BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.* AIR.-The Brown Irish Girl. I. By that Lake, whose gloomy shore Where the cliff hangs high and steep, II. 'Twas from KATHLEEN's eyes he flew- She had loved him well and long, III. On the bold cliff's bosom cast, But nor earth, nor Heaven is free Fearless she had track'd his feet To this rocky, wild retreat; And when morning met his view, Her mild glances met it too. *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, etc. Ah! your saints have cruel hearts! V. GLENDALOUGH! thy gloomy wave SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. AIR.-Open the Door. I. SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, II. She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, III. He had lived for his love, for his country he died, IV. Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest, They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the West, NAY, TELL ME NOT. AIR.-Dennis, don't be threatening. I. NAY, tell me not, dear! that the goblet drowns Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul; The light of thine eyes, Still float on the surface and hallow my bowl! II. They tell us that Love in his fairy bower That drank of the floods Distill❜d by the rainbow, decline and fade ; Of ruby had dyed All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! AVENGING AND BRIGHT, I. AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of ERIN * *The words of this song were suggested by the very an cient Irish story, called "Deirdri, or the lamentable fate of F For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade. II By the red cloud that hung over CONOR's dark dwelling,* III. We swear to revenge them!-no joy shall be tasted, IV. 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! 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 Danans); and this, "The death of the children of Usnach, which is a Milesian story."-It will be recollected, that in the Second Number of these Melodies, there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir; " Silent, oh Moyle!" etc. Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity, which Mr. O'FLANAGAN and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement they merit. "Oh Nasi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red.” -Deirdris Song. + Ulster. WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. AIR.-The Yellow Horse. I. H. WHAT the bee is to the floweret, Through the leaves that close embower it, She.-What the bank, with verdure glowing, II. She. But, they say, the bee's a rover, That he'll fly, when sweets are gone; He. Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, "HERE we dwell, in holiest bowers, "Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; "Where sighs of devotion and breathings 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." II. Love stood near the Novice, and listen'd, "Who would have thought," the urchin cries, "That Love could so well, so gravely disguise "His wandering wings and wounding eyes?" |