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BY THAT LAKE WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE".

AIR-The Brown Irish Girl.

By that lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er,
Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young St. Kevin stole to sleep;
“ Here, at least,” he calmly said,
16 Woman ne'er shall find

my

bed.”.
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

'Twas from Kathleen's

eyes

he flew, Eyes of most unholy blue!

1 This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. KEVIN, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.

? There are many other curious traditions concerning this lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, &c.

She had loved him well and long,
Wish'd him her's, nor thought it wrong,
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn’d.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there;
But nor earth, nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be:
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah! your saints have cruel hearts !
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And, with rude repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

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Glendalough! thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave;
Soon the Saint (yet, ah! too late)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said “ Heav'n rest her soul!"
Round the Lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide!

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

Air-Open the Door.

She is far from the land, where her young

hero sleeps, And lovers are round her sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze,

and

weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying!

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking.-Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,

They were all that to life had entwined him,Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him!

Oh! make her a grave, where the sun-beams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the

West,
From her own loved Island of sorrow!

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