Oh! Blame Not the Bard.[1]

Air -- Kitty Tyrrel.

OH! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers

   Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame;

He was born for much more, and in happier hours

   His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame.

The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,

   Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;[2]

And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire

   Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart.

But alas for his country! -- her pride is gone by,

   And that spirit is broken which never would bend;

O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

   For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.

Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray;

   Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires;

And the torch, that would light them through dignity's way,

   Must be caught from the pile where their country expires.

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream

   He should try to forget what he never can heal:

Oh! give but a hope -- let a vista but gleam

   Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!

That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down

   Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored;

While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,

   Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.[3]

But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away,

   Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs;

Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay

   Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.

The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;

   The sign of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,

Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,

   Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!

While Gazing on the Moon's Light.

Air -- Oonagh.

WHILE gazing on the moon's light,

   A moment from her smile I turn'd,

To look at orbs that, more bright,

   In lone and distant glory burn'd.

But too far

Each proud star,

   For me to feel its warming flame;

Much more dear

That mild sphere,

   Which near our planet smiling came;[1]

Thus, Mary, be but thou my own,

   While brighter eyes unheeded play,

I'll love those moonlight looks alone

   That bless my home and guide my way.

The day had sunk in dim showers,

   But midnight now, with lustre meet,

Illumined all the pale flowers,

   Like hope upon a mourner's cheek.

I said (while

The moon's smile

Play'd o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,)

"The moon looks

On many brooks,

   The brook can see no moon but this;"[2]

And thus, I thought, our fortunes run,

   For many a lover looks to thee,

While oh! I feel there is but one,

   One Mary in the world for me.

Ill Omens.

Air -- Kitty of Coleraine; or, Paddy's Resource.

WHEN daylight was yet sleeping under the pillow,

   And stars in the heavens still lingering shone,

Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,

   The last time she e'er was to press it alone.

For the youth whom she treasured her heart and her soul in

   Had promised to link the last tie before noon;

And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,

   The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,

   Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,

A butterfly,[1] fresh from the night-flower's kisses,

   Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.

Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,

   She brush'd him -- he fell, alas! never to rise;

"Ah! such," said the girl, "is the pride of our faces,

   For which the soul's innocence too often dies."

While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease was growing,

   She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew;

And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing,

   That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too:

But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning,

   Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost:

"Ah! this means," said the girl (and she sigh'd at its meaning),

   "That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!"

Before the Battle.

Air -- The Fairy Queen.

BY the hope within us springing,

   Herald of to-morrow's strife;

By that sun, whose light is bringing

   Chains or freedom, death or life --

Oh! remember life can be

No charm for him, who lives not free!

   Like the day-star in the wave,

   Sinks a hero in his grave,

'Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

   Happy is he o'er whose decline

   The smiles of home may soothing shine,

And light him down the steep of years:

   But oh, how blest they sink to rest,

   Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

   Now the foeman's cheek turns white,

When his heart that field remembers,

   Where we tamed his tyrant might.

Never let him bind again

A chain like that we broke from then.

   Hark! the horn of combat calls --

   Ere the golden evening falls,

May we pledge that horn in triumph round.[1]

   Many a heart that now beats high,

   In slumber cold at night shall lie,

Nor waken even at victory's sound: --

   But oh how blest that hero's sleep,

   O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

After the Battle.

Air -- Thy Fair Bosom.

NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way,

   And lightnings show'd the distant hill,

Where those who lost that dreadful day

   Stood few and faint, but fearless still.

The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,

   For ever dimm'd, for ever crost --

Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,

   When all but life and honour's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,

   And valour's task, moved slowly by,

While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam

   Should rise and give them light to die.

There's yet a world, where souls are free,

   Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss; --

If death that world's bright opening be,

   Oh! who would live a slave in this?

'Tis Sweet to Think.

Air -- Thady, You Gander.

'TIS sweet to think that, where'er we rove,

   We are sure to find something blissful and dear,

And that, when we're far from the lips that we love,

   We've but to make love to the lips we are near.[1]

The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,

   Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,

But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing

   It can twine with itself, and make closely its own.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

   To be sure to find something, still, that is dear,

And to know, when far from the lips we love,

   We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,

   To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there,

And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,

   'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair.

Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,

   They are both of them bright, but the're changeable too,

And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,

   It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

   To be sure to find something, still, that is dear,

And to know, when far from the lips we love,

   We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

It Is Not the Tear At This Moment Shed.[1]

Air -- The Sixpence.

IT is not the tear at this moment shed,

   When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,

That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,

   Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.

'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept,

   'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;

'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,

   When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light,

   Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them,

For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,

   When we think how he lived but to love them.

And as fresher flowers the sod perfume

   Where buried saints are lying,

So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom

   From the image he left there in dying!

The Irish Peasant to his Mistress.[1]

Air -- ___________________________________.

THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way,

Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay;

The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd,

Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd;

Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,

And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd,

Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd;

She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves,

Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;

Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be,

Then wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail --

Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale.

They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains --

That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains --

Oh! foul is the slander -- no chain could that soul subdue --

Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too![2]

On Music.

Air -- Banks of Banna.

WHEN through life unblest we rove,

   Losing all that made life dear,

Should some notes we used to love,

   In days of boyhood, meet our ear,

Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!

   Wakening thoughts that long have slept,

Kindling former smiles again

   In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along

   Beds of oriental flowers,

Is the grateful breath of song,

   That once was heard in happier hours.

Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on,

   Though the flowers have sunk in death;

So, when pleasure's dream is gone,

   Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh, how faint, how weak,

   Language fades before thy spell!

Why should Feeling ever speak,

   When thou canst breathe her soul so well?

Friendship's balmy words may feign,

   Love's are even more false than they;

Oh! 'tis only music's strain

   Can sweetly soothe, and not betray.

The Origin of the Harp.

Air -- Gage Fane.

'TIS believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee

Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;

And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved,

To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,

And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep,

Till heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm,

And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair -- still her cheeks smiled the same --

While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light

And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,

Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell.[1]

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known

To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;

Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay

To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.

Love's Young Dream.

Air -- The Old Woman.

OH! the days are gone, when Beauty bright

My heart's chain wove;

When my dream of life, from morn till night,

Was love, still love.

New hope may bloom,

And days may come,

   Of milder calmer beam,

But there's nothing half so sweet in life

   As love's young dream:

No, there's nothing half so sweet in life

   As love's young dream.

Though the bard to purer fame may soar,

When wild youth's past;

Though he win the wise, who frown'd before,

To smile at last;

He'll never meet

A joy so sweet,

   In all his noon of fame,

As when first he sung to woman's ear

   His soul-felt flame,

And, at every close, she blush'd to hear

   The one loved name.

No, -- that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot

Which first love traced;

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot

On memory's waste.

'Twas odour fled

As soon as shed;

   'Twas morning's winged dream;

'Twas a light, tht ne'er can shine again

   On life's dull stream:

Oh! 'twas light that n'er can shine again

   On life's dull stream.

The Prince's Day.[1]

Air -- St