

Haply, at eve, when you wander
Through the bloom and the sweets of thy bowers,
Thy thought of the hand will be fonder
That yesterday gathered thee flowers;
And, though as bright ones be braided
At night in thy rich raven hair,
Thy brow with regret will be shaded
That he who adores is not there.

And in the ball's mazy measure,
Receiving the homage of smiles,
Vainly the lurings of pleasure
Around thee are spreading their wiles;
There, 'mong the many—a lone one;
Vainly the revel may shine:
'Midst all the mirth—thou'rt mine own one,
Though I am absent—I'm thine!

THE BOWLD SOJER BOY.

Oh! there's not a trade that's going,
Worth showing,
Or knowing,
Like that from glory growing
For a bowld sojer boy!
When right or left we go,
Sure you know,
Friend or foe
Will have the hand or toe,
From a bowld sojer boy!
There's not a town we march thro',
But the ladies, looking arch thro'
The window panes, will search thro'
The ranks to find their joy;
While up the street
Each girl you meet,
With look so sly,
Will cry
“My eye!
Oh, isn't he a darling, the bowld sojer boy!”

But when we get the route,
How they pout
And they shout,
While to the right about
Goes the bowld sojer boy;
Oh, 'tis then, that ladies fair
In despair
Tear their hair,
But “the divil-a-one I care,”
Says the bowld sojer boy!
For the world is all before us,
Where the landladies adore us,
And ne'er refuse to score us,
But chalk us up with joy;
We taste her tap—
We tear her cap—
“Oh! that's the chap
For me!”
Says she,
“Oh! isn't he a darling, the bowld sojer boy!”

“Then come along with me,
Gramachree,
And you'll see
How happy you will be
With your bowld sojer boy;
Faith! if you're up to fun,
With me run,
'Twill be done
In the snapping of a gun,”
Says the bold sojer boy;

And 'tis then that, without scandal,
Myself will proudly dandle
The little farthing candle
Of our mutual flame, my joy;
May his light shine
As bright as mine,
Till in the line
He'll blaze,
And raise
The glory of his corps, like a bowld sojer boy!”

A LEAF THAT REMINDS OF THEE.

How sweet is the hour we give,
When fancy may wander free,
To the friends who in memory live!—
For then I remember thee!
Then wing'd, like the dove from the ark,
My heart, o'er a stormy sea,
Brings back to my lonely bark
A leaf that reminds of thee!

But still does the sky look dark,
The waters still deep and wide,
Oh! when may my lonely bark
In peace on the shore abide?
But through the future far,
Dark though my course may be,
Thou art my guiding star!
My heart still turns to thee!

When I see thy friends I smile,
I sigh when I hear thy name;
But they cannot tell, the while,
Whence the smile or the sadness came.
Vainly the world may deem
The cause of my sighs they know:—
The breeze that stirs the stream
Knows not the depths below.

THE VOICE WITHIN.

You ask the dearest place on earth,
Whose simple joys can never die;
'Tis the holy pale of the happy hearth,
Where love doth light each beaming eye!
With snowy shroud,
Let tempests loud
Around my old tower raise their din;—
What boots the shout
Of storms without,
While voices sweet resound within?
O! dearer sound
For the tempests round,
The voices sweet within!

I ask not wealth, I ask not power,
But, gracious Heaven, oh grant to me,
That when the storms of fate may lower,
My heart just like my home may be!
When in the gale
Poor Hope's white sail

No haven can for shelter win;
Fate's darkest skies
The heart defies,
Whose still small voice is sweet within!
Oh! heavenly sound!
'Mid the tempest round,
That voice so sweet within!

SAY NOT MY HEART IS COLD.

Say not my heart is cold,
Though silent be my tongue;
The lute of faultless mould
In silence oft hath hung;
The fountain soonest spent
Doth babble down the steep;
But the stream that ever went
Is silent, strong, and deep.

The charm of a secret life
Is given to choicest things:—
Of flowers, the fragrance rife
Is wafted on viewless wings;
We see not the charmed air
Bearing some witching sound;
And ocean deep is where
The pearl of price is found.

Where are the stars by day?
They burn, though all-unseen;
And love of purest ray
Is like the stars I ween:

Unmark'd is its gentle light
When the sunshine of joy appears,
But ever, in sorrow's night,
'Twill glitter upon thy tears!

WIDOW MACHREE.

Widow Machree, it's no wonder you frown,
Och hone! Widow Machree;
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown,
Och hone! Widow Machree.
How altered your air,
With that close cap you wear—
'Tis destroying your hair
Which should be flowing free;
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl,
Och hone! Widow Machree!

Widow Machree, now the summer is come,
Och hone! Widow Machree:
When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum?
Och hone! Widow Machree.
See the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares—
Why even the bears
Now in couples agree;
And the mute little fish,
Though they can't spake, they wish,
Och hone! Widow Machree.

Widow Machree, and when winter comes in,
Och hone! Widow Machree,
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,
Och hone! Widow Machree;
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs,
And the kettle sings songs
Full of family glee;
While alone with your cup,
Like a hermit, you sup,
Och hone! Widow Machree.

And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld,
Och hone! Widow Machree,
But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld?
Och hone! Widow Machree:
With such sins on your head
Sure your peace would be fled,
Could you sleep in your bed
Without thinking to see
Some ghost or some sprite,
That would wake you each night,
Crying, “Och hone! Widow Machree?”

Then take my advice, darling Widow Machree,
Och hone! Widow Machree;
And with my advice, faith I wish you'd take me,
Och hone! Widow Machree.
You'd have me to desire,
Then to sit by the fire,
And sure Hope is no liar
In whispering to me,
That the ghosts would depart,
When you'd me near your heart,
Och hone! Widow Machree.

THE QUAKER'S MEETING.

A traveller wended the wilds among,
With a purse of gold and a silver tongue;
His hat it was broad and all drab were his clothes,
For he hated high colours—except on his nose,
And he met with a lady, the story goes.
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

The damsel she cast him a beamy blink,
And the traveller nothing was loth, I think,
Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath,
And the quaker he grinned, for he'd very good teeth,
And he ask'd “Art thee going to ride on the heath?”
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

“I hope you'll protect me kind sir,” said the maid,
“As to ride this heath over I'm sadly afraid;
For robbers, they say, here in numbers abound,
And I wouldn't ‘for anything’ I should be found,
For—between you and me—I have five hundred pound.”
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

“If that is thee own dear,” the quaker he said,
“I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed;
And I have another five hundred just now,
In the padding that's under my saddle-bow,
And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow!”
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

The maiden she smil'd, and her rein she drew,
“Your offer I'll take—though I'll not take you.”
A pistol she held at the quaker's head—
“Now give me your gold—or I'll give you my lead—
Tis under the saddle I think you said.”
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

The damsel she ripped up the saddle-bow,
And the quaker was never a quaker till now,
And he saw, by the fair one he wish'd for a bride,
His purse borne away with a swaggering stride,
And the eye that shamm'd tender, now only defied.
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

“The spirit doth move me, friend Broadbrim,” quoth she,
“To take all this filthy temptation from thee,
For Mammon deceiveth—and beauty is fleeting;
Accept from thy maaid'n a right loving greeting,
For much doth she profit by this Quaker's meeting.”
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

“And hark! jolly quaker, so rosy and sly,
Have righteousness, more than a wench, in thine eye,
Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath,
Remember the one that you met on the heath,—
Her name's Jimmy Barlow—I tell to your teeth!”
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee

“Friend James,” quoth the quaker, “pray listen to me,
For thou cans't confer a great favour, d'ye see;
The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my friend,
But my master's—and truly on thee I depend,
To make it appear I my trust did defend.”
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

“So fire a few shots through my clothes, here and there,
To make it appear 'twas a desp'rate affair.”—
So Jim he popp'd first through the skirt of his coat,
And then through his collar—quite close to his throat;
“Now one through my broadbrim” quoth Ephraim, “I vote.”
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

“I have but a brace,” said bold Jim, and they're spent,”
And I wont load again for a make-believe rent.”—
“Then”—said Ephraim, producing his pistols—“just give
My five hundred pounds back—or as sure as you live
I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve.”
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

Jim Barlow was diddled—and, though he was game,
He saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim,
That he gave up the gold, and he took to his scrapers,
And when the whole story got into the papers,
They said that “the thieves were no match for the Quakers.”
Heigho! yea thee and nay thee.

The inferior class of quakers make thee serve not only in its own grammatieal use, but also do the duty of thou, thy and thine.

THE DOVE SONG.

Coo! coo! coo! coo!
Thus did I hear the turtle dove,
Coo! coo! coo!
Murmuring forth her love;
And as she flew from tree to tree,
How melting seemed the notes to me—
Coo! coo! coo!

So like the voice of lovers,
'Twas passing sweet to hear
The bird within the covers,
In the spring time of the year.

Coo! coo! coo! coo!
Thus the songs returned again—
Coo! coo! coo!
Through the shady glen;
But there I wandered lone and sad,
While every bird around was glad;
Coo! coo! coo!
Thus so fondly murmured they,
Coo! coo! coo!
While my love was away.
And yet the song to lovers,
Though sad, is sweet to hear,
From birds within the covers,
In the spring time of the year.

THERE IS A GENTLE GLEAM.

There is a gentle gleam when the dawn is nigh,
That sheds a tender light o'er the morning sky,
When we see that light, we know
That the noontide soon will glow.
O! such the light, I know,
In my true love's eye.

There is a blushing bud on the springtide bough,
That tells of coming fruit—tho' 'tis fruitless now,
So, the blush I love to trace
O'er the beauty of that face,
Tells that love will come apace,
As I breathe my vow.

There are mem'ries of the past which we all love well,
And the present rings its chime like a silver bell;
But the future—all unknown,
Hath a music of its own,
For the promise of its tone
Can all else excel!

THE CONVENT BELLE.

There once was a Novice, as I've heard tell,
A Novice of some renown,
Whose raven hair in ringlets fell
O'er his yet unshaven crown;
But his vows as yet he had never said,
Except to a blooming blue-eyed maid,
And she had never confessed till now,
To this Novice, who yet had not made his vow.
So pious she grew, that early and late
She was tapping, alone, at the convent gate;
And so often she went her sins to tell,
That the villagers called her the Convent Belle.
Ding dong,
My song,
My song's of a Convent Belle.

The Novice continued the maid to hear,
And swiftly the months went round;
He had nearly passed his trial-year,
Before he was guilty found.
But then suspicion began to spread,
So the cowl he cast from his curly head,
The maiden he wedded next morning tide,
And his penitent pale was his blooming bride!
The prior he stormed at the bridegroom meek,
Who answered him fast,—with a smile on his cheek.
“Good father, indeed I have acted well,—
I was only ringing the Convent Belle.”
Ding dong,
My song,
My song's of a Convent Belle

NATIVE MUSIC.

Oh! native music! beyond comparing
The sweetest far on the ear that falls,
Thy gentle numbers the heart remembers,
Thy strains enchain us in tender thralls.
Thy tones endearing,
Or sad or cheering,
The absent soothe on a foreign strand;
Ah! who can tell
What a holy spell
Is in the song of our native land?

The proud and lowly, the pilgrim holy,
The lover, kneeling at beauty's shrine,
The bard who dreams by the haunted streams,—
All, all are touch'd by thy power divine!
The captive cheerless,
The soldier fearless;
The mother,—taught by Nature's hand,
Her child when weeping,
Will lull to sleeping,
With some sweet song of her native land!

THE LAND OF DREAMS.

There is a land where Fancy's twining
Her flowers around life's faded tree;
Where light is ever softly shining,
Like sunset o'er a tranquil sea;
'Tis there thou dwell'st in beauty's brightness,
More fair than aught on earth e'er seems,
'Tis there my heart feels most of lightness,
There, in the lovely land of dreams.

'Tis there in groves I often meet thee,
And wander through the silent shade,
While I, in gentlest accents, greet thee,
My own, my sweet, my constant maid!
There by some fountain fair, reposing,
While all around so tranquil seems,
We wait the golden evening's closing—
There, in the lovely land of dreams.

100

But when the touch of earthly waking
Hath broken slumber's sweetest spell,
Those fairy joys of fancy's making
Are in my heart remembered well.
The day, in all its sunshine splendour,
Less dear to me than midnight seems,
When visions shed a light more tender
Around the lovely land of dreams.

THE LAND OF THE WEST.

Oh! come to the West, love,—oh! come there with me;
'Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs from the sea,
Where fair plenty smiles from her emerald throne;
Oh, come to the West, and I'll make thee my own!
I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee the best,
And you'll say there's no land like the land of the West!

The South has it's roses and bright skies of blue,
But ours are more sweet with love's own changeful hue—
Half sunshine, half tears,—like the girl I love best,
Oh! what is the South to the beautiful West!
Then come to the West, and the rose on thy mouth
Will be sweeter to me than the flow'rs of the South!

The North has it's snow-tow'rs of dazzling array,
All sparkling with gems in the ne'er-setting day;
There the Storm-King may dwell in the halls he loves best,
But the soft-breathing Zephyr he plays in the West.
Then come there with me, where no cold wind doth blow
And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the snow!

101

The Sun in the gorgeous East chaseth the night
When he riseth, refreshed, in his glory and might,
But where doth he go when he seeks his sweet rest?
Oh! doth he not haste to the beautiful West?
Then come there with me: 'tis the land I love best,
'Tis the land of my sires!—'tis my own darling West!

JESSIE.

Sweet Jessie was young and simple,
And mirth beam'd in her eye,
And her smile made a rosy dimple
Where love might wish to lie;
But when lovers were sighing after,
And vowed she was matchless fair,
Her silver-sounding laughter
Said, love had not been there.

The summer had seen her smiling
'Mong flowers as fair as she,
But autumn beheld her sighing,
When the leaves fell from the tree;
And the light of her eye was shaded,
And her brow had a cast of care,
And the rose on her cheek was faded,
For oh! love had been there.

When winter winds were blowing,
She roved by the stormy shore,
And looked o'er the angry ocean,
And shrunk at the breakers' roar;

102

And her sighs, and her tearful wonder,
At the perils that sailors dare
In the storm and the battle's thunder,
Show'd love was trembling there.

No ring is upon her finger,
And the raven locks are gray,
Yet traces of beauty linger—
Like the light of the parting day;
She looks, with a glance so tender,
On a locket of golden hair,
And a tear to his ship's defender
Show'd love still dwelling there.

NEVER DESPAIR.

Oh never despair, for our hopes oftentime
Spring quickly as flow'rs in some tropical clime,
Where the spot that was barren and scentless at night,
Is blooming and fragrant at morning's first light;
The mariner marks when the tempest sings loud,
That the rainbow is brighter the darker the cloud,
Then up! up! Never despair!

The leaves which the Sybil presented of old,
Tho' lessen'd in number were not worth less gold;
And tho' Fate steal our joys, do not think they're the best,
The few she has spared may be worth all the rest;
Good fortune oft comes in Adversity's form,
And the rainbow is brightest when darkest the storm,
Then up! up! Never despair!

