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Air – Molly Macalpin.

REMEMBER the glories of Brien the Brave,'

Though the days of the hero are o'er; Though lost to Mononia', and cold in the grave, ,

He returns to Kinkora' no more!

Brien Borombe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the eleventh century, after having defeated the Danes in twentyfive engagements.

2 Munster.

3 The Palace of Brien.

That star of the field, which so often has pour'd

Its beam on the battle, is set; But enough of its glory remains on each sword

To light us to victory yet.

Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the tint

Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print

The footstep of Slavery there? No, Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,

Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine

Than to sleep but a moment in chains!

Forget not our wounded companions*, who stood

In the day of distress by our side; While the moss of the valley grew red with their

blood They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died !

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 tha they might be allowed to fight with the rest." Let slukes,'

The sun,

that now blesses our arms with his light, Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain!— Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to

night, To find that they fell there in vain!

they said “ be stuck in the ground; and suffer each of us, tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man.”---“ Between seven and eight hundred wounded men, 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, book 12. chap. i.



AIR-Aileen Aroon.

ERIN! the tear and the smile in thine

eyes Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies;

Shining through sorrow's stream,
Sadd’ning through pleasure's beam,
Thy suns, with doubtful gleam,

Weep while they rise!

Erin! thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,

Till, like the rainbow's light,
Thy various tints unite,
And form, in Heaven's sight,

One arch of peace!


AIR-The Brown Maid.

Oh! breathe not his name- let it sleep in the

shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid ! Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er

his head!

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it

weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the


where he sleeps; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it

rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

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