NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR.

Air-" Dennis don't be threatening."

NAY, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright waves yet.
Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream,

That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
The balm of thy sighs,

The spell of thine eyes,

Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl! Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The wine but brightens my love for thee!

They tell us that Love, in his fairy bower,
Had two blush-roses, of birth divine;

He sprinkled the one with the rainbow's shower,
But bath'd the other with mantling wine.
Soon did the buds,

That drank of the floods,

Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade;
While those which the tide

Of ruby had dy'd,

All blush into beauty like thee, sweet maid!

Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

AVENGING* AND BRIGHT FELL THE
SWIFT SWORD OF ERIN.

Air-"Crooghan a Venee.”

AVENGING* and bright fell the swift sword of Erin, On him who the sons of Usna betray'd;

For ev'ry fond eye which waken'd a tear in,

A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

*The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called "Deirdri, or the lamentable fate of the sons of Usnach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr. O'Flanagan, (see vol. 1 of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin,) and upon which it appears that the "Darthula" of Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Conor, king of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. "This story," (says Mr. O'Flanagan) "has been from time immemorial held in high repute, as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish." These are "The death of the Children of Touran," "The death of the Children of Lear," (both regarding Tuatha de Denans,) and this "The death of the Children of Usnach," which is a Milesian story.-It will be recollected, that, in page 35 of these Melodies, there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir: "Silent oh Moyle!" &c.

Whatever may be thought of these sanguine claims to antiquity which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for

By the red cloud that hung over Connor's dark dwelling,*

When Ulad'st three champions lay sleeping in

gore;

By the pillows of war which, so often, high swelling, Have wafted those heroes to victory's shore!

We swear to avenge them!-no joy shall be tasted,
The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,
Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall be wast-
ed,

Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head!

Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections, Tho' sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall! Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, and affections,

Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of these gentlemen did not meet with all the liberal encouragement which they merit.

"Oh Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red."-Deridri's Song.

† Ulster.

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

Air-"The yellow horse."

HE.

WHAT the bee is to the floweret,

When he looks for honey dew,
Through the leaves that close embow'r it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.

SHE.

What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whisp'ring kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear!

DUETTO,

What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whisp'ring kisses, while they're going.
That I'll be to you, my dear.

SHE.

But, they say, the bee's a rover,
That he'll fly when sweets are gone;
And, when once the kiss is over,
Faithless brooks will wander on!

HE.

Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,
If sunny banks will wear away,
Tis but right that bees and brooks
Should sip and kiss them while they may.

LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

Air-"Cean Dubi Delish."

"HERE we dwell in holiest bowers,

Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend, Where sighs of devotion, and breathing of flowers, To heaven in mingled odour ascend.

Do not disturb our calm, oh Love!

So like is thy form to the cherubs above, It well might deceive such hearts as ours!"

Love stood near the novice and listen'd,
And Love is no novice in taking a hint;
His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten'd,
His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint.

"Who would have thought," the urchin cries, "That Love could so well, so gravely disguise His wandering wings and wounding eyes ?"