103

And of old, when Creation was sunk in the flood,
Sublime o'er the deluge the Patriarch stood;
Tho' destruction around him in thunder was hurl'd,
Undaunted he looked on the wreck of the world;
For high o'er the ruin hung Hope's blessed form,
The rainbow beamed bright thro' the gloom of the storm:
Then up! up! Never despair!

THE POOR BLIND BOY.

A maid, with a heart that could feel,
Met a poor little beggar one day,
Who, in strains full of woe, did appeal,
As he wander'd alone by the way;
A light hazel wand in his hand,
He in finding his way did employ,
As he cried, “Oh, pity, pity,
Oh! pity the poor blind boy!”

With a tear she bestowed him relief,
And sighing, she turned to depart;
When the boy, with the air of a thief,
Cried, “Stand, and deliver—your heart!”
His staff was soon changed to a bow,
Which, we know, is a dangerous toy
In the hands of a certain urchin
Who, they say, is a poor blind boy.

104

This beggar boy, bold in his theft,
Stole her heart and bewildered her head,
And the maiden in anguish he left,
For his rags turned to wings—and he fled;
So, ladies, beware of all youths
Who begging petitions employ,
And cry, “Pity, pity, pity,
Oh pity your poor blind boy!”

THE WIND AND THE WEATHERCOCK.

The summer wind lightly was playing
Round the battlement high of the tow'r,
Where a vane, like a lady, was staying,
A lady vain perch'd in her bow'r.
To peep round the corner, the sly wind would try:
But vanes, you know, never look in the wind's eye;
And so she kept turning shily away;—
Thus they kept playing all through the day.

The summer wind said, “She's coquetting,”
But each belle has her points to be found;
Before evening, I'll venture on betting
She will not then go but come round!
So he tried from the east end, he tried from the west,
And the north and the south, to try which was best;
But still she kept turning shily away;—
Thus they kept playing all through the day.

105

At evening, her hard heart to soften,
He said, “You're a flirt, I am sure;
But if vainly you're changing so often,
No lover you'll ever secure.”
“Sweet sir,” said the vane, “it is you who begin,
When you change so often, in me 'tis no sin;
If you cease to flutter, and steadily sigh,
And only be constant—I'm sure so will I.”

YES AND NO.

There are two little words that we use,
Without thinking from whence they both came,
But if you will list to my muse,
The birth-place of each I will name.
The one came from Heaven, to bless,
The other was sent from below,
What a sweet little angel is “Yes!”
What a demon-like dwarf is that “No!”

And “No” has a fiend he can bid,
To aid all his doings as well;
In the delicate arch it lies hid
That adorns the bright eye of the belle;
Beware of the shadowy frown
Which darkens her bright brow of snow
As, bent like a bow to strike down,
Her lip gives you death with a “No.”

106

But “Yes” has a twin-sister sprite,—
'Tis a smile, you will easily guess,
That sheds a more heavenly light
On the doings of dear little “Yes,”
Increasing the charm of the lip,
That is going some lover to bless—
Oh sweet is the exquisite smile
That dimples and plays around “Yes.”

THE SLAVE TRADE.

[_]

Written at the period of the “Abolition of Slavery” question.

When Venus first rose from the wave,
Where of sea-foam they gracefully made her,
Three cheers for the goddess they gave,
As they launch'd, in her shell, the fair trader;
But she—an insurgent by birth,
Unfetter'd by legal or grave trade,
Defying our laws on the earth,
So boldly embark'd in the Slave Trade.

O'er the world, from that hour of her birth,
She carried her Slave Trade victorious,
And then, to her daughters of earth
Entrusted the privilege glorious;
“Unfetter'd,” she cried, “never leave
One slave to object to your brave trade,
While you stand to your colours, believe
You may always insist on your Slave Trade!”

107

“Oh! 'tis glorious a heart to subdue,
By the conquering light of your glances:
By the smiles that endanger a few,
And the sigh that whole dozens entrances:
Unbind not a link of the chain,
Stand by me each merry and grave maid;
Let senators thunder in vain—
The ladies will still have their Slave Trade!”

VICTORIA, THE QUEEN.

[_]

Written on Her Majesty's Accession to the Throne.

All hail to the Queen of the fair and the brave!
Let the bold song of joy reach the skies!
Bright, bright o'er the foam of her own subject wave,
See the Star of Victoria arise!
Young queen of the ocean, prophetic our fire,
To hail thee the greatest we've seen,
Hark! the thundering strain of the old sea-god's quire,
To welcome Victoria the queen.

May years full of honour and loyalty's love
Be thine in thy place of renown;
To say that we honour thee, means not enough,
For Britons all honour the crown.
But the crown that encircles young beauty's fair brow,
With fonder devotion is seen,
And chivalry sheds its romance o'er the vow
We pledge to Victoria the queen.

108

Long, long, royal maid, may the olive entwine
With the laurels that circle thy crown;
But if war should arouse the old Lion again,
'Twill be to increase thy renown:
To battle while rushing, each heart would beat high
To triumph, as wont we have been,
Propitious to conquest our bold battle-cry,
“Victoria, for England's fair queen!”

A true prophecy—Vide Alma, Balaklava, Inkermnan.

MARCH!

[_]

The Song of the Month, from Bentley's Miscellany for March, 1837.

March, March! Why the de'il don't you march
Faster than other months out of your order?
You're a horrible beast, with the wind from the east,
And high-hopping hail and slight sleet on your border;
Now, our umbrellas spread, flutter above our head,
And will not stand to our arms in good order;
While, flapping and tearing, they set a man swearing,
Round the corner, where blasts blow away half the border!

March, March! I'm ready to faint,
That Saint Patrick had not his nativity's casting;
I am sure, if he had, such a peaceable lad
Would have never been born amid blowing and blasting;
But as it was his fate, Irishmen emulate
Doing what doom or St. Paddy may order;
And if they're forced to fight through their wrongs for their right,
They'll stick to their flag while a thread's in its border.

109

March, March! Have you no feeling
E'en for the fair sex who make us knock under?
You cold-blooded divil, you're far more uncivil
Than summer himself with his terrible thunder!
Every day we meet ladies down Regent street,
Holding their handkerchiefs up in good order;
But, do all that we can, the most merciful man
Must see the blue noses peep over the border.

SERENADE.

Hark to my lute sweetly ringing!
List love to me;
Dearest, thy lover is singing—
Singing to thee;
Yet, to the balcony stealing,
No mantled beauty I see,
No casement is dimly revealing
Thy fair form to me.

Perchance thou art sleeping—my strain, love,
Meets not thine ear,
And visions, in shadowy train, love,
Haply appear.
Wake thee! and hearken to me, love,
If fancy should whisper of ill;
But if thy dream be of me, love,
Oh! slumber still.

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Their bright watch in Heaven now keeping,
Beams ev'ry star,
But the sweet eye that is sleeping,
Brighter is far:
For when the pale dawn advances,
Tremulous star-fires decay,
While, e'en at noontide, thy glance is
Bright as the day!

THE CHILD AND AUTUMN LEAF.

Down by the river's bank I stray'd
Upon an autumn day;
Beside the fading forest there,
I saw a child at play.
She play'd among the yellow leaves—
The leaves that once were green,
And flung upon the passing stream,
What once had blooming been:
Oh! deeply did it touch my heart
To see that child at play;
It was the sweet unconscious sport
Of childhood with decay.

Fair child, if by this stream you stray,
When after years go by,
The scene that makes thy childhood's sport,
May wake thy age's sigh:
When fast you see around you fall
The summer's leafy pride,

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And mark the river hurrying on
It's ne'er-returning tide;
Then may you feel, in pensive mood,
That life's a summer dream;
And man, at last, forgotten falls—
A leaf upon the stream.

FATHER-LAND AND MOTHER-TONGUE.

Our Father-land! and would'st thou know
Why we should call it “Father-land?”
It is, that Adam, here below,
Was made of earth by Nature's hand;
And he, our father, made of earth,
Hath peopled earth on every hand,
And we, in memory of his birth,
Do call our country, “Father-land.”

At first in Eden's bowers, they say,
No sound of speech had Adam caught,
But whistled like a bird all day—
And maybe, 'twas for want of thought:
But Nature, with resistless laws,
Made Adam soon surpass the birds,
She gave him lovely Eve—because
If he'd a wife—they must have words.

And so the Native-land I hold,
By male descent is proudly mine;
The language, as the tale hath told,
Was given in the female line.

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And thus we see on either hand,
We name our blessings whence they've sprung,
We call our country Father-land,
We call our language Mother-tongue.

MORNING, SWEET MORNING.

Morning, sweet morning, I welcome thy ray,
Life opens bright like the op'ning of day,
Waking to fragrance the fresh-blooming flow'rs,
Lighting with sunshine our earliest hours;
Evening, with shadows, is hurrying on,
Let us be gay ere the noontide be gone:—
For shadows increase, as the sunshine grows less:
Then gather the joys that our youth may possess!
Oh! morning, sweet morning, I welcome thy ray,
Life opens bright like the op'ning of day!

The dew on the rose-bud at morning may lie,
And tear-drops will tremble in youth's sparkling eye,
But soon as the sun sheds his warmth and his light,
The dew-drops all vanish—the flow'rets are bright.
But, at cold evening, the dew falling fast,
Will rest on the rose—for the sunshine is past:—
And the tear-drop of age will be lingering thus,
When the sunshine of soul hath departed from us.
Oh! morning, sweet morning, I welcome thy ray,
Life opens bright like the op'ning of day!

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LOVE ME!

Love me! Love me!—Dearest, love me!
Let whate'er betide,
Though it be forbid by fate
To bless me with a bride;
Our hearts may yet be link'd in one,
Though fortune frown above me,
That hope will gently guide me on,
Then love me, dearest! Love me!

Love me dearest! Dearest, love me!
Brighter days may shine,
When thou shalt call me all thine own,
And thou'lt be only mine!
But should that bliss be still denied,
Still fortune frown above me,
Thou'lt be my choice—though not my bride,
Then love me, dearest! Love me!

THE STAR OF THE DESERT.

In the depths of the Desert, when lonely and drear
The sands round the desolate traveller appear,
The splendour of day gives no aid to his path,
For no land-mark to guide him the traveller hath.
But when night sheds her shadow and coolness around,
Then hark! how the bells of the camels resound;
For the traveller is up when the star sheds its ray,
'Tis the light of his hope, 'tis the guide of his way.

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And what is this world but a wilderness vast?
Where few leave a trace o'er the waste they have pass'd,
And many are lost in their noon-day of pride,
That shines forth to dazzle—but seldom to guide:
Oh, blest is the fate of the one who hath found
Some load-star to guide thro' the wilderness round,
And such have I found, my belov'd one, in thee—
For thou art the Star of the Desert to me!

THE ARAB.

[_]

The interesting fact on which this ballad is founded, occurred to Mr. Davidson, the celebrated traveller, between Mount Sinai and Suez, on his overland return from India in 1839. He related the story to me shortly before his leaving England on his last fatal journey to Timbuctoo.

The noontide blaze on the desert fell,
As the traveller reached the wished-for well;
But vain was the hope that cheered him on,
His hope in the desert—the waters—were gone

Fainting, he called on the Holy Name,
And swift o'er the desert an Arab came,
And with him he brought of the blessed thing,
That failed the poor traveller at the spring.

“Drink!” said the Arab,—“tho' I must fast,
For half of my journey is not yet past,
'Tis long e'er my home or my children I see,
But the crystal treasure I'll share with thee.”

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“Nay,” said the weary one, “let me die,—
For thou hast even more need than I;
And children hast thou that are watching for thee,
And I am a lone one—none watch for me.”

“Drink!” said the Arab.—“My children shall see
Their father returning—fear not for me:—
For He who hath sent me to thee this day,
Will watch over me on my desert way.”

THE MEETING OF FOES AND THE MEETING OF FRIENDS.

Fill the cup! fill it high! Let us drink to the might
Of the manhood that joyously rushes to fight,
And, true to the death, all unflinching will stand,
For our home, and our hearth, and our own native land!
'Tis the bright sun of June, that is gilding the crest
Of the warriors that fight for their isles of the West;
The breeze that at morning but plays with the plume,
At evening may wave the red grass o'er the tomb;
The corn that has ripen'd in summer's soft breath,
In an hour may be reap'd in the harvest of death:
Then drink to their glory—the glory of those
Who triumph'd or fell in the meeting of foes.

But fill the cup higher to drink to the friends
Bound fast in affection that life only ends;
Whose hearths, when defended from foes that have dared,
Are prized all the more when with friends they are shared!
Far better the wine-cup with ruby may flow
To the health of a friend than the fall of a foe;

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Tho' bright are the laurels that glory may twine,
Far softer the shade of the ivy and vine;
Then fill the cup higher! The battle is won—
Our perils are over—our feast has begun!—
On the meeting of foemen, pale sorrow attends—
Rosy joy crowns our meeting—the meeting of friends.

'TWAS THE DAY OF THE FEAST.

[_]

When the annual tribute of the flag of Waterloo to the crown of England was made to William the Fourth, a few hours before his Majesty's lamented death, the King on receiving the banner, pressed it to his heart, saying, “It was a glorious day for England;” and expressed a wish he might survive the day, that the Duke of Wellington's commemoration fête of the victory of Waterloo might take place. A dying monarch receiving the banner commemorative of a national conquest, and wishing at the same time that his death might not disturb the triumphal banquet, is at once so heroic and poetic, that it naturally suggests a poem.

'Twas the day of the feast in the chieftain's hall,
'Twas the day he had seen the foeman fall,
'Twas the day that his country's valour stood
'Gainst steel and fire and the tide of blood:
And the day was mark'd by his country well—
For they gave him broad valleys, the hill and the dell,
And they ask'd, as a tribute, the hero should bring
The flag of the foe to the foot of the king.

'Twas the day of the feast in the chieftain's hall,
And the banner was brought at the chieftain's call,
And he went in his glory the tribute to bring,
To lay at the foot of the brave old king:

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But the hall of the King was in silence and grief,
And smiles, as of old, did not greet the chief;
For he came on the angel of victory's wing,
While the angel of death was awaiting the king.

The chieftain he knelt by the couch of the king;
“I know,” said the monarch, “the tribute you bring,
Give me the banner, ere life depart;”
And he press'd the flag to his fainting heart.
“It is joy, e'en in death,” cried the monarch, “to say
That my country hath known such a glorious day!
Heaven grant I may live till the midnight's fall,
That my chieftain may feast in his warrior hall!”

THE BIRTH OF SAINT PATRICK.

On the eighth day of March it was, some people say,
That Saint Patrick at midnight he first saw the day;
While others declare 'twas the ninth he was born,
And 'twas all a mistake between midnight and morn;
For mistakes will occur in a hurry and shock,
And some blamed the babby—and some blamed the clock—
'Till with all their cross questions sure no one could know,
If the child was too fast—or the clock was too slow.

Now the first faction fight in owld Ireland, they say,
Was all on account of Saint Patrick's birthday,
Some fought for the eighth—for the ninth more would die,
And who wouldn't see right, sure they blacken'd his eye!

118

At last, both the factions so positive grew,
That each kept a birthday, so Pat then had two,
'Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins,
Said, “No one could have two birthdays, but a twins.”

