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But did delight thy bosom know,

And love thine hours employ,
We shar'd the sympathetic glow,

And mingled tears of joy.


TUNE_" If the sea were ink."
The moon throws her shadowy light on the hill,

And silvers the grey-coated trees;
Thro' the silence of night the soft sounds of the rill

Are borne on the wing of the breeze.
O daughter of Cluthar, thy lover is here,

He sits at the thorn on the heath;
Ah! where is the vow that enchanted his ear,
That thou would'st be constant till death?

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Sweet, sweet are the notes of the harp as they roll,

From the hall of Nithona they rise,
They come to speak peace to my sorrowing soul,

And wipe the big drops from mine eyes :
But despair to the dark brow of Connel is dear;

He lists not to music's mild breath :
Ah! where is the vow that enchanted his

That thou would'st be constant till death?

Whence, whence is that shadow that sails o'er the plain,

’Neath the quivering beam of the moon? 'Tis the white-bosom'd maid-I shall view her again,

And love all our moments shall crown.
O daughter of Cluthar, thy footstep is near!

Lo! here is the thorn on the heath:
Ah! blest was the vow that enchanted mine ear,
That thou would'st be constant till death!


TUNE-" The Brown Maid."
Oh touch, dear maid, the trembling string,

Bid magic strains of sweetness rise,
And whilst of love you softly sing,

I read it in those beaming eyes.
Hush, gentle breeze, that round her blows,

Nor through those floating ringlets sigh:
Hush, gentle stream, that babbling flows,

Oh ! let the melting accents die!
The song your lip so softly breath'd,

Hath lulld each throbbing pang of mine;
The roses that


hand hath wreath's, Have hid their blushes in my wine.

This rose imbib'd your lip's rich dew;

How fondly then the gift I greet!
The draught, dear maid, will taste of you,

And ob, it will be doubly sweet!


TUNE Coolin.

OA! hush the soft sigh, maid, and dry the sweet tear,
In this bosom thy image shall ever be dear:
Of Hope's pictur'd scenes how the colours decay,
And love's fairy season as soon melts away.
When its balm-breathing dew I delighted to sip,
Did I think a farewell would escape from that lip?
By honour commanded, though far I should roam,
The loadstone of love will attract me to home.

At noon, when the rose's warm blush thou shalt see,
Oh, think of the wreaths thou hast woven for me!
At night, when

the moon in mild splendour shall move, Oh, view that fair planet, and think how I love.

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the floor,



TUNE—“ Sprig of Shillelah." I my own botheration don't alter my plan, I'll sing seven lines of a tight Irishman, Wrote by old Billy Shakespeare of Ballyporeen. He said while a babe I lov'd whisky and pap, That I mewled and puk'd in my grandmother's lap; She joulted me hard just to hush my sweet roar, When I slipp'd through her fingers down whack on

What a squalling I made sure at Ballyporeen. When I grew up a boy, with a nice shining face,

my bag at my back, and a snail-crawling pace, Went to school at old Thwackum’s at Ballyporeen His wig was so fusty, his birch was my dread, He learning beat out 'stead of into my head. Master Macshane, says he, you're a great dirty dolt, You've got no more brains than a Monaghan colt;

You're not fit for our college at Ballyporeen. When eighteen years of age, was teas'd and perplext To know what I should be, so a lover turn'd next,

And courted sweet Sheelah of Ballyporeen. I thought I'd just take her to comfort my life, Not knowing that she was already a wife: She ask'd me just once that to see her I'd come, When I found her ten children and husband at home, A great big whacking chairman of Ballyporeen.

I next turn'd a soldier, I did not like that,
So turn's servant, and liv’d with the great Justice Pat,

A big dealer in p'ratoes at Ballyporeen,
With turtle and venison he lin’d his inside,
Ate so many fat capons, that one day he died.
So great was my grief, that to keep spirits up,
Of some nice whisky cordial I took a big sup,

To my master's safe journey from Ballyporeen. Kick'd and toss'd so about like a weathercock vane, I pack'd up my awls, and I went back again

To my grandfather's cottage at Ballyporeen. I found him, poor soul! with no legs for his hose, Could not see through the spectacles put on his nose; With no teeth in his head, so death cork'd up his chin; He slipp'd out of his slippers, and faith I slipp'd in,

And succeeded poor Dennis of Ballyporeen.

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TUNE_" The snow-breasted Pearl,” OPE thy casement, lady bright,

'Tis thy lover calls;

Pearly dews of night Now hang on the moss-cover'd walls. Though dark is the night, and the dews they are chill, Yet I brave the rough blast from the hill;

O lady, 'tis for thee.

Breathe one soft word, lady bright,

To my raptur'd ear;

I will bless the night,
Though cold 'tis around me, and drear.
Oh, sweetly forgive me for chasing thy rest;
And the sigh of delight from my breast,

O lady, flies to thee.

MORNING A CRUEL TURMOILER IS. TUNE-" I was the boy for bewitching 'em.MORNING a cruel turmoiler is,

Banishing ease and repose; Noon-day a roaster and broiler is,

How we pant under his nose ! Evening for lover's soft measures,

Sighing and begging a boon;
But the blythe season for pleasures,
Laughing lies under the moon.
Och! then you rogue Pat O'Flannaghan,

Kegs of the whisky we'll tilt,
Murtoch, replenish our can again,

Up with your heart-cheering lilt.
Myrtles and vines some may prate about,

Bawling in heathenish glee,
Stuff I wont bother my pate about,

Shamrock and whisky for me!
Faith but I own I feel tender;

Judy, you jilt, how I burn!
If she wont smile, devil mend her!
Both sides of chops have their turn.

Och! then you rogue, &c.
Fill all your cups till they foam again,

Bubbles must float on the brim;
He that steals first sneaking home again,

Day-light is too good for him.
While we have goblets to handle,

While we have liquor to fill,
Mirth, and one spare inch of candle,

may wink as they will.
Och! then you rogue Pat O'Flannaghan,

Kegs of the crature we'll tilt,
Murtoch, replenish our can again,

Up with your heart-cheering lilt.

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