For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade. By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,' When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in gore-3 By the billows of war which, so often, high swelling, Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore!— We swear to revenge them!—no joy shall be tasted, Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollections, Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall; Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all! 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 She.-What the bank, with verdure glowing, Is to waves that wander near, Whispering 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, 'T is but right that bees and brooks Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH AIR-The Bunch of Green Rushes that grew at the THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, That chase one another, like waves of the deep,Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows, Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. The goose-feathers of folly can turn it aside. When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of sun-shine, with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.' Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, And left their light urns all as empty as mine! But pledge me the goblet-while Idleness weaves Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see One bright drop or two, that has fallen on the leaves From her fountain divine, 't is sufficient for me! LOVE AND THE NOVICE. AIR-Cean Dubh Delish. . HERE we dwell, in holiest bowers, Do not disturb our calm, oh Love! Love stood near the Novice and listen'd, Ob Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red.-Deirdri's Song. 1 Ulster. No V. Ir is but fair to those who take an interest in this Work, to state that it is now very near its termination, and that the Sixth Number, which shall speedily appear, will, most probably, be the last of the series. It is not so much from a want of materials, and still less from any abatement of zeal or industry, that we have adopted the resolution of bringing our task to a close; but we feel so proud, for our country's sake and our own, of the interest which this purely Irish Work has excited, and so anxious lest a particle of that interest should be lost by any ill-judged protraction of its existence, that we think it wiser to take away the cup from the lip, while its flavour is yet, we trust, fresh and sweet, than to risk any longer trial of the charm, or give so much as not to leave some wish for more. In speaking thus I allude entirely to the Airs, which are, of course, the main attraction of these Volumes; and, though we have still many popular and 'Proposito florem prætulit officio.-Propert. lib. 1, eleg. 20. delightful Melodies to produce, yet it cannot be denied that we should soon experience some difficulty in equalling the richness and novelty of the earlier Numbers, for which, as we had the choice of all before us, we naturally selected only the most rare and beautiful. The Poetry, too, would be sure to sympathize with the decline of the Music, and, however feebly my words have kept pace with the excellence of the Airs, they would follow their falling off, I fear, with wonderful alacrity. So that, altogether, both pride and prudence counsel us to stop, while the Work is yet, we believe, flourishing and attractive, and, in the imperial attitude, stantes mori, before we incur the charge either of altering for the worse, or, what is equally unpardonable, continuing too long the same. We beg, however, to say, it is only in the event of our failing to find Airs as exquisite as most of those we have given, that we mean thus to anticipate the natural period of dissolution, like those Indians who put their relatives to death when they become feeble. Among these is Savourna Deelish, which I have hitherto only withheld, from the diffidence I feel in treading upon the same ground with Mr Campbell, whose beautiful words to this fine air have taken too strong possession of all ears and bearts, for me to think of producing any impression after him. I suppose, however, I must attempt it for the next Number. 2 Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil, in Ireland called the Shamrock, in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. HOPE, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in her hand.. ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. ONE bumper at parting!-though many It dies, do we know half its worth! They die 'midst the tears of the cup. 1. There are countries, says Montaigne, where they believe the souls of the bappy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields; and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which wo call Echo.. How sweet to rove As onward we journey, how pleasant Cries, « Onward! and spurs the gay hours; Than when his way lies among flowers. But, come-may our life's happy measure Be all of such moments made up; They 're born on the bosom of pleasure, They die 'midst the tears of the cup. This evening, we saw the sun sinking In waters his glory made brightOh! trust me, our farewell of drinking Should be like that farewell of light. You saw how he finish'd, by darting His beam o'er a deep billow's brimSo fill up!-let's shine, at our parting, In full liquid glory, like him. And oh! may our life's happy measure Of moments like this be made up; 'T was born on the bosom of pleasure, It dies 'mid the tears of the cup! "T IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. AIR-Groves of Blarney. 'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone? THE YOUNG MAY-MOON. AIR-The Dandy O! THE young May-moon is beaming, love! The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love! See a translation from the Irish, in Mr Bunting's collection, by John Brown, one of my earliest college companions and friends, whose death was as singularly melancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and exemplary. 2 These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland, if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances as related by O'Halloran. The King of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the King of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a busband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punc I look'd for the lamp, which she told me Should shine when her pilgrim return'd; But, though darkness began to infold me, No lamp from the battlements burn'd! I flew to her chamber-'t was lonely While the hand that had waked it so often There was a time, falsest of women! When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man, through a million of foemen, Who dared but to doubt thee in thought! While now-oh, degenerate daughter Of ERIN!-how fall'n is thy fame! And, through ages of bondage and slaughter, Already the curse is upon her, And strangers her valleys profane; They come to divide—to dishonour, And tyrants they long will remain! But, onward!-the green banner rearing, Go, flesh every sword to the hilt; On our side is VIRTUE and ERIN! On theirs is THE SAXON and GUILT. OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN! AIR-Sheela na Guira. On! had we some bright little isle of our own, With so fond a delay, That the night only draws A thin veil o'er the day; Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give! There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, With affection, as free From decline as the bowers, Our life should resemble a long day of light, And our death come on, holy and calm as the night! tually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns.-The Monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II. «Such, adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation), is the variable and tickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy.. FAREWELL!-BUT, WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. AIR-Moll Roone. FAREWELL!-but, whenever you welcome the hour OH! DOUBT ME NOT. On! doubt me not-the season Shall watch the fire awaked by Love. Is o'er when Folly made me rove, Shall watch the fire awaked by Love. May sing of Passion's ardent spell, And hums his lay of courtship o'er, YOU REMEMBER ELLEN. AIR-Were I a Clerk. You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, How meekly she bless'd her humble lot, This Ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting story. told of a certain noble family in England. No. VI. In presenting this Sixth Number as our last, and bidding adieu to the Irish Harp for ever, we shall not answer very confidently for the strength of our resolution, nor feel quite sure that it may not prove, after all, to be only one of those eternal farewells which a lover takes of his mistress occasionally. Our only motive indeed for discontinuing the Work was a fear that our treasures were beginning to be exhausted, and an unwillingness to descend to the gathering of mere sced-pearl, after the very valuable gems it has been our lot to string together. But this intention, which we announced in our Fifth Number, has excited an anxiety in the lovers of Irish Music, not only pleasant and flattering, but highly useful to us; for the various contributions we have received in consequence have enriched our collection with so many choice and beautiful Airs, that, if we keep to our resolution of publishing no more, it will certainly be an instance of forbearance and self-command unexampled in the history of poets and musicians. |