Says he, “Boys don't be fighting for eight or for nine,
Don't be always dividing—but sometimes combine;
Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark,
So let that be his birthday.”—“Amen,” says the clerk.
“If he wasn't a twins, sure our hist'ry will show—
That, at least, he's worth any two saints that we know!”
Then they all got blind drunk—which completed their bliss,
And we keep up the practice from that day to this.

MY MOUNTAIN HOME.

My mountain home! my mountain home!
Dear are thy hills to me!
Where first my childhood lov'd to roam—
Wild as the summer bee:
The summer bee may gather sweet
From flow'rs in sunny prime;
And mem'ry brings, with wing as fleet,
Sweet thoughts of early time:
Still fancy bears me to the hills,
Where childhood lov'd to roam—
I hear, I see your sparkling rills,
My own, my mountain home!

119

I've seen their noble forests wide,
I've seen their smiling vale,
Where proudly rolls the silver tide
That bears their glorious sail:—
But these are of the earth below;
Our home is in the sky!
The eagle's flight is not more bright
Than paths that we may try!
While all around sweet echoes ring,
Beneath heaven's azure dome:—
Then well the mountaineer may sing,
“My own, my mountain home!”

SONG OF THE ITALIAN TROUBADOUR.

A troubaduor gay from the southland came forth,
And knelt to a golden-hair'd maid of the north,
“Farewell to the southland, for ever,” said he,
“I regret not my country while listening to thee;
For thy voice like an echo from fairyland seems,
A voice made to waken a bard from his dreams;—
That might blend with his visions in regions of bliss,
And make him forget that he waken'd in this;
Then farewell to the southland, the northland for me,
'Tis my country, wherever I'm list'ning to thee!

“And as I look up in thy beautiful eyes,
How can I but think of my own sunny skies?
While thy bright golden ringlets, in love-mazing twine,
Outrival the tendrils that curl round the vine!

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Then thy form, in its exquisite lightness, recalls
The statues I've left in fair Italy's halls;
And can I regret them, while looking on thee?
No! no! thou art more than my country to me!
Then farewell to the southland, the northland for me,
'Tis my country, wherever I'm looking on thee!”

SALLY.

“Sally, Sally, shilly shally,
Sally, why not name the day?”
“Harry, Harry, I will tarry
Longer in love's flowery way!”
“Can't you make your mind up, Sally?
Why embitter thus my cup?”
“Harry, I've so great a mind,
It takes a long time making up.”

“Sally, Sally, in the valley
You have promised many a time,
On the sunny Sunday morning,
As we've heard the matin chime.
Heark'ning to those sweet bells ringing,
Calling grateful hearts to pray,
I have whispered—‘Oh! how sweetly
They'll proclaim our wedding day!’”

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“Harry, Harry, I'll not marry
'Till I see your eyes don't stray;
At Kate Riley, you so slily
Stole a wink the other day.”
“Sure Kate Riley, she's my cousin;”
“Harry, I've a cousin too;
If you like such close relations,
I'll have cousins close as you.”

“Sally, Sally, do not rally,
Do not mock my tender woe;
Play me not thus shilly shally,
Sally, do not tease me so!
While you're smiling, hearts beguiling,
Doing all a woman can,
Think—though you're almost an angel,
I am but a mortal man!”

THERE'S NO SUCH GIRL AS MINE.

Oh! there's no such girl as mine
In all the wide world round;
With her hair of golden twine,
And her voice of silver sound.
Her eyes are as black as the sloes,
And quick is her ear so fine,
And her breath is as sweet as the rose,
There's no such girl as mine!

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Her spirit so sweetly flows,
Unconscious winner of hearts,
There's a smile wherever she goes,
There's a sigh wherever she parts;
A blessing she wins from the poor,
To court her the rich all incline,
She's welcome at every door—
O there's no such girl as mine!

She's light to the banquet hall,
She's balm to the couch of care,
In sorrow—in mirth—in all
She takes her own sweet share.
Enchanting the many abroad,
At home doth she brightest shine,
'Twere endless her worth to laud—
There's no such girl as mine!

OH, SHE IS A BRIGHT-EYED THING!

Oh, she is a bright-eyed thing!
And her glances, wildly playing,
While they radiance round her fling,
Set my loving fancy straying
Where to find a thing so bright;—
'Tis not in the diamond's light:
The jewels of the richest mine
Lack the lustre so to shine—
For gems are cold—and cannot vie
With living light from beauty's eye!

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Oh, she is a bright-lip'd thing!
And her mouth like budding roses,
Fragrance all around doth fling
When its matchless arch uncloses;
With a voice, whose silver tone
Makes the raptured listener own
It may be true, what poets tell,
That nightingales 'mid roses dwell,
For every word she says to me
Sounds like sweetest melody!

WHISPER LOW!

In days of old, when first I told
A tale so bold, my love, to thee,
In falt'ring voice I sought thy choice,
And did rejoice thy blush to see;
With downcast eyes thou heard'st my sighs,
And hope reveal'd her dawn to me,
As, soft and slow, with passion's glow,
I whisp'red low my love to thee.

The cannon loud, in deadly breach,
May thunder on the shrinking foe:
'Tis anger is but loud of speech—
The voice of love is soft and low.
The tempest's shout, the battle's rout,
Make havoc wild we weep to see;
But summer wind, and friends, when kind,
All whisper low, as I to thee.

124

Now gallants gay in pride of youth,
Say, would you win the fair one's ear,
Your votive pray'r be short and sooth,
And whisper low, and she will hear.
The matin bell may loudly tell
The bridal morn, when all may hear;
But at the time of vesper chime—
Oh! whisper low in beauty's ear.

THE SHOUT OF NED OF THE HILL.

The hill! the hill! with its sparkling rill,
And its dawning air so light and pure,
Where the morning's eye scorns the mists that lie
On the drowsy valley and the moor.
Here, with the eagle I rise betimes;
Here, with the eagle my state I keep,
The first we see of the morning sun,
And his last as he sets o'er the deep;
And there, while strife is rife below,
Here from the tyrant I am free:
Let the shepherd slaves the valley praise,
But the hill!—the hill for me!

The baron below in his castle dwells,
And his garden boasts the costly rose;
But mine is the keep of the mountain steep,
Where the matchless wild flower freely blows;
Let him fold his sheep, and his harvest reap—
I look down from my mountain throne,
And choose and pick of the flock and the rick,
And what is his I can make my own!

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Let the valley grow in its wealth below,
And the lord keep his high degree;
But higher am I in my liberty—
The hill!—the hill for me!

SLEEP MY LOVE.

Sleep, my love—sleep, my love,
Wake not to weep my love,
Though thy sweet eyes are all hidden from me;
Why shouldst thou waken to sorrows like mine, love,
While thou mayst, in dreaming, taste pleasure divine, love?
For blest are the visions of slumber, like thine, love—
So sleep thee, nor know who says “Farewell to thee!”

Sleep, my love—sleep, my love,
Wake not to weep my love,
Though thy sweet eyes are all hidden from me:
Hard 'tis to part without one look of kindness—
Yet sleep more resembles fond love, in its blindness,
And thy look would enchain me again; so I find less
Of pain, to say “Farewell, sweet slumberer, to thee!”

MY MOTHER DEAR.

There was a place in childhood that I remember well,
And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did tell,
And gentle words and fond embrace were giv'n with joy to me,
When I was in that happy place—upon my mother's knee.

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When fairy tales were ended, “Good-night,” she softly said,
And kiss'd and laid me down to sleep within my tiny bed;
And holy words she taught me there—methinks I yet can see
Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my mother's knee.

In the sickness of my childhood—the perils of my prime—
The sorrows of my riper years—the cares of every time—
When doubt and danger weighed me down—then pleading all for me,
It was a fervent pray'r to heaven that bent my mother's knee.

FORGIVE BUT DON'T FORGET.

I'm going, Jessie, far from thee,
To distant lands beyond the sea,
I would not, Jessie, leave thee now,
With anger's cloud upon thy brow.
Remember that thy mirthful friend
Might sometimes teaze but ne'er offend;
That mirthful friend is sad the while,—
Oh, Jessie, give a parting smile.

Ah! why should friendship harshly chide
Our little faults on either side?
From friends we love we bear with those,
As thorns are pardon'd for the rose:—
The honey bee, on busy wing,
Producing sweets—yet bears a sting;
The purest gold most needs alloy,
And sorrow is the nurse of joy.

127

Then oh! forgive me, ere I part,
And if some corner in thy heart
For absent friend a place might be—
Ah! keep that little place for me!
“Forgive—Forget” we're wisely told,
Is held a maxim good and old,
But half the maxim's better yet,
Then, oh, forgive but don't forget!

I THINK OF THEE.

I love to roam at night
By the deep sea,
When the pale moon is bright,
And think of thee:
And as the beacon's light
Gleams o'er the sea,
Shedding its guardian light,
I think of thee.

When o'er some flow'ry ground
Night winds breathe free,
Wafting fresh fragrance round,
I think of thee!
Then, if some trembling star
Beaming I see,
Brighter than others far!—
I think of thee.

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Though, love, by fate forbid
Thou art to me,
Yet, like a treasure hid,
I think of thee;
And though thy plighted kiss
Mine ne'er can be,
Next is the secret bliss
To think of thee.

THE HOUR I PASS WITH THEE.

The hour I pass with thee, my love,
Doth yield this heart the most delight,
Oh! what on earth is half so bright
As hours I pass with thee?
And as the breeze that fans the grove,
Is perfumed by the fragrant flowers,
So time can sweetness steal from hours
I pass, my love, with thee!

When mem'ry o'er the distant past
Pursues her course, with weary wing,
The only joys she back can bring,
Are hours I've passed with thee!
And when, through future time, as fast
Fond fancy steers, with hopeful pow'r,
Her leading star is still the hour
I've yet to pass with thee!

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GONDOLIER, ROW!

Gondolier, row! row!
How swift the flight
Of time to-night,
But the gondolier so slow—
Gondolier, row! row!
The night is dark—
So speed thy bark
To the balcony we know.

Gondolier, row! row!
One star is bright
With trembling light—
And the light of love is so:
Gondolier, row! row!
The watery way
Will not betray
The path to where we go.

'TIS BETTER NOT TO KNOW.

You say you love me:—can I trust
That she, by many woo'd,
By me, at length, has had her heart
To constancy subdued?
Perhaps some other love is there?—
But do not tell me so:
When knowledge will but bring us grief,
'Tis better not to know.

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Perhaps that eye has beam'd with love
In days I knew not thee;
That ruby lip hath bent in smiles
For others than for me:
But let that lip still silence keep—
I'll trust its love-like show—
Since knowledge would but bring me grief,
'Tis better not to know.

Oh! what a simple love is mine,
Whose wishes make its creed;
But let me think you love me still
And I'll be blest indeed:
'Tis better that the eye ne'er see
Than that its tears should flow—
When knowledge would but bring us grief,
'Tis better not to know.

“ONCE UPON A TIME.”

“Once upon a time.”—I love the phrase,
It bears me back to days of old,
When pearls were strung on fairy lays,
And I was rich in fairy gold;
When rubies grew on silver stems,
And emeralds were the leaves of trees,
And diamonds were the dew-drop gems
That gleam'd on wonders such as these,
“Once upon a time.”

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With childhood pass'd those dreams away,
The rose assum'd the ruby's place,
And leaves that lost the emerald's ray,
Found greater worth in nature's grace;
In riper years, the rose more bright
To fancy seem'd on beauty's cheek,
And what were diamonds to the light
In beauty's eye my heart might seek?
“Once upon a time.”

But time rolls on; the cloud of years
Its shadow o'er our lives will cast,
And when the present dark appears,
Then lingering love beholds the past;
And when some friend, some future day,
Remembers him who weaves this rhyme,
Perchance she'll sigh and sadly say
“Once upon a time.—Once upon a time!”

THE FLYING CLOUD.

The flying cloud, the flying cloud
Is coursing o'er the sky,
The flying cloud, the flying cloud
Is sparkling bright and high,
The soaring lark on matin wing
Is singing high and loud,
But e'en the soaring lark can't reach
That lofty flying cloud!

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Oh! once my heart was like that lark,
And sang as bright and loud,
And hope was high in youth's fair sky—
Just like yon flying cloud
By fancy fir'd, this heart aspir'd
More high than Fate allow'd,
But now its weary wing is tir'd—
And gone Hope's flying cloud!

AN HONEST HEART TO GUIDE US.

As day by day
We hold our way
Thro' this wide world below, boys,
With roads so cross,
We're at a loss
To know which way to go, boys:
With choice so vex'd
When man's perplex'd,
And many a doubt has tried him,
It is not long
He'll wander wrong,
With an honest heart to guide him.

When rough the way,
And dark the day,
More steadfastly we tread, boys,
Than when by flow'rs
In wayside bow'rs
We from the path are led, boys:

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Oh! then beware—
The serpent there
Is gliding close beside us;
'Twere death to stay—
So speed the way,
With an honest heart to guide us.

If fortune's gale
Should fill our sail,
While others lose the wind, boys,
Look kindly back
Upon the track
Of luckless mates behind, boys:
If we won't heed
A friend in need,
May rocks ahead abide us!
Let's rather brave
Both wind and wave,
With an honest heart to guide us!

OH! DON'T YOU REMEMBER?

Oh! don't you remember the beautiful glade,
Where in childhood together we playfully stray'd,
Where wreaths of wild flowers so often I made,
Thy tresses so brightly adorning?
Oh! light of foot and heart were then
The happy children of the glen:—
The cares that shade the brows of men
Ne'er darken childhood's morning.

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Oh! who can forget the young innocent hours
That were passed in the shade of our home's happy bow'rs,
When the wealth that we sought for was only wild flow'rs,
And we thought ourselves rich when we found them?
Oh! where's the tie that friends e'er knew,
So free from stain, so firm, so true,
As links that with the wild flowers grew,
And in sweet fetters bound them?

I CAN NE'ER FORGET THEE.

It is the chime; the hour draws near
When you and I must sever;
Alas, it must be many a year,
And it may be for ever.
How long till we shall meet again;
How short since first I met thee;
How brief the bliss—how long the pain—
For I can ne'er forget thee.

You said my heart was cold and stern,
You doubted love when strongest;
In future years you'll live to learn
Proud hearts can love the longest.
Oh! sometimes think when press'd to hear,
When flippant tongues beset thee,
That all must love thee when thou'rt near;
But one will ne'er forget thee!

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The changeful sand doth only know
The shallow tide and latest;
The rocks have marked its highest flow,
The deepest and the greatest:
And deeper still the flood-marks grow;—
So, since the hour I met thee,
The more the tide of time doth flow,
The less can I forget thee!

THE WEDDING OF THE ADRIATIC.

Mark! lady, mark
Yon gilded bark
Beareth a duke in pride,
His costly ring
Bravely to fling
And make the sea his bride.
Proud of her lord all ocean smiles,
And with soft waves kisses our isles,
While her own mirror, gorgeously,
Doubles the pomp she loves to see.
Mark! lady, mark, &c.

Vain is thy pride
Seeking a bride
In the cold, faithless sea:
Why wouldst thou throw
Rich gems below,
She will be false to thee.

