appears too plainly in the tone of sorrow and depression which characterises most of our early songs.-The task which you propose to me, of adapting words to these airs, is by no means easy. The poet, who would follow the various sentiments which they express, must feel and understand that rapid fluctuation of spirits, that unaccountable mixture of gloom and levity, which composes the character of my countrymen, and has deeply tinged their music. Even in their liveliest strains we find some melancholy note intrude-some minor third or flat seventh- which throws its shade as it passes, and makes even mirth interesting. If BURNS had been an Irishman (and I would willingly give up all our claims upon OSSIAN for him), his heart would have been proud of such music, and his genius would have made it immortal. Another difficulty (which is, however, purely mechanical) arises from the irregular structure of many of those airs, and the lawless kind of metre which it will in consequence be necessary to adapt to them. In these instances the poet must write not to the eye but to the ear; and must be content to have his verses of that description which CICERO mentions, Quos si cantu That beautiful spoliaveris, nuda remanebit oratio.' air, The Twisting of the Rope,' which has all the romantic character of the Swiss Ranz des Vaches, is one of those wild and sentimental rakes which it will not be very easy to tie down in sober wedlock with poetry. However, notwithstanding all these difficulties, and the very little talent which I can bring to surmount them, the design appears to me so truly national, that I shall feel much pleasure in giving it all the assistance in my power. Leicestershire, Feb. 1807.. IRISH MELODIES. No. I. GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. AIR-Maid of the Valley. Go where glory waits thee, Oh! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, Oh! then remember me. When at eve thou rovest Oft as summer closes, Once so loved by theeThink of her who wove them, Her who made thee love themOh! then remember me. When, around thee dying, Oh! then remember me, Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing theeOh! then remember me. WAR SONG. REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.' AIR-Molly Macalpin. REMEMBER the glories of BRIEN the brave, Though the days of the hero are o'er; But enough of its glory remains on each sword Mononia! when nature embellish'd the tint No, Freedom! whose smile we shall never resign, That 't is sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, Forget not our wounded companions who stood 4 While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, 'Brien Borombe, the great Monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements. The palace of Brien. a Monster. 4 This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favourite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, Prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest. Let stakes (they said) be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be Between seven and placed in his rank by the side of a sound man.» eight hundred wounded meu (adds O'Halloran), « pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops :-never was such another sight exhibited.History of Ireland, b. xii, ch. 1. No more to chiefs and ladies bright, The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives! FLY NOT YET. FLY not yet, 't is just the hour And maids who love the moon! 'T was but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; "T is then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing. Oh! stay-Oh! stay. Joy so seldom weaves a chain Fly not yet, the fount that play'd In times of old through Ammon's shade,' To burn when night was near: OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT. AIR-John O'Reilly the Active. On! think not my spirits are always as light, And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. No-life is a waste of wearisome hours, Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns! But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile; May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here, Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear. The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows, Solis Fons, near the temple of Ammon. Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, No. II. In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII, an Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish. And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing glibbes, or Coulins (long locks), on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks), to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired.-WALKER'S Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards, page 134. Mr Walker informs us also, that, about the same period, were some harsh measures taken against the Irish Minstrels. This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote: «The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and government of this Monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels. WARNER'S History of Ireland, Vol. 1, Book 10. ST SENANUS AND THE LADY. The Meeting of the Waters forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of 1807. 2 The rivers Avon and Avoca, 3 In a metrical life of St Senanus, taken from an old Kilkenny MS. and which may be found among the Acta Sanctorum Hiberniæ, we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not AIR-Unknown. for the hour, When to Eveleen's bower The Lord of the valley with false vows came; The moon hid her light From the heavens that night, And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame. The clouds pass'd soon From the chaste cold moon, But none will see the day, When the clouds shall pass away, We may roam through this world like a child at a feast, And Heaven smiled again with her vestal flame; Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies, We never need leave our own green isle, For sensitive hearts and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, Through this world whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame. The white snow lay On the narrow path-way, Where the Lord of the valley cross'd over the moor; Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door. Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home. Every trace on the path where the false Lord came; In England, the garden of beauty is kept By a dragon of prudery, placed within call; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, That the garden's but carelessly watch'd after all. When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail, But just pilots her off, and then bids her good bye! I bave endeavoured here, without losing that Irish character which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the sad and ominous fatality by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity. 2 This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nelson before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a poem by O'Guive, the bard of O'Niel, which is quoted in the Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland,» page 433. Con, of the hundred tights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories!. 3 Fos, ultimus Romanorum.. But there's a light above That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame. LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD. AIR-The Red Fox. LET Erin remember the days of old, Ere her faithless sons betray'd her; Which he won from her proud invader; This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered successively hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and car rying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory,»-WanNER's History of Ireland, vol. 1, book 9. Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland. Long before the birth of Christ, we find an hereditary order of chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe na Crasibke ruadh, or the knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagh na Craoibhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Brosbhearg, or the house of the sorrowful soldier.-O'HALLORAN'S INtroduction, etc. part. i, chap. 5. |