IRISH MELODIES.

Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore.[1]

Air -- The Summer is coming.

RICH and rare were the gems she wore,

And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;

But oh! her beauty was far beyond

Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.

"Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,

So lone and lovely through this bleak way?

Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,

As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,

No son of Erin will offer me harm: --

For though they love woman and golden store,

Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more!"

On she went, and her maiden smile

In safety lighted her round the green isle;

And blest for ever is she who relied

Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride.

As a Beam O'er the Face of the Waters May Glow..

Air -- The Young Man's Dream..

AS a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow

While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,

So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile,

Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws

Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes,

To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring,

For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting --

Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay,

Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray;

The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain;

It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.

The Meeting of the Waters.[1]

Air -- The Old Head of Denis.

THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet

As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;[2]

Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene

Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;

'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,

Oh! no, -- it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,

Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,

And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,

When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

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,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

How Dear to Me the Hour.

Air -- The Twisting of the Rope.

HOW dear to me the hour when daylight dies,

   And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,

For then sweet dreams of other days arise,

   And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays

   Along the smooth wave toward the burning west,

I long to tread that golden path of rays,

   And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.

Take Back the Virgin Page.

Written on Returning a Blank Book.

Air -- Dermott.

TAKE back the virgin page,

   White and unwritten still;

Some hand, more calm and sage,

   The leaf must fill.

Thoughts come, as pure as light

   Pure as even you require;

But, oh! each word I write

   Love turns to fire.

Yet let me keep the book:

   Oft shall my heart renew,

When on its leaves I look,

   Dear thoughts of you.

Like you, 'tis fair and bright;

   Like you, too bright and fair

To let wild passion write

   One wrong wish there.

Haply, when from those eyes

   Far, far away I roam,

Should calmer thoughts arise

   Towards you and home;

Fancy may trace some line,

   Worthy those eyes to meet,

Thoughts that not burn, but shine,

   Pure, calm, and sweet.

And as, o'er ocean far,

   Seamen their records keep,

Led by some hidden star

   Through the cold deep;

So may the words I write

   Tell through what storms I stray --

You still the unseen light,

   Guiding my way.

St. Senanus and the Lady.

Air -- The Brown Thorn.

        St. Senanus[1]

"ON! haste, and leave this sacred isle,

Unholy bark, ere morning smile;

For on thy deck, though dark it be,

   A female form I see;

And I have sworn this sainted sod

Shall ne'er by woman's feet by trod!"

        The Lady.

"Oh! Father, send not hence my bark

Through wintry winds and billows dark,

I come, with humble heart, to share

   Thy morn and evening prayer;

Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint,

The brightness of thy sod to taint."

The lady's prayer Senanus spurn'd;

The winds blew fresh, the bark return'd.

But legends hint, that had the maid

   Till morning's light delay'd,

And given the saint one rosy smile,

She ne'er had left his lonely isle.

The Legacy.

Air -- Unknown.

WHEN in death I shall calmly recline,

   O bear my heart to my mistress dear,

Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine

   Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here.

Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow

   To sully a heart so brilliant and light;

But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,

   To bathe the relic from morn till night.

When the light of my song is o'er,

   Then take my harp to your ancient hall;

Hang it up at that friendly door,

   Where weary travellers love to call.[1]

Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,

   Revive its soft note in passing along,

Oh! let one thought of its master waken

   Your warmest smile for the child of song.

Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,

   To grace your revel, when I'm at rest;

Never, oh! never its balm bestowing

   On lips that beauty hath seldom blest.

But when some warm devoted lover

   To her he adores shall bathe its brim,

Then, then my spirit around shall hover,

   And hallow each drop that foams for him.

How Oft Has the Benshee Cried.

Air -- The Dear Black Maid.

HOW oft has the Benshee cried,

How oft has death untied

Bright links that Glory wove,

Sweet bonds entwined by Love.

Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;

Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;

Long may the fair and brave,

Sigh o'er the hero's grave.

We're fallen upon gloomy days![1]

Star after star decays.

Every bright name, that shed

Light o'er the land, is fled.

Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth

Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth:

But brightly flows the tear,

Wept o'er a hero's bier.

Quench'd are our beacon lights --

Thou, of the Hundred Fights![2]

Thou, on whose burning tongue

Truth, peace, and freedom hung![3]

Both mute, -- but long as valour shineth,

Or mercy's soul at war repineth,

So long shall Erin's pride

Tell how they lived and died.

We May Roam Through This World.

Air -- Garyone.

WE may roam through this world, like a child at a feast,

   Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest;

And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east,

   We may order our wings and be off to the west:

But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile,

   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,

   Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

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.

Oh! they want the wild sweet-briery fence

   Which round the flowers of Erin dwells;

Which warns the touch, while winning the sense,

   Nor charms us least when it most repels.

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,

   Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail,

   On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try,

Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail,

   But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye.

While the daughters of Erin keep the boy,

   Ever smiling beside his faithful oar,

Through billows of woe, and beams of joy,

   The same as he look's when he left the shore.

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,

   Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

Eveleen's Bower.

Air -- Unknown.

OH! weep 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,

And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame;

But none will see the day,

When the clouds shall pass away,

Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.

The white snow lay

On the narrow path-way,

When the Lord of the Valley cross'd over the moor;

And many a deep print

On the white snow's tint

Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.

The next sun's ray

Soon melted away

Every trace on the path where the false Lord came;

But there's a light above,

Which alone can remove

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;

When Malachi wore the collar of gold,[1]

   Which he won from her proud invader,

When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd,

   Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger![2]

Ere the emerald gem of the western world

   Was set in the crown of a stranger.

On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,

   When the clear cold eve's declining,

He sees the round towers of other days

   In the wave beneath him shining:

Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,

   Catch a glimpse of the days that are over;

Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time,

   For the long-faded glories they cover.[3]

The Song of Fionnuala.[1]

Air -- Arrah my dear Eveleen.

SILENT, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water,

   Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,

While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter

   Tell's to the night-star her tale of woes.

When shall the swan, her death-note singing,

   Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd?

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

   Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,

   Fate bids me languish long ages away;

Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,

   Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.

When will that day-star, mildly springing,

   Warm our isle with peace and love?

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

   Call my spirit to the fields above?

Come, Send Round the Wine

Air -- We brought the Summer with us.

COME, send round the wine, and leave points of belief

   To simpleton sages and reasoning fools;

This moment's a flower too fair and brief

   To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools.

Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,

   But, while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl,

The fool who would quarrel for difference of hue,

   Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.

Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side

   In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?

Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,

   If he kneel not before the same altar with me?

From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly?

   To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?

No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try

   Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this!

Sublime Was the Warning

Air -- The Black Joke.

SUBLIME was the warning that liberty spoke,

And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke

   Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.

Oh, Liberty! let not this spirit have rest,

Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west --

Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot,

Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot

   While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain.

If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights,

Give to country its charm, and to home its delights;

   If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain,

Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same!

And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name,

Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,

Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath,

   For the Shamrock of Erin and the Olive of Spain!

Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd

The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find

   That repose which, at home, they had sigh'd for in vain,

Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light,

May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright,

And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws,

Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause

   Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

God prosper the cause! -- oh, it cannot but thrive,

While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,

   Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain;

Then, how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die!

The finger of Glory shall point where they lie;

While, far from the footstep of coward or slave,

The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave,

   Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!

Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms

Air -- My Lodging is on the cold Ground..

BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms,

   Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,

   Like fairy-gifts fading away,

Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,

   Let thy loveliness fade as it will,

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart,

   Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,

   And thy cheek unprofaned by a tear,

That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,

   To which time will not make thee more dear:

No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,

   But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,

   The same look which she turn'd when he rose.