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Dearer I hold plain rings of gold
Binding two hearts ne'er growing cold:
Proud lord, if thou hast rule o'er the sea,
Vast as the ocean true love can be.
Vain is thy pride
Seeking a bride
In the cold faithless sea.
Mine be the ring
True love can bring—
Such be the ring for thee!

THE SNOW.

An old man sadly said,
Where's the snow
That fell the year that's fled—
Where's the snow?
As fruitless were the task
Of many a joy to ask,
As the snow!

The hope of airy birth,
Like the snow,
Is stained on reaching earth,
Like the snow;
While 'tis sparkling in the ray
'Tis melting fast away—
Like the snow.

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A cold deceitful thing
Is the snow,
Though it come on dove-like wing—
The false snow!
'Tis but rain disguis'd appears:
And our hopes are frozen tears—
Like the snow.

WHEN THE SUN SINKS TO REST.

When the sun sinks to rest,
And the star of the west
Sheds its soft silver light o'er the sea,
What sweet thoughts arise
As the dim twilight dies—
For then I am thinking of thee!
Oh! then, crowding fast,
Come the joys of the past
Through the dimness of days long gone by.
Like the stars peeping out,
Through the darkness about,
From the soft silent depth of the sky.

And thus, as the night
Grows more lovely and bright,
With the clust'ring of planet and star,
So this darkness of mine
Wins a radiance divine
From the light that still lingers afar:

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Then welcome the night,
With its soft holy light!
In its silence my heart is more free
The rude world to forget,
Where no pleasure I've met
Since the hour that I parted with thee.

CUPID'S WING.

The dart of Love was feathered first
From Folly's wing, they say,
Until he tried his shaft to shoot
In Beauty's heart one day;
He miss'd the maid so oft, 'tis said,
His aim became untrue,
And Beauty laugh'd, as his last shaft
He from his quiver drew;
“In vain,” said she, “you shoot at me,
You little spiteful thing—
The feather on your shaft I scorn,
When plucked from Folly's wing.”

But Cupid soon fresh arrows found
And fitted to his string,
And each new shaft he feather'd from
His own bright glossy wing;
He shot until no plume was left
To waft him to the sky,
And Beauty smiled upon the child,
When he no more could fly;

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“Now, Cupid, I am thine,” she said,
“Leave off thy archer play,
For Beauty yields—when she is sure
Love will not fly away.”

OH! GIVE ME THY HAND, FAIR LADY.

Oh! give me thy hand, fair lady,
That snowy-white hand, so small,
Thy bow'r shall be dainty, sweet lady,
In a bold baron's ancient hall;
There, beauties of noble line, lady,
Shine forth from the pictur'd wall,
But if thou wilt be bride of mine, lady,
Then mine will outshine them all!

I see thou wilt not give thy hand, lady,
I see, by that clear cold eye—
If thou to my suit didst incline, lady,
The rose from thy cheek would fly;
Thy lip is all ruby-red, lady,
But mine is so pale the while—
Nay, frown not, I ask not thy hand, lady,
But ah!—let me see thee smile.

I only did ask for thy smile, lady,
Yet scorn to thy lip doth cling—
That ruby bow will not bend, lady,
Till Cupid hath touch'd the string;

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But if thou'lt not smile, fair lady,
An humbler suit I'll try,—
For the heart thou hast broken, fair lady,
Oh! give me, at least, thy sigh!

THE PEARL DIVER.

Oh! wherefore, diver, tempt the wave,
Why rashly dare the sea?
The Hand that pearls to ocean gave,
Gave other gifts to thee!
Where is the pearl of ocean found?—
'Tis in an humble shell:
Oh! pride of heart, what lessons deep
The pearl to thee may tell.
Then wherefore, diver, tempt the wave,
Why rashly dare the sea?
The Hand that pearls to ocean gave,
Gave other gifts to thee.

“I seek the pearl,” the diver said,
“To deck the young bride's brow,
While flow'rs still bloom around her path,
While love still breathes his vow.”
Oh, diver, can those pearls forbid
That brow with care to ache?
Give me the pearl of sweet content
That peace of heart can make!
Oh! wherefore, diver, tempt the wave
Why rashly dare the sea?
The Hand that pearls to ocean gave,
Gave other gifts to thee.

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“I seek the pearl,” the diver said,
“To gem the banquet bowl,
The bowl that's crown'd with ruby wine
And pledg'd in flow of soul!”
Oh, prize not thus that gorgeous bowl,
Tho' pearls may grace its brink—
The plainest cup more precious is
That gives the weary drink.
Then, diver, tempt not thus the wave,
Nor dare the dang'rous sea,
The Hand that pearls to ocean gave,
Gave better gifts to thee!

SWEET HARP OF THE DAYS THAT ARE GONE.

TO THE IRISH HARP.

Oh, give me one strain
Of that wild harp again,
In melody proudly its own!
Sweet harp of the days that are gone!
Time's wide-wasting wing
Its cold shadow may fling
Where the light of the soul hath no part;
The sceptre and sword
Both decay with their lord—
But the throne of the bard, is the heart.

142

And hearts, while they beat
To thy music so sweet,
Thy glories will ever prolong,
Land of honour and beauty and song!
The beauty, whose sway
Woke the bard's votive lay,
Hath gone to eternity's shade,
While, fresh in its fame,
Lives the song to her name,
Which the minstrel immortal hath made!

BETWEEN MY SLEEVE AND ME.

My Katty, sweet enslaver,
'Twas loth I was to lave her,
I made my best endeavour to keep my courage high;
But when she softly spoke me
I thought the grief would choke me,
For pride it would revoke the tear was rising to my eye;
But, as the grief grew stronger,
I dared not linger longer,
One kiss!—sure 'twas not wrong before I rush'd away to sea;
No one could then discover
The weakness of the lover,
And, if my grief ran over—'twas between my sleeve and me.

Oh! 'twould be hard believing
How fond hearts may be grieving
When taking or when giving merry jokes with comrades gay,
While deeper thoughts are straying,
Some distant land away in,
Like wand'ring pilgrims praying at some shrine that's far away.

143

When merry cups are ringing,
I join the round of singing,
To help the joyous winging of the sportive evening's glee;
But when the mirth is over,
My sadness none discover,
For, if my grief runs over—'tis between my sleeve and me.

THE CHAMELEON.

Lady I would woo thee,
But I scarce know how;
Mirth seems sister to thee
With that sunny brow;
But while flushed with gladness,
See, a passing shade
Casts a transient sadness
O'er my smiling maid.

Lady I would woo thee
When I hear thee sigh,
But, while whispering to thee,
Mirth is in thine eye;
Oh! how bright the flashes—
Lustre through the shade
Of the dewy lashes
Of my tearful maid.

Smiling, love, or weeping,
Call me to thy side,
Love will then be keeping
Watch around my bride:

144

I'd ne'er ask the morrow
What my fate might be,
So the joy, or sorrow,
Might be shared with thee!

OH! NEVER ASK ME “WHY?”

Oh! never ask me why the rose is red,
Oh! never ask me why the lily's fair,
Enough for me to know that Nature shed
Her beauty there—
So, never ask me “why?”

Oh! never ask me why I love the night,
And why the bright stars hold me in their spell,
For why I love, or how they give their light,
I cannot tell—
So, never ask me “why?”

Oh! never ask me why I'm fond of thee:—
We may be sure of much we can't explain;
I only know 'tis joy thy face to see,
To part is pain—
But, never ask me “why?”

THE BARD'S FAREWELL.

Farewell, oh farewell, but whenever you give
A thought to the days that are gone,
Of the bright sunny things that in memory live
Let a thought of the minstrel be one.

145

The hope is but humble—he asks but a share,
But a part of thy memories to be,
While no future to him can in rapture compare
To the past, made enchanting by thee.

Yes, yes, thou'lt remember the strain that he sang,
And wish that the minstrel were nigh;
Thou wilt turn to the place where his harp used to hang—
And gaze on the void with a sigh.
And tho' glory may welcome the bard on his way,
Less pleasing the loud voice of fame,
Than the soft gentle sigh that rewarded his lay
When it first rose in praise of thy name.

SECRETS WERE NOT MEANT FOR THREE.

Come with me where violets lie
Like thine eye—hidden deep,
When their lurking glances blue
Thro' long lashes peep;
There, amid the perfume sweet,
Wafted on the balmy breeze,
Shelter'd by the secret shade
Beneath the whisp'ring trees,
Whisp'ring there would I be too—
I've a secret, meant for you,
Sweeter than the wild bee's hum—
Will you come?

146

Come not when the day is bright,
But at night, when the moon
Lights the grove where nightingales
Sing the lover's tune:—
But sweeter than the silver song
That fair Philomel doth sing—
Sweeter than the fragrance fresh
The flowers round us fling—
Sweeter than the poet's dream
By Castalia's gifted stream,
Is the tale I'll tell to thee—
Come with me!

SIGH NOT—LOVE NOT—DOUBT NOT.

Sigh no more, sigh no more, sad one, sigh no more;
Tell me why should you not bear what others did before?
Grief is but the passing cloud
Shadowing you like all the crowd;
If the passing cloud were not,
Summer would be all too hot—
Then sigh no more, sigh no more, sad one, sigh no more.

“Love no more, love no more, fond one, love no more.”
Thus have many wise ones sung in wisdom's days of yore;
But other forms there are indeed
I'd embrace before their creed:
Perhaps when I'm threescore and ten,
I may sing—but not till then—
“Love no more, love no more, fond one, love no more.”

147

Doubt no more, doubt no more, of woman, doubt no more:—
Yet one with one is not so sure as “two and two make four.”
Yet doubt not woman is divine;—
She transcends an earthly line;
Beyond all mortal care—'tis true—
Perhaps she does not care for you—
So doubt no more, doubt no more, sceptic, doubt no more!

MELODY.

Oh! that song
Still prolong,
It breathes of bliss and pain;
Of pleasure gone
When hearts were one
That now, alas, are twain.
But that strain
Weaves a chain,
Binding hearts
Coldness parts,
Till I think
Music's link
Makes them one again!

Oh! to me,
Melody
By nature seems design'd
The last found tie,
When others die,
The feeling heart to bind:

148

Friends we love
False may prove,
Hopes decay—
But some lay
In soothing fall
May oft recall
The time when both were kind.

Then for me,
Melody,
Pour thy healing balm;
O'er the strife
Of troubled life
Breathe thy holy calm:
Triumph thine
How divine!
For in the day
Worlds decay,
Still, in heaven
Thou art given
The undying palm.

We are told there is music in Heaven.

MY OWN OLD MAN.

Tho' summer hath ta'en flight from my old man,
Yet autumn falleth light on my own old man;
The sear and yellow leaf
Hath brought its share of grief,
For time will play the thief
With my own old man.

149

A sigh I sometimes hear from my own old man,
And, maybe, mark a tear from my old man;
To some passing thought, the eye
Will, in tender drops reply—
And 'tis mine to kiss them dry
From my own old man.

Yet think not he's a mumper, my own old man,
Oh no—he'll fill a bumper, my own old man;
In the feast of happy friends,
Where wine with humour blends,
Oh—the spirit there unbends
Of my own old man!

While we are spared together, my own old man,
In our heart's own sunny weather, my own old man,
Our love shall ne'er be riv'n,
But, pure as when 'twas giv'n,
It will go with us to heaven,
My own old man!

HOW OFT HAVE WE WANDER'D.

How oft have we wander'd thro' Lara's sweet vale,
Where thy vows, plighting truth, were but meant to deceive,
Oh! why didst thou breathe so delusive a tale?
Oh! why did poor Kathleen so fondly believe?
'Twas here that together at evening we came,
And then wouldst thou vow that thy heart was my throne
In vain does thy Kathleen now call on thy name,
'Tis silence that meets me, and I am alone.

150

Or, if silence be broken, it is by the note
Of some bird to his mate, that like rapture appears,
While around me the soul-melting melodies float,
I answer the music of joy with my tears.
But the winter will come, and the birds cease to sing,
And the bleak howling wind sweep the leaves from the bough,
Then, Lara, my woes to thy valley I'll bring,
Deserted and sad, as poor Kathleen is now.

THE MAID OF MALABAR.

[_]

The Malabar Indians release caged birds on the new-made grave.

Slowly thro' the cypress gloom
Weeping came an Indian maid,
Strewing flowers o'er a tomb,
There a captive bird she laid;
There soon the cage to ope',
There to let the captive fly,
Like the spirit, wing'd with hope,
Soaring to its native sky.

The lonely cypress shade along,
How strangely mingled on the gale,
The sweetness of the blithe bird's song—
The sadness of the maiden's wail;
Oh! where, where art thou?
Thou art gone, my joy and pride:—
Tho' I know thou'rt happy now,
I wish thee at thy true love's side.

151

The open cage upon the grave
The maiden watch'd with tearful eye,
To see the bird his bright wing wave,
Like happy spirit to the sky;
It flew—it hover'd o'er the tomb—
Then flutter'd to the mourner's breast;
“Sweet bird,” she cried, “be this thy home—
For, oh, it is a vacant nest!”

JACK AND THE BEARSKIN.

A BALTIC STAVE.

A sailor and his lass
Sat o'er their parting glass,
For the jolly tar had volunteer'd to go to sea,
At the sailing signal flying
His loving lass was sighing,
And she said, “I fear you never will come back to me.
My heart is cold with fear,
That you, my sailor dear,
In the perils of the battle and the deep should be;”
“Oh,” says Jack, “you'll not be cold
When your own sailor bold
Will bring you back a bearskin from the Baltic Sea.”

With glory soon did Jack
From the Baltic sea come back,
With such a lot of bearskins, that the proud Citie
With a gold box did present him,
And likewise compliment him
With the freedom of the Ancient Skinners' Company.

152

Then Jack he went to find
The girl he left behind,
“Won't she be glad to see me, bless her heart,” says he,
“When she proves her sailor blade
Kept the promise that he made
To bring her back a bearskin from the Baltic sea.”

When Jack to her appear'd,
A most enormous beard
And head of hair transmogrified him so, you see,
That his sweetheart never knew him
Till at her feet he threw him,
All rolling on a bearskin from the Baltic sea.
Says he, “I see, (my eyes!)
The cause of your surprise,
You wonder why your sailor should so hairy be,
But my hair did thus increase
With using of Bear's grease,
Such a quantity we slaughter'd in the Baltic sea!”

Then Jack gave her a smack,
And the girl she cried “good lack,
You're rougher than a sweeping-brush, I vow,” says she,
Says Jack, “'twas rather rougher
How we made the bears to suffer,
When we were a sweeping of the Baltic sea!”
Says she, “what will they do
For that bear's grease that you
Have exhausted so much?”—“Oh,” says Jack, to she,
“With hair they won't want rigging,
For we gave them such a wigging
As will last them for some time in the Baltic sea!”

153

MOLLY BAWN.

O! Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
All lonely waiting here for you?
The stars above are brightly shining
Because—they've nothing else to do.
The flowers, late, were open keeping,
To try a rival blush with you,
But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping,
With their rosy faces wash'd—with dew.
O! Molly, &c.

Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,
And the pretty stars were made to shine,
And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,
And maybe you were made for mine!
The wicked watch-dog here is snarling—
He takes me for a thief, you see;
For he knows I'd steal you, Molly darling—
And then transported I should be.
O! Molly, &c.

I KNOW THAT THE SUMMER IS COME.

THE SONG OF THE BLIND HUSBAND.

I know, love, I know that the summer is come,
I scent the sweet flowers, I hear the bees hum,
Lead me forth, my own love, in the sun's genial rays,
Thy tenderness more than my darkness repays.

154

Oh say not, sweet love, with affliction I'm tried,
Why call it affliction while thou art my guide?
My place I'd not change with the best in the land—
Who would not be blind to be led by thy hand!

Tho' lost now to me is the rose's bright bloom,
As exquisite still is its balmy perfume,
So, the bloom of thy lip tho' denied to mine eye,
The fragrance is left me that breathes in thy sigh;
Thy voice still is music, and mem'ry supplies
The soft light that dwells in thy beautiful eyes,
Their sweet glance of pity, oh why should I seek,
When I feel the warm tear that is press'd to my cheek.

THE SENTINEL OF THE ALMA.

Oh! Katty agra, are you sleepin'?
Faith it's myself that's that same.
For, on sentry, the guard I am keepin',
And if I should doze who's to blame?
For I'm tired all day with fightin'
On Alma's proud heights gra-ma-chree,
And some Roosians, at this present writin',
Are sleepin' far sounder than me.
For I killed them my jewel—
And sure 'twould be cruel,
Only they did intend to kill me.

Katty, before you are waking,
I wish you could see in a dhrame
The beautiful care I was taking
Of one, Katty Nowlan by name;

155

Your picture so nate in the locket,
Which I wear next my heart night and day,
I put in my hindmost coat pocket,
For fear you'd be kilt in the fray—
For sure 'twould be cruel
To kill you, my jewel,
And you, all the time, far away.

The thieves were so greedy for slaughter
They marked ev'ry yard of the glen,
And cut down the trees by the water,
For fear they should shelter our men.
But when, up that hill boldly dashing,
We charg'd with victorious halloo,
From our fire and our steel, brightly flashing,
The vagabones cut their sticks too;
For we hunted the bear
From his high mountain lair,
With victory's glorious halloo!

Distances were accurately measured by the Russians all along the approach to their intrenchments, to insure the accurate range of their guns.

Fact.

I'M A RANTING ROVING BLADE.

THE GUIDE'S SONG.

I'm a ranting roving blade
Of never a thing was I ever afraid,
I'm a gintleman born and I scorn a thrade,
And I'd be a rich man if my debts was paid.

156

But my debts is worth something, this truth they instil,
That pride makes us fall all against our will;
It was pride that broke me—I was happy until
I was ruin'd all out by my tailor's bill.

I'm the finest guide that ever you see,
I know ev'ry place of curosity,
From Ballinafad unto Tanderagee,
And if you're for sport come along wid me!

For I'll lade you sportin' round about,
We've wild ducks, and widgeon, and snipe, and throut,
And I know where they are and what they're about,
And when they're not at home then I'm sure they're out.

The miles in this country much longer be,
But that is a savin' of time, you see,
For two of our miles is aiqual to three,
Which shortens the road in a great degree.

And the roads in this place is so plenty, we say,
That you've nothing to do but to find your way;
If your hurry's not great and you've time to delay
You can go the short cut—that's the longest way.

And I'll show you good dhrinkin', too,
For I know the place where the whisky grew,
A bottle is good when it's not too new,
And I'm fond of one—but I dote on two.

157

Thruth is scarce when liars is near,
But squeelin' is plenty when pigs you shear,
And mutton is high when cows is dear,
And rint it is scarce four times a year.

Such a counthry for growin' you ne'er did behowld,
We grow rich when we're poor, we grow hot when we're cowld,
And the girls they know bashfulness makes us grow bowld,
We grow young when we like but we never grow owld.

And the sivin small sinses grows natural here,
For pratees has eyes and can see quite clear,
And the kittles is singin' with scaldin' tears,
And the corn-fields is listenin' with all their ears.

But along with sivin sinses we have one more,
Of which I forgot to tell you before,
It is nonsense spontaneously gracin' our shore,
And I'll tell you the rest when I think of more.

SLAYING THE DEER.

[_]

WRITTEN IN AMERICA.

In the woods, hunters say,
It is glorious and gay
To rush thro' their sporting career,
When the leaves, falling red,
Yield a ready-made bed,
Where they rest after slaying The Deer;

158

On the venison steak
Jovial feasting they make,
And the flask, going round, helps the cheer,
While the logs, blazing bright,
Keep them warm thro' the night,
When they rest after slaying The Deer.

But I know a sport
Which is safer resort,
For wives will repine when, too far
You are tempted to steer,
In pursuit of the deer,
And they wonder “wherever you are.”
So give me the sleigh
On the white frozen way,
With woman beside me to cheer
Who is never complaining
How long you're remaining
When thus you are sleighing The Dear.

While we gallop full speed,
As we run we may read
She rejoices how fast we have got on,
While the proud little minx,
Wrapped in Bear-skin or Lynx,
Just looks like a diamond in cotton.
Her cheek, red as rose,
(We wo'nt speak of her nose)
Oh, beauty's a delicate thing,
Of a bloom on the cheek,
Any poet can speak,
But a rose on the nose we can't sing.

159

But never did I
In a sleigh hear a sigh,
In fact, there's no time there for fretting;
As fast as the wind
We leave sorrow behind,
While the cold is our appetite whetting.
When the stomach's in order,
No mental disorder
Upon any mortal can prey:—
If your Dear's temper's crost,
Pray at once for the frost,
And fix her right into a sleigh.

If she would, she can't scold,
For the weather's so cold
Her mouth she can't open at all;
In vain would she cry,
For the tears in her eye
Would be frozen before they could fall:
Then hurra for the snow!
As we merrily go,
The bells my fleet horses can cheer,
While the belle by my side
Is my joy and my pride,
Oh—there's nothing like sleighing The Dear!

SOFT ON THE EAR.

Soft on the ear falls the serenade,
When the calm evening is closing;
Sweet are the echoes by music made,
When the lake is in moonlight reposing:

160

Hark, how the sound
Circles around,—
As if each note of the measure
Was caught, as it fell,
In some water-sprite's shell,
Who floated away with the treasure.
Soft on the ear, &c.

Soft on the ear falls the serenade,
When we guess who the soft strain is breathing;
The spirit of song is more melting made,
With the spirit of tenderness wreathing.
Oh, such the delight,
In the calm summer's night,
When thro' casements, half open, is stealing
The soft serenade
To the half-waking maid,
Who sighs at such tender appealing.
Soft on the ear, &c.

I'M NOT MYSELF AT ALL.

Oh, I'm not myself at all
Molly dear, Molly dear,
I'm not myself at all!
Nothing caring, nothing knowing,
'Tis afther you I'm going,
Faith your shadow 'tis I'm growing,
Molly dear,
And I'm not myself at all!

161

Th' other day I went confessin',
And I ask'd the father's blessin';
“But,” says I, “don't give me one, intirely,
For I fretted so last year
But the half o' me is here,
So give the other half to Molly Brierly:”
Oh, I'm not myself at all!

Oh, I'm not myself at all,
Molly dear, Molly dear,
My appetite's so small.
I once could pick a goose,
But my buttons is no use,
Faith my tightest coat is loose,
Molly dear,
And I'm not myself at all!
If thus it is I waste,
You'd betther, dear, make haste,
Before your lover's gone away intirely;
If you don't soon change your mind,
Not a bit o' me you'll find—
And what 'ud you think o' that, Molly Brierly?—
Oh, I'm not myself at all!

Oh, my shadow on the wall,
Molly dear, Molly dear,
Isn't like myself at all.
For I've got so very thin,
Myself says 'tisn't him,
But that purty girl so slim,
Molly dear,
And I'm not myself at all!

162

If thus I smaller grew,
All fretting dear for you,
'Tis you should make me up the deficiency;
So just let Father Taaff,
Make you my betther half,
And you will not the worse of the addition be—
Oh, I'm not myself at all!

I'll be not myself at all,
Molly dear, Molly dear,
Till you my own I call!
Since a change o'er me there came,
Sure you might change your name—
And 'twould just come to the same,
Molly dear,
Twould just come to the same:
For, if you and I were one,
All confusion would be gone,
And 'twould simplify the matther intirely;
And 'twould save us so much bother,
When we'd both be one another—
So listen now to rayson, Molly Brierly;
Oh, I'm not myself at all!

WHEN FIRST I OVER THE MOUNTAIN TROD.

When first I over the mountain trod,
How bright the flowers, how green the sod,
The breeze was whisp'ring of soft delight,
And the fountains sparkled like diamonds bright.

163

But now I wander o'er the mountain, lone,
The flow'rs are drooping, their fragrance gone,
The breeze of morn like a wail appears,
And the dripping fountain seems weeping tears.

And are ye changed, oh, ye lovely hills?
Less sparkling are ye, bright mountain rills?
Does the fragrant bloom from the flow'r depart?—
No—there's nothing changed but this breaking heart!

FLOWER OF NATCHEZ.

Flower of Natchez, in thy beauty,
Take, oh take the poet's lay:—
She may claim the minstrel's duty
Who has charm'd his wand'ring way.
She's so sightly,
She's so sprightly,
With a wit so kind, tho' keen,
That this flow'r
Of friendship's hour
I will call sweet Rose d'epine.

Rose d'epine, in love's sweet season
Who would steal one leaf from thee—
May the hand that dares the treason
Feel the thorn that guards the tree!
Then safely, Rose,
Thy sweets repose
Within thy modest leafy screen,
Till hand more meet
Would cull the sweet,
And make his own sweet Rose d'epine.

164

Other flow'rs in beauty's fleetness
Court the sense, and bloom as fair,
But the sting beneath the sweetness
Makes us touch the rose with care
And may the thorn,
In life's sweet morn,
Guard well the sweets that I have seen,
And gentle be
The hand to thee
That wins and wears sweet Rose d'epine.

On the Mississippi.

WHEN AND WHERE.

[_]

WRITTEN TO A POPULAR ORGAN TUNE.

“Oh, tell me when and tell me where
Am I to meet with thee, my fair?”
“I'll meet thee in the secret night,
When stars are beaming gentle light,
Enough for love, but not too bright
To tell who blushes there.”

“You've told me when, now tell me where,
Am I to meet with thee, my fair?”
“I'll meet thee in that lovely place,
Where flow'rets dwell in sweet embrace,
And zephyr comes to steal a grace
To shed on the midnight air.”

165

“You've told me when, and told me where,
But tell me how I'll know thou'rt there?”
“Thou'lt know it when I sing the lay
That wandering boys on organs play,
No lover, sure, can miss his way,
When led by this signal air.”

THERE'S A CHARM IN THE PAST.

There's a charm in the past which the present ne'er knows,
For the present too plainly each fault can disclose,
While the past thro' the haze of affection is seen,
And mem'ry beholds but the joys that have been:
That twilight of mem'ry will linger so long—
Like the soul-touching strain of some favourite song,
Or like soft clouds of evening, that, ling'ring, invite
The glow of the sunset ere day fades to night—
Oh, as long as a pulse of the fond heart may last,
There's a charm in the past—there's a charm in the past.

There's a charm in the past to the future unknown,
For the past can reveal but the joys once our own,
While the joys of the future in fancy we see,
Are but dreams of the fond heart—that never may be:
Then give me the flow'rs I can pluck from the past,
To wreathe round life's cup while the frail bowl may last,
Tho' the flowers be all wither'd, enough they impart
Of the incense that made them once dear to the heart—
Oh! as long as a pulse of the fond heart may last,
There's a charm in the past—there's a charm in the past.

166

'TWAS LOVING THEE TOO WELL.

Oh, frown not, lady, frown not so,
On one whose heart is thine;
Let one kind word before I go,
Let one kind look be mine!
An aching heart, while e'er I live,
My fault shall deeply tell:
But oh—'twas one thou might'st forgive—
'Twas loving thee too well.

Oh! if that smile had been less sweet,
That cheek less blooming been;
Less bright those eyes I used to meet,
Or were those charms less seen;
Or, if this heart had been too cold
To feel thy beauty's spell—
Thou ne'er had'st call'd thy slave too bold,
For loving thee too well!

GENTLE LADY, HEAR MY VOW.

Gentle lady, hear my vow,
Hear my vow, nor bid me part,
With the charms I gaze on now
Love might tame the wildest heart.
Doubt not I will true remain,
Doubt not what those eyes inspire—
Vulcan forged the strongest chain
When Venus gave the fire!

167

Blame me not if vows I break,
Vows that I have made before;
Thine the power my faith to shake,
Yet to make me still adore!
As mountain streams their brightness pour
In tribute to the sovereign sea,
So the loves I've known before,
All are lost in thee!

GREEN AND GRAY CAN NEVER AGREE.

Young Rosette was lithe and gay,
Old Sir Gregory bent and gray,
She the picture was of May,
He made you think of a winter's day—
But still he courted fair Rosette,
She, all the time, could never forget
A saying old she heard when young,
And thus the proverb was slowly sung,
“‘Green and Gray can never agree,’
So, old man, court not me.”

Young Rosette, in mirthful vein,
Laugh'd at Sir Gregory's tender pain;
She, he said, “should roll in wealth”—
And vow'd he was “in very good health:”
She should ride in a coach and four,
She should have servants by the score,

168

Green and gold should her liveries be—
When thus eighteen said to sixty-three—
“Green and gold are fair to see,
But ‘Green and Gray can never agree,’
So, old man, court not me.”

'TIS SWEET TO REMEMBER.

Oh! 'tis sweet to remember how brightly
The days o'er us swiftly have flown,
When the hearts that we prize beat as lightly,
And fed upon hopes like our own;
When with grief we were scarcely acquainted,
While joy was our own bosom friend;
Oh! days—wing'd too swiftly with pleasure,
Ye are past—and our dream's at an end:
Yet 'tis sweet to remember!

The walks, where we've roam'd without tiring,
The songs that together we've sung—
The jest, to whose merry inspiring
Our mingling of laughter hath rung—
Oh! trifles like these become precious,
Embalm'd in the mem'ry of years:
The smiles of the past—so remember'd—
How often they waken our tears!
Yet 'tis sweet to remember!

169

THE HAPPY HOUR TO MEET.
[_]

DUET.

Waiting evening's closing,
Marking the vesper chime,
Love, his pinions folding,
Watches the flight of Time.
Counting the hours by the bells so sweet,
And blessing the happy hour to meet.

When the sun is sinking
Over the lady's bower,
And the longer shadow
Tells of the short'ning hour,
Breezes then whisper thro' flowrets sweet,
“Hasten—for oh! 'tis the hour to meet!”

THE SUNSHINE OF THE HEART.

The sunshine of the heart be mine,
That beams a charm around;
Where'er it sheds its ray divine,
Is all enchanted ground!
No fiend of care
May enter there,
Tho' Fate employ her art:—
Her darkest powers all bow to thine,
Bright sunshine of the heart!

170

Beneath the splendour of thy ray
How lovely all is made!
Bright fountains in the desert play,
And palm trees cast their shade;
Thy morning light
Is rosy bright,
And when thy beams depart,
Still glows with charms thy latest ray,
Sweet sunshine of the heart!

HOPE RETURNS AGAIN.

Oh, sigh not thus, so broken-hearted,
Over hopes departed,
Hope returns again;
Behold, to shame thy faithless sighing,
Yon bright swallow flying—
Summer comes again.
And dost thou fear
He who rules the changing year—
And guides the wild bird o'er the sea—
Will leave the human heart in sorrow?—
No, no! trust to-morrow;
Hope will come to thee.

And when the desert-thirst is raging,
Where no fount assuaging
Cheers the burning plains,
Then the trav'ler, faint and dying,
Some green spot espying,
The living water gains!

171

And dost thou think
At Hope's fount we may not drink?—
Oh! weary pilgrim bend thy knee,
And, at her sacred fountain kneeling,
Own with holiest feeling,
There are green spots for thee!

LARRY O'GAFF.

Larry O'Gaff was a brave boy for marching,
His instep was large—but his income was small;
So he set up, one day, as a soldier of fortune—
The meaning of which is—no fortune at all.
In battles, bombardments and seiges he grew up,
Till he didn't much care if towns flourish'd or blew up,
And his maxims in life—for he pick'd one or two up—
Were short, sweet and simple for Larry O'Gaff.

“If your purse it is slender,” says Larry, “'tis better
To owe a small trifle than want a great deal;
If, soliciting cash, a solicitor's letter,
Or your mercer, maliciously make an appeal—
Look sad, and say, “Sir, your account shall be paid
Now my uncle is dead and my fortune is made;”
Then order some mourning—proceedings are stayed,
“And black's genteel wearing,” says Larry O'Gaff.

Says Larry, “Love all men—except an attorney:
The ladies, without an exception at all;
But beware of a widow on love's mazy journey—
For, mostly, they've seven small childre that squall:

172

And then, from those eyes that love's glances have darted,
They sometimes rain showers—and sham broken-hearted,
Deploring the loss of ‘the dear man departed;’
Oh! them widows are sarpints!” says Larry O'Gaff.

“But if with some charming young creature you'd run away,
Court her fat mother—a middle-aged dame,
While her daughter, up stairs, is then packing, like fun, away,
A small change of clothes, before changing her name;
Mamma smiles resistance—but yields in amaze,
You rush for a licence to save all delays;
But go—round the corner with Miss, in a chaise,
And then, “heigh for Gretna!” says Larry O'Gaff.

“Your wife is cut off with a shilling,” says Larry,
“But Providence spares her an old maiden aunt,
Who hates all the brazen young women who marry,
Tho' she, all her life, has been grieving she can't.
Round her you must flatter and wheedle and twist,
Let her snub you in company—cheat you at whist—
But you'll win the odd trick when the Legacy list,
Shows her will all in favour of Larry O'Gaff.”

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

[_]

The brief period which succeeds the autumnal close, called “The Indian summer,” a reflex, as it were, of the early portion of the year, strikes a stranger in America as peculiarly beautiful, and quite charmed me.

When summer's verdant beauty flies,
And autumn glows with richer dyes,
A softer charm beyond them lies—
It is the Indian summer.

173

Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze
Bereave of beauty all the trees,
The balmy spring renewal sees
In the sweet Indian summer.

And thus, dear love, if early years
Have drown'd the germ of joy in tears,
A later gleam of hope appears—
Just like the Indian summer:
And ere the snows of age descend,
Oh trust me, dear one, changeless friend,
Our falling years may brightly end—
Just like the Indian summer.

CUPID'S FIRST DIP.

Cupid one day amid wild flowers playing,
Wild flowers—the fittest for him—
In the bright stream, by whose bank he was straying,
Longing to bathe—but the boy could not swim.
He ventured his foot in a shallow hard by,
When the Nymph of the stream, with a sharp mocking cry,
Said, “Cupid don't dabble—be cautious, or bold,
Jump in, or keep out,
If you dabble, no doubt
You'll go home with a cough,
And the ladies will scoff—
For the very worst thing is for Love to take cold.”

174

Cupid, thus taunted, jump'd in, nothing daunted,
“Well done,” said the Nymph to the boy;
“Once o'er head and ears, boy, away with your fears—
The wilder the plunge, oh, the brighter the joy!
To give you this lesson, sweet Cupid, is luck,
With your dear little wings too—I'm sure you're a duck—
But, wild duck, don't dabble,”—
The Nymph said to him,—
“Once o'er head and ears,
Away with your fears,
For Love never sinks when determined to swim!”

GRIEF IS MINE.

Grief is mine since thou art gone,
Thou, my love, my secret one,
I hide my thoughts, and weep alone,
That none may hear or see;
But grief, tho' silent, tells its tale—
They watch my cheek, and see 'tis pale:
But the cheek may fade, and the heart ne'er fail—
I will still be true to thee.
Sual, sual, a-rūn.

Oh! give me wings, sweet bird of air,
Soaring aloft in the bright clouds there;
There is hope in Heaven—on the earth is despair—
Oh! that a bird I were!

175

'Tis then I would seek my place of rest,
And fly unto my loved one's breast,
Within his heart to make my nest,
And dwell for ever there!
Sual, sual, a-rūn.

Pronounced Shule aroon—signifying—“Come my secret one.

DIVIDED LOVE.

When Love o'er the warm heart is stealing
His mystic, his magical chain,
How wild is the transport of feeling,
We scarce can call pleasure or pain!
Till 'midst the bright joys that surround us,
Our bondage we tremble to see;—
But so closely his fetters have bound us,
We struggle in vain to be free!

As vain is the hope of retreating
From peril that lurks in the eyes,
When glances too frequent are meeting,
And sighs are re-echoed by sighs;
When thus, with two hearts that are tender,
The folly so equal hath been,
'Tis meet that they both should surrender,
And share the soft bondage between.

BRING ME THAT ANCIENT BOWL.

Bring me that ancient bowl of wine,
Bright as the ruby's blaze,
Around its brim methinks still shine
The smiles of former days!

176

And thus, while to my lip it bears
The treasures of the vine,
Deeply my soul the transport shares
From this old bowl of mine!

Bring me the harp, for mem'ry's sake,
That harp of silent string—
I long its slumbering chords to wake
In strains I used to sing:
And as I dream of that fair form
In youth adored—oh then,
Once more I feel my heart grow warm,
And sing of love again!

OH! ONCE I HAD LOVERS.

Oh! once I had lovers in plenty,
When a colleen I lived in the glen;
I kill'd fifty before I was twenty—
How happy the moments flew then!
Then winter I ne'er could discover,
For Love brighten'd Time's dusky wing;—
Oh! when ev'ry new month brought a lover,
The year it seem'd always like spring.

But Cupid's more delicate pinion,
Could never keep up with Old Time;
So the grey-beard assumes his dominion,
When the mid-day of life rings its chime:
Then gather, when morning is shining,
Some flow'r while the bright moments last,
Which closely around the heart twining,
Will live when the summer is past!

177

THE ENCHANTRESS.

Oh! why did I meet with thee, charmer,
Why dare the soft spell of thine eye?
Oh! Love, why for conquest thus arm her,
And forbid that the vanquish'd should fly?
She hath charm'd, till my heart I did give her,
In return she hath left me her chains:
The Enchantress is gone—ah!—for ever—
But her magic—her magic remains!

And where lay the might of her charming?
'Twas not seeking to charm you, at all;
Her frankness all caution disarming,
Till you felt the deep pow'r of her thrall.
Her eyes when they wounded, look'd kindly,
'Twas the mirth of her lip made my pain:—
She is gone whom I worship'd so blindly,
But, Enchantress, thy spells all remain!

OH! THAT GOLDEN STRAND.

Where is the light of that azure eye
That beam'd with heaven's own blue?
Clouded, betimes, like an April sky
With sunshine peeping through;
But when the tear had pass'd away,
How heav'nly bright was the smile's sweet ray:
Oh! that golden strand,
In a distant land—
There will fond memory stray!

178

Where is the voice that I used to hear?
Whose sound was Love's own spell,
Greeting the ear with a modest fear,
As it said it lov'd me well.
And then 'twas hush'd—as if half afraid
Of the joy it felt and the joy it made—
Oh! that golden strand,
In a distant land—
There let my memory dwell!

THE MINSTREL TO HIS LADY LOVE.

A Minstrel, fan'd by Love's soft wing,
Thus to his lady-love did sing—
“Oh, would I were thy lute's sweet string,
To be so gently touch'd by thee;
Oh! never to thy gentle hand
That lute was more in sweet command
Than I should be, to understand
The slightest wish or look from thee.”

Oh! would I were thy falcon fair,
To cleave for thee the highest air,
And to my lady downward bear
The heron's wing, her plume to be:
To be cast off the bird may rue,
Yet fly—whene'er he's bid by you,
But ah, with instinct far more true,
He hears the sweet recall from thee.

179

Oh! happy is thy faithful hound,
To rove with thee the sylvan ground,
Around thee in wild joy to bound,
All fondly-watchful, guarding thee:
No danger deep could make him fly,
No! at thy feet he'd bravely die—
Oh! lady dear, and so would I,
For one bright tear bestow'd on me.

And like thy lute, my deepest tone
Is, at thy bidding, all thine own;
Or would'st thou have me mirthful grown,
Thou need'st but give a smile to me.
And like thy hawk, thy lure should be
The dearest thing on earth to me—
Thy dog's untaught fidelity
Is not more true than mine to thee!

“Cast off”—a term in hawking.

“Lure”—a term in hawking.

IT MAY BE YET.

“It may be yet, it may be yet:”
How oft that dreamy thought hath charm'd!
“It may be yet, it may be yet,”
Hath oft despair disarm'd.
The Sun, tho' clouded all the day,
In glory bright may set;
So may we watch for Love's bright ray,
And, hopeful thro' the darkness, say,
“It may be yet, it may be yet,
My own dear love, it may be yet!”

180

The sailor, by some dangerous shore,
Impatient on a breezeless tide,
Within the breakers' warning roar
That tells where dangers bide,
Undaunted still, with hopeful care
His stedfast eye doth set
To watch the coming breeze so fair—
That breath from Heaven—that whispers there,
“It may be yet, it may be yet,
Oh! sailor bold, it may be yet!”

The weeping maid, in sunlit bow'r,
Whose sparkling dew-drops mock her tears,
Waking her harp's pathetic pow'r
Some strain of gladness hears:
As if some pitying angel's wing,
O'er chords with tear-drops wet,
Had gently swept the wailing string,
And bade one tone of promise ring
“It may be yet, it may be yet,
Oh! weeping maid, it may be yet!”

OH! WHAT CARE I FOR ANCIENT LORDLY HALL.
[_]

DUET.

Oh! what care I for ancient lordly hall,
Where pride and pomp unjoyous dwell?
An older, prouder home, my own I call—
It is my green and native mountain dell:

181

Its lofty walls are rais'd by Heav'n's own hand,
Its roof is Heav'n's own blue,
And sparkling stars at night,
In living lustre bright,
Give light at Heav'n's command,
While fairies sip the dew.
Oh! what care I, &c.

Around our cot behold, in gay festoon,
The rip'ning clusters of the vine,
While winning breezes e'en at burning noon
Hark to the murmur of the whisp'ring pine.
And while we lie beneath its cooling shade,
Our ripe grapes promise wine,
To fill the sparkling cup
With hearty wishes up
To my own blooming maid,
Or faithful friend of mine.
Oh! what care I, &c.

OH! LOVELY EYES.

Oh! lovely eyes, whose gentle radiance, glowing
With speechless meaning, beareth more to me
On the pure stream from out the soul-spring flowing,
Than language breath'd by voice of melody:
For words are cold to tell the full heart's meaning,
To sound the deep where Love in secret lies—
In guarded words there may be timid feigning,
But no deceit can lurk in those sweet eyes!

182

Oh! lovely eyes, where truth, with lustre blending,
Shines—like the north star o'er the wintry sea,
Some lonely bark in midnight course befriending—
Oh, lovely eyes, beam gently thus on me.
How blest my course with such bright eyes to guide me,
Who'd ask for words when Love's own light replies?
Were Love not there, your glances had denied me,
For no deceit can lurk in those sweet eyes!

FISHERMAN.

[_]

THE SONG OF THE FISHERMAN'S WIFE, AS SHE WEAVES HIS NET.

Thou art far away at sea,
Fisherman;
My blessing wait on thee,
Fisherman;
The early moon hath set,
But the stars will light thee yet,
To cast thy busy net,
Fisherman.

And fear not for thy net,
Fisherman;
It never fail'd thee yet,
Fisherman;
Its meshes will not part,
For, oh, they're made with art—
As if to keep thy heart,
Fisherman.

183

And fear not on the sea,
Fisherman;
For I will pray for thee,
Fisherman!
Amid the billow's strife,
Ne'er tremble for thy life—
For Heaven will hear thy wife!
Fisherman.

EVELEEN.

There's not a charm that hath a dwelling
On the land or on the sea,
But my fancy's fondly telling
To my heart, 'tis like to thee;
The sea-bird bright,
In dazzling flight
When circling round my boat I've seen,
Its snowy wings
To mem'ry brings
The soft fair neck of Eveleen.

When the moonbeam on the billow,
Sleeping o'er the deep, I've seen—
Like to beauty on her pillow—
Then I've thought of Eveleen.
But her splendour
Is less tender
Than some eyes that I have seen;
Deep as ocean
My devotion,
For the lovely Eveleen.

184

True love never was erratic;
He hath wings—but hath not flown.
True love ne'er was democratic;
He must always reign alone.
Could affection
Make election,
Could my heart but choose its queen,
One girl alone
Should have the throne,
And her sweet name is Eveleen.

THE CAPTIVE ROVER.

One morn, as fiercely blew the blast,
Amid the breakers' roar,
A rover came, and fearless, cast
His grapling on the shore;
But the rover, too, was grappled there,
A captive soon was he;
For he saw and lov'd a maiden fair
Who dwelt beside the sea.

They woo'd and wed, and years soon fled,
And when a baby's smile
Was beaming in the rover's face,
He seem'd so sad the while;
He thought upon his sinless child,
And looked across the sea—
For he feared the day a rover wild
His baby boy should be.

185

He kiss'd the child, and gave it back
Into its mother's arms;
“One other cruise,” he said, “and then
Farewell to guilt's alarms!”
He call'd his band—he piped each hand;
His sail swept far from shore:
But storm or strife bereft the wife—
The rover came no more.

THE JAUNTING CAR.

A full and a faithful account I'll sing
Of the wonderful things that in Ireland are;
And first I would fain to your notice bring
That magic contrivance, a Jaunting Car.
For its magic is great, as I'll soon impart,
And naught can compare to it near or far;
Would you find the soft side of a lady's heart,
Just sit by her side on a Jaunting Car:
The lordly brougham, the ducal coach,
My lady's chariot, less speedy are
To make their way to the church, they say,
Than a nice little drive on a Jaunting Car.

The Greeks and the Romans fine cars display'd,
If to history you'll let me go back so far;
But, the wretches, in these it was war they made,
While 'tis love that is made on a Jaunting Car.
But in love, as in war, you may kill your man,
And if you're inclined to proceed so far,
Just call him out, and go ride about
A mile-and-a-half on a Jaunting Car.

186

Let lovers praise the moon's soft rays,
The falling dew or the rising star,
The streamlet's side at the even-tide,
But give me the side of a Jaunting Car.

Ere Cupid was taught to take steps with art,
(Little staggering bob, as most babies are,)
His mother she bought him a little go-cart,—
'Twas the earliest form of the Jaunting Car.
And the walking gift it can soon impart
To all who to Cupid inclinéd are,
If you would walk off with a lady's heart,
Just take her a drive on a Jaunting Car
The cushions, soft as the tale that's told,
The shafts as certain as Cupid's are,
The springs go bump—and your heart goes jump,
At the thumping vows on a Jaunting Car.

CAN YOU EVER FORGET?

Oh, don't you remember, from morning till evening,
How oft we have rov'd thro' the wild mountain glen,
And sigh'd, as we said, when the time came for leaving,
The day was too short—tho' 'twas midsummer then?
If it rain'd we complain'd not—we thought not of weather,
Tho' the path was with weeds and with briars o'ergrown;
'Twas so sweet and so short when we walk'd it together—
'Twas so long—ah, so long, when returning alone.
Oh, don't you remember, how thus 'twas we met?—
Or rather I'll say—can you ever forget?

187

And, don't you remember, at each festive season
That Christmas, or Easter, so merrily bring,
To sit next each other we always found reason,
When, playing at forfeits, all join'd the gay ring?
And, when you drew the prizes, you managed that my one
Should be quite the best from the gay Christmas tree;
And if blindman's-buff was the game—oh, you sly one—
You know, very well, that you always caught me.
Oh, don't you remember how thus 'twas we met?—
Or rather I'll say—can you ever forget?

HOW TO ASK AND HAVE.

“Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother,
Sweet Mary,” says I;
“Oh, don't talk to my mother,” says Mary,
Beginning to cry:
“For my mother says men are deceivers,
And never, I know, will consent;
She says girls in a hurry who marry
At leisure repent.”

“Then, suppose I would talk to your father,
Sweet Mary,” says I;
“Oh, don't talk to my father,” says Mary,
Beginning to cry:
“For my father, he loves me so dearly,
He'll never consent I should go—
If you talk to my father,” says Mary,
“He'll surely say ‘No.’”

188

“Then how shall I get you, my jewel?
Sweet Mary,” says I;
“If your father and mother's so cruel,
Most surely I'll die!”
“Oh, never say die, dear,” says Mary;
“A way now to save you, I see:
Since my parents are both so contrary—
You'd better ask me.”

I VALUE THIS CUP.

I value this cup, for its brim
Is hallow'd by mem'ries divine!
How many a health have I pledg'd out of him—
And mingled a tear with the wine!
To my children I drank from this bowl,
When the day of their birth has come round;
To the well-belov'd wife of my soul,
Who with rapture my fond heart has crown'd!

The cup that is hallow'd like this,
With hopes, and with blessings, and love,
Bright Hebe ne'er fill'd one so brimming with bliss
When she crown'd it with nectar above!
Then forward our hopes let us cast,
And bound in fond memory's chain,
Let us drink to the joys that are past,
And trust that as bright ones remain!

189

ABSENCE.

To ------.

As when the sun withdraweth quite,
Then, all is night;
'Tis even so with me,
Parted from thee.
The faithful dawn of morning bright
Brings back the light—
But to illume my sorrow,
There is no morrow!

As when the sea, upon the strand,
With wavy wand,
Marketh where she hath been,
So thou, my queen,
Didst leave thy trace upon my heart
Ere thou didst part:—
The tide returns again—
But thou!—ah when?

COME BACK TO ME.

Why, dearest, dost thou linger
Far away from me?
While pensive mem'ry's finger
Ever points to thee;

190

Over what mountains bounding,
Over what silent sea,
With dangers dark surrounding?—
Oh, come back to me!

But darker than the danger
That dwells upon the sea,
The thought, that some fair stranger
May cast her love on thee;
Perchance she's now bestowing
Some fatal glance on thee,
Love-spells around thee throwing—
Oh, come back to me!

OH! GALLANT SAILOR BOY.

Oh! gallant sailor boy,
When the look-out on the topmast thou'rt keeping,
Proud in thy daring joy,
Giving no thought to the eyes that are weeping,
Weeping, and lifted be
In fervent prayer for thee,
When the tempest's roar
Is heard on shore,
And thy mother, on bended knee,
Sinks, with a sinking heart,
Till the heart groweth strong in its silent devotion,
Praying, where'er thou art,
That Heaven will keep thee unharm'd on the ocean;
Sparing the widow's joy,—
Her only sailor boy!

191

Oh! gallant sailor boy,
Safe while the billows around thee are dashing,
And the petrel, with noisy joy,
Shrieks thro' the tempest on wing wildly flashing:
For other wings may be
(Tho' all unseen by thee)
Call'd by the pray'r
Of a fond heart there,
For thy mother, on bended knee,
Sinks, with a sinking heart,
Till the heart groweth strong in its silent devotion,
Praying, where'er thou art,
That Heaven will keep thee unharm'd on the ocean;
Sparing the widow's joy,—
Her only sailor boy!

THE WAR SHIP OF PEACE.

[_]

The Americans exhibited much sympathy towards Ireland when the famine raged there in 1847. A touching instance was then given how the better feelings of our nature may employ even the enginery of destruction to serve the cause of humanity;—an American frigate, (the Jamestown, I believe,) was dismantled of all her warlike appliances, and placed at the disposal of the charitable to carry provisions.

Sweet Land of Song, thy harp doth hang
Upon the willows now,
While famine's blight and fever's pang
Stamp misery on thy brow.
Yet take thy harp, and raise thy voice,
Though faint and low it be,
And let thy sinking heart rejoice
In friends still left to thee!

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Look out—look out—across the sea,
That girds thy emerald shore,
A ship of war is bound for thee,
But with no warlike store;
Her thunder sleeps—'tis Mercy's breath
That wafts her o'er the sea;
She goes not forth to deal out death,
But bears new life to thee!

Thy wasted hand can scarcely strike
The chords of grateful praise;
Thy plaintive tone is now unlike
Thy voice of former days;
Yet ev'n in sorrow, tuneful still,
Let Erin's voice proclaim,
In bardic praise on every hill,
Columbia's glorious name!

THE ROSE, THE ZEPHYR, AND THE DEWDROP.

“Wilt thou be mine, my pretty Rose?”
A Dewdrop said, at day's declining;
“Thy balmy breath invites repose,
While sparkling stars are o'er us shining.”
Just then a Zephyr, passing by,
Breath'd softly on the Rose a sigh—
The trembling leaves her doubts disclose
What shall she do,
Between the two?—
The Zephyr, and the sparkling Dew.

193

“Oh, lovely Rose,” the Zephyr cried,
“Let not the faithless Dew betray thee;—
He calls thee, now, his blooming bride,
And tempts with diamonds to array thee;
But, sweet one, at the dawn of day
The faithless Dew will fly away.”—
The trembling leaves, &c. &c.

The Dew replied, “Oh ne'er believe,
Sweet Rose, that Zephyr so engaging,
His soft caress of balmy eve
May, ere the morn, be turn'd to raging;
And all the charms he sighs on now,
At morn be scatter'd from the bough!”
Her trembling leaves, &c. &c.

THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME.

The hour was sad I left the maid,
A lingering farewell taking,
Her sighs and tears my steps delay'd—
I thought her heart was breaking;
In hurried words her name I bless'd,
I breath'd the vows that bind me,
And to my heart, in anguish, press'd
The girl I left behind me.

Then to the East we bore away
To win a name in story;
And there, where dawns the sun of day,
There dawn'd our sun of glory!

194

Both blaz'd in noon on Alma's height,
Where, in the post assigned me,
I shar'd the glory of that fight,
Sweet girl I left behind me.

Full many a name our banners bore
Of former deeds of daring,
But they were of the days of yore,
In which we had no sharing;
But now, our laurels, freshly won,
With the old ones shall entwin'd be,
Still worthy of our sires, each son,
Sweet girl I left behind me.

The hope of final victory
Within my bosom burning,
Is mingling with sweet thoughts of thee
And of my fond returning:
But should I ne'er return again,
Still worth thy love thou'lt find me,
Dishonor's breath shall never stain
The name I'll leave behind me!

KITTY MACLURE.

Of the beauties of old
Heathen poets have told,
But I, on the faith of a Christian, more pure,
Abjure all the lays
Of their classical days,
For my own Irish beauty—sweet Kitty Maclure!

195

Cleopatra, the gipsy—
Ariadne, the tipsy—
Tho' bumper'd by Bacchus in nectar so pure,
Were less worthy a toast
Than the beauty I boast,
So, in bright mountain-dew, here's to Kitty Maclure!

Fair Helen of Greece
And the Roman Lucrece,
Compar'd with my swan were but geese, I am sure:
What poet could speak
Of a beauty antique,
Compar'd with my young one—sweet Kitty Maclure?
Oh, sweet Kitty,
So pretty, so witty,
To melt you to pity what flames I endure;
While I sigh forth your name,
It increases my flame,
Till I'm turned into cinders for Kitty Maclure!

This world below here
Is but darksome and drear,
So I set about finding for darkness a cure,
And I got the sweet knowledge
From Cupid's own college—
'Twas light from the eyes of sweet Kitty Maclure.
If all the dark pages
Of all the dark ages
Were bound in one volume, you might be secure
To illumine them quite,
With the mirth-giving light
That beams from the eyes of sweet Kitty Maclure!

196

As Cupid, one day,
Hide and seek went to play,
He knew where to hide himself, sly and secure;
So, away the rogue dashes
To hide 'mid the lashes
That fringe the bright eyes of sweet Kitty Maclure.
She thought 'twas a fly
That got into her eye,
So she wink'd—for the tickling she could not endure;
But Love would not fly
At her winking so sly,
And still lurks in the eye of sweet Kitty Maclure!

TELL-TALES.

Oh! oh! don't you remember,
Long time ago,
When the path was in December
Cover'd o'er with snow?
Then we had a little walk,
Then we had a little talk,
But jealous eyes did soon divine
The footsteps there were not all mine:—
Oh! the snow,
The tell-tale snow,
Long time ago!

Oh! oh! don't you remember
On that evening fair,
When the jasmine flowers you braided
In the raven hair?

197

Homeward then I thoughtless stray'd,
And the jasmine flowers betray'd;
For well the jealous glances knew
No jasmine in our garden grew:—
Oh! the flower,
The tell-tale flower,
Long time ago!

And when we were both forbidden
Ever more to meet,
Slily, little notes were hidden
By the willow seat.
But vainly for a note we sought:—
Could we each other have forgot?—
Ah! others knew as well as we
The secret of that hollow tree:—
Oh! the tree, the hollow tree,
It betray'd both you and me,
Long time ago!

THE ALABAMA.

TO ------

I thought of thee, as down the stream
I floated, in a wanderer's dream,
As sunset cast its glowing beam
On the banks of the Alabama;
The waters calm reflected bright
The golden glory of the light,
While, stealing on, the shades of night
Came over the Alabama.

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The Evening Star came peeping thro'
The misty veil of twilight dew—
Like love thro' tears—its brightness grew
Like thee—on the Alabama.
And, sparkling there, as Beauty's queen,
Presided o'er the tranquil scene,
I wished that thou had'st with me been
On the lovely Alabama.

And then the moon, with silver beam,
Shed brighter lustre o'er the stream—
But brighter was the Poet's dream
Of thee—on the Alabama!
The sunset bright—the moonlight fair—
The twilight balm of evening air—
With thought of thee could not compare
On the lovely Alabama!

However far, however near,
To me, alike, thou'rt still most dear—
In thought, sweet love, thou'rt with me here,
On the winding Alabama.
The watchdog's bark on shore I hear:—
It tells me that some home is near—
And mem'ry drops affection's tear
On the distant Alabama.

Venus—the Evening Star.

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A SINGLE WREATH ENTWINE.

[_]

LINES ON THE ALLIANCE OF ENGLAND AND FRANCE.

France and England, great in story,
Fighting once for separate glory,
Now their valiant hosts combine,
In sacred band, round Freedom's shrine.
And when, in mingled might,
They triumph in the fight,
Separate chaplets need not be
Hence, to crown the victory:—
A single wreath entwine.

YIELD NOT, THOU SAD ONE, TO SIGHS.

Oh yield not, thou sad one, to sighs,
Nor murmur at Destiny's will,
Behold, for each pleasure that flies,
Another replacing it still.
Time's wing, were it all of one feather,
Far slower would be in its flight;
The storm gives a charm to fine weather,
And day would seem dark without night.
Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs.

When we look on some lake that repeats
The loveliness bounding its shore,
A breeze o'er the soft surface fleets,
And the mirror-like beauty is o'er:—

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But the breeze, ere it ruffled the deep,
Pervading the odorous bow'rs,
Awaken'd the flowr's from their sleep,
And wafted their sweets to be ours.
Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs.

Oh, blame not the change nor the flight
Of our joys as they're passing away,
'Tis the swiftness and change give delight—
They would pall if permitted to stay.
More gaily they glitter in flying,
They perish in lustre still bright,
Like the hues of the dolphin, in dying,
Or the humming-bird's wing in its flight.
Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs.

NEVERMORE.

Lov'd one, when I saw thee last,
O'er the billow came the blast,
Twilight gray its shadow cast
Over the shore.
As onward bore my bark to sea,
And backward turn'd my gaze on thee,
Something coldly whisper'd me,
“No—Nevermore.”
Was it fancy, was it fear,
Startled thus the lover's ear?
Or would fate my doom foreshow
In that mystic voice of woe?

201

Voice of woe, prophetic knell
O'er that sad, that last farewell,
For I saw my Isabel—
Ah!—Nevermore!

For many a year from that sad day
That bore me from my love away,
Still that chilling voice would say,
“No—Nevermore!”
When, at last, the tidings came,
Bearing me a blighted name,
Did Love light another flame?
Ah—Nevermore.
Nevermore the sparkling spell
In this mournful heart can dwell;
Yet the shade of Bella's grace,
Coldly haunts the lonely place:
Vain the challenge Beauty tries,
From blooming lips and beaming eyes,
Still this aching heart replies,
“No—Nevermore!”

FATHER MOLLOY.

OR, THE CONFESSION.

Paddy McCabe was dying one day,
And Father Molloy he came to confess him;
Paddy pray'd hard he would make no delay
But forgive him his sins and make haste for to bless him.
“First tell me your sins,” says Father Molloy,
“For I'm thinking you've not been a very good boy.”

202

“Oh,” says Paddy, “so late in the evenin' I fear
'Twould throuble you such a long story to hear,
For you've ten long miles o'er the mountain to go,
While the road I've to travel's much longer, you know,
So give us your blessin' and get in the saddle,
To tell all my sins my poor brain it would addle;
And the docthor gave ordhers to keep me so quiet—
'Twould disturb me to tell all my sins, if I'd thry it,
And your Reverence has towld us, unless we tell all,
'Tis worse than not makin' confession at all,
So I'll say, in a word, I'm no very good boy,
And, therefore, your blessin', sweet Father Molloy.”

“Well, I'll read from a book,” says Father Molloy,
“The manifold sins that humanity's heir to;
And when you hear those that your conscience annoy,
You'll just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto.”
Then the Father began the dark roll of iniquity,
And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety,
And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar—
“Oh, murdher!” says Paddy, “don't read any more,
For, if you keep readin', by all that is thrue,
Your Reverence's fist will be soon black and blue;
Besides, to be throubled my conscience begins,
That your Reverence should have any hand in my sins;
So you'd betther suppose I committed them all,
For whether they're great ones, or whether they're small,
Or if they're a dozen, or if they're four-score,
'Tis your Reverence knows how to absolve them, asthore:
So I'll say, in a word, I'm no very good boy,
And, therefore, your blesin', sweet Father Molloy.”

203

“Well,” says Father Molloy, “if your sins I forgive,
So you must forgive all your enemies truly;
And promise me also that, if you should live,
You'll leave off your old tricks, and begin to live newly.”
“I forgive ev'ry body,” says Pat, with a groan,
“Except that big vagabone Micky Malone;
And him I will murdher if ever I can—”
“Tut, tut!” says the priest, “you're a very bad man,
For without your forgiveness, and also repentance,
You'll ne'er go to Heaven, and that is my sentence.”
“Poo!” says Paddy McCabe, “that's a very hard case,
With your Reverence and Heaven I'm content to make pace;
But with Heaven and your Reverence I wondher—Och hone,
You would think of comparin' that blackguard Malone—
But since I'm hard press'd and that I must forgive,
I forgive—if I die—but as sure as I live
That ugly blackguard I will surely desthroy!—
So, now for your blessin', sweet Father Molloy!”

THE DEEP-SEA SHELL.

“Sad one, sighing along the shore,
Why to thine ear that sea shell keep?”
“Because it telleth of days of yore—
Of joys that I knew within the deep.”
A Syren, there betraying
With songs and softest saying,
My soul with vows of love beguil'd—
Oh how I lov'd that sea-nymph wild!
But she was false—ah, false as fair,
And I, abandon'd to despair;

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The shell I stole from out the deep,
Some mem'ry of my joy to keep;
And though the shell
Rings Pleasure's knell,
Yet still 'tis dear
Tho' sad, to hear
The sound of the deep-sea shell.”

Thus mortals listen to Mem'ry's shell,
Stolen of Time from his silent deep;
And Nature yields to the murmuring spell,
Tho' the sad music may make us weep.
For, in Memory's deep are lying
Past joys, too fast in flying,
And many a “thought too deep for tears,”
And blighted hopes of former years:
Yet, mingled thus, of grief and joy
Oh, who the memory would destroy?—
Of all the bliss and pain we've met,
Oh, where's the heart that would forget?
For tho' the shell
Rings Pleasure's knell,
Yet still 'tis dear
Tho' sad, to hear
The sound of Memory's shell.

I AM A SIMPLE GONDOLIER.

I am a simple Gondolier, Signora,
I am a simple Gondolier:
But would you fly from danger, fair Signora,
I'll be as bold as Cavalier.

205

Where is truth e'er found the surest?—
'Tis in a simple heart like mine,
Where is courage found the purest,
But for a beauty like to thine?
I am a simple Gondolier, Signora,
I am a simple Gondolier:
But would you fly from danger, fair Signora,
I'll be as bold as Cavalier!

To favor flight, the silver light obscuring,
The storm-cloud veils the midnight moon;
Haste, lady, haste, the dusky hour securing,
Thy safety seek in yon lagune.
There, thy exiled lord is waiting
With speedy bark and flowing sail,
Waste not the hour with fear debating—
The wave invites, and fair the gale.
Fear to thy heart be stranger, fair Signora,
Trust to thy faithful Gondolier,
Who, in the hour of danger, fair Signora,
Will be as bold as Cavalier!

LOVE AND LIQUOR.

A GREEK ALLEGORY.

Oh sure, 'twould amaze yiz,
How one Mister Theseus
Deserted a lovely young lady of owld:
On a dissolute Island,
All lonely and silent,
She sobbed herself sick, as she sat in the cowld.

206

Oh, you'd think she was kilt,
As she roar'd—with the quilt
Wrapp'd round her in haste as she jump'd out of bed,
And ran down to the coast,
Where she look'd like a ghost,
Though 'twas he was departed—the vagabone fled.
And she cried “Well-a-day!
Sure my heart it is gray:
They're deceivers, them sojers, that goes on half-pay.”

While abusing the villain,
Came riding postilion
A nate little boy on the back of a baste,
Big enough, faith, to ate him,
But he leather'd and bate him,
And the baste to unsate him ne'er struggled the laste.
And an iligant car
He was dhrawing—by gar!
It was finer by far than a Lord Mayor's state coach;
And the chap that was in it,
He sang like a linnet,
With a nate keg o' whisky beside him to broach;
And he tipp'd, now and then,
Just a matther of ten
Or twelve tumblers o' punch to his bowld sarving men.

They were dress'd in green livery,
But seem'd rather shivery,
For 'twas only a trifle o' leaves that they wore;
But they caper'd away
Like the sweeps on May-day,
And shouted and tippled the tumblers galore.

207

A print of their master
Is often, in Plaster-
O'-Paris put over the door of a tap,
A fine chubby fellow,
Ripe, rosy, and mellow,
Like a peach that is ready to drop in your lap.
Hurrah! for brave Bacchus,
A bottle to crack us—
He's a friend o' the people, like bowld Caius Gracchus!

Now Bacchus, perceiving
The Lady was grieving,
He spoke to her civil and tipp'd her a wink;
And the more that she fretted,
He soother'd and petted,
And gave her a glass her own health just to dhrink;
Her pulse it beat quicker,
The thrifle of liquor
Enliven'd her sinking heart's cockles, I think:—
So the moral is plain
That, if Love gives you pain,
There's nothing can cure it like taking to dhrink.

FILL HIGH THE CUP IN TRIUMPH.

A FESTAL LYRIC.

Fill high the cup in triumph, with laurel wreathe the bowl,
To drink the glorious victors of the famed Sebastopol;
The fight of right is bravely won, the Tyrant's squadrons fly,
His tow'rs that crown'd th' embattled steep in lowly ashes lie,

208

The ships that bore his murd'rous flag across the sable deep,
Were sunk in coward safety—where dishonor'd—let them sleep;
Above them, now, th' unfetter'd waves in bounding freedom roll,
And lash the prostrate ruins of the famed Sebastopol.

And when the savage North had dar'd defiance to the free,
How glorious was the high resolve of Western chivalry;
The foeman bold of days gone by shook hands in brave renown,
And in the cause of Freedom cast their stainless gauntless down:
'Gainst freedom, in the cause of right, 'twas vain for slaves to try,
And soon from Alma came the shout of glorious victory,
From Inkermann, Tchernaya too, and now, to crown the whole,
The flags of France and England float above Sebastopol.

Oh, 'tis a lesson timely giv'n, to be remember'd long,
How freedom's cause was blest by Heaven, and right prevail'd o'er wrong,
The falt'ring and the fallen may hide their heads in abject shame,
While honor crowns the victors who have play'd the noble game,
And won it, too—so fill the cup to toast the cause divine—
Our welcome friend Sardine will give a flavour to the wine,
Full as our triumph let us fill, and drink, with heart and soul,
That brotherhood of bravery that won Sebastopol.

209

THE “WHISTLIN' THIEF.”

When Pat came o'er the hill,
His Colleen fair to see,
His whistle low, but shrill,
The signal was to be;

(Pat whistles.)

“Mary,” the mother said,
“Some one is whistlin' sure;”
Says Mary, “'tis only the wind
Is whistlin' thro' the door.”

(Pat whistles a bit of a popular air.)

“I've liv'd a long time, Mary,
In this wide world my dear,
But a door to whistle like that
I never yet did hear.”

“But, mother, you know the fiddle
Hangs close beside the chink,
And the wind upon the strings
Is playin' the tune I think.”

(The pig grunts.)

“Mary, I hear the pig,
Uneasy in his mind.”
“But, mother, you know they say,
The pigs can see the wind.”

210

“That's thrue enough, in the day,
But I think you may remark,
That pigs, no more nor we,
Can see anything in the dark.”

(The dog barks.)

“The dog is barkin' now,
The fiddle can't play that tune.”
“But, mother, the dogs will bark
Whenever they see the moon.”

“But how could he see the moon,
When, you know, the dog is blind?
Blind dogs won't bark at the moon,
Nor fiddles be play'd by the wind.

“I'm not such a fool as you think,
I know very well 'tis Pat:—
Shut your mouth you whistlin' thief,
And go along home out o' that!

“And you go off to bed,
Don't play upon me your jeers,
For tho' I have lost my eyes,
I haven't lost my ears!”

THE TWO CASTLES.

There in a castle tall,
Roses entwine;
There, in the stately hall,
Flows the bright wine;

211

There mirth and magic lay
Pass the bright hours away,
Hope, lovely Hope, they say
These halls are thine!

There in a castle keep,
Lonely and gray,
Looking across the deep—
Far, far away;
There, in her lofty tow'r,
There, at the midnight hour,
Mem'ry, with darksome pow'r,
Watches, they say.

Would you these castles find?
Ask me the way?
Where is the rosy-twined—
Where is the gray?
Hope's—built by fairy hands,
Sank in the shifting sands;
On the rock, Mem'ry's stands—
Lasting for aye!

THOU FAIR, BUT FAITHLESS ONE!

Well may I rue the day,
Thou fair, but faithless one,
I fell beneath thy sway,
Thou fair, but faithless one;

212

You stole my ardent heart
With Love's delusive art,
And then did from me part,
Thou cruel faithless one!

The flow'rs you gave, I keep,
Thou fair, but faithless one;
Thy form still haunts my sleep,
Thou fair but faithless one;
But oh, the dream of night—
That shadow of delight,
At morning takes to flight—
Like thee—thou faithless one!

Oh! that we ne'er had met,
Thou fair, but faithless one;
Or that I could forget
Thy charms, thou faithless one!
But oh! while life shall last,
Thy spells around me cast,
Still bind me to the past—
Thou fair, but faithless one!

THE FISHERMAN'S DAUGHTER.

“Why art thou wand'ring alone by the shore?
The wind whistles loud and the white breakers roar.”
“Oh! I am wand'ring alone by the sea,
To watch if my father's returning to me;

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For the wind it blew hard in the depth of the night,
And I'm watching here since the dawning of light,
Looking thro' tears o'er the wild raging sea,
To watch if my father's returning to me.

Last night when my father put forth on the deep,
To our cottage returning, I lay down to sleep,
But while the calm of sweet sleep came to me,
The voice of the tempest was waking the sea!
Methought, in a dream, 'twas my father that spoke—
But, oh!—to the voice of the tempest I woke,
While the father I dreamt of was far on the sea,
Ah—why, in my dream, cried my father to me!

Vainly I look thro' the fast-driving gale—
Hopeless, I see what hope fancies a sail,
But 'tis only the wing of the sea-gull flits by,
And my heart it sinks low at the bird's wailing cry:
For the storm must blow hard when the gull comes on shore—
Oh! that the fisherman's gift were no more
Than the gift of the wild bird to soar o'er the sea—
Good angels! thy wings bear my father to me!”

THE SIREN BY THE SEA.

I had a dream of gently straying,
By the margin of the sea,
There, my wand'ring steps delaying,
There a Siren sang to me;

214

The waveless deep
Was lull'd to sleep,
As the mellow music stole along,
Lest the motion
Of the ocean
Should disturb the mermaid's song:—
Oh, that song was sweet to me,
Nothing mortal e'er can be,
Like the ringing
Of the singing
Of that Siren by the sea!

When I awoke, how many a pleasure,
Of the time long pass'd away,
Seem'd awaking to the measure
Of the mermaid's magic lay!
Thus mem'ry's song
Oft steals along
O'er the dark and silent tide of time;
And voices low,
In gentle flow,
Repeat the songs of youth's sweet prime:—
Oh! sweet mem'ry! thus to me
Let thy magic music be,
Ever ringing
Like the singing
Of that Siren by the sea!

215

MARY OF TIPPERARY.

From sweet Tipperary,
See light-hearted Mary,
Her step, like a fairy, scarce ruffles the dew,
As she joyously springs
And as joyously sings,
Disdaining such things as a stocking or shoe!
For she goes bare-footed,
Like Venus or Cupid,
And who'd be so stupid to put her in silk,
When her sweet foot and ankle,
The dew-drops bespangle,
As she trips o'er the lawn,
At the blush of the dawn,
As she trips o'er the lawn with her full pail of milk.

For the dance when arrayed,
See this bright mountain maid,
If her hair she would braid with young beauty's fond lure,
O'er some clear fountain stooping,
Her dark tresses looping:—
Diana herself ne'er had mirror more pure!
How lovely that toilet:—
Would Fashion dare soil it
With paint or with patches—when Nature bestows
A beauty more simple,
In mirth's artless dimple,
Heaven's light in her eye—
(The soft blue of the sky)
Heaven's light in her eye and a blush like the rose

216

OCULAR DEMONSTRATION.

In the days of creation, when Jove was allotting
The duty each part should supply,
To the tongue he gave words, to assist us in plotting,
And vigilance gave to the eye.
But Juno, the mandates of Jove ne'er obeying,
Taught woman his laws to defy,
Said, the tongue should keep guard over what they were saying,
And the speaking be done by the eye.

But the great law of Nature so strongly endued
The tongue of the woman, dear soul,
That it would not be quiet, do all that she could,
And ran quite beyond her control;
While her eye, flashing brightly, determined to keep
Its gift from the queen of the sky:
'Till between them, with many an argument deep,
The quarrel soon ran very high.

At last, 'twas agreed an appeal to the sky
Should be made in a matter so nice,
And this compromise sly 'twixt the tongue and the eye,
Was agreed on, by Jove's own advice;
“My daughters, thus nicely the balance I've hung
'Twixt the rivals,” the Thunderer cries,
“Let woman to woman converse with her tongue,
But speak to a man with her eyes.”

217

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

[_]

The mystery attendant upon the Councils of Venice increased the terror of their rule. A covered bridge between the Ducal palace and the State prison served as a private passage, by which suspected or condemned persons were transferred at once from examination to the dungeon—hence it was called “The Bridge of Sighs.”

Above the sparkling waters,
Where Venice crowns the tide,
Behold the home of sorrow
So near the home of pride;
A palace and a prison
Beside each other rise,
And, dark between, a link is seen—
It is “The Bridge of Sighs.”
Row, gondolier, row fast, row fast,
Until that fatal bridge be past.

But not alone in Venice
Are joy and grief so near;
To day the smile may waken,
To morrow wake the tear;
'Tis next the “House of mourning”
That Pleasure's palace lies,
'Twixt joy and grief the passage brief—
Just like “The Bridge of Sighs.”
Row, gondolier, row fast, row fast,
Until that fatal bridge be past.

218

Who seeks for joy unclouded,
Must never seek it here;
But in a purer region—
And in a brighter sphere;
To lead the way before us,
Bright hope unfailing flies:—
This earth of ours, to Eden's bowers
Is but a “Bridge of Sighs.”
Fly, fly sweet hope, fly fast, fly fast,
Until that bridge of sighs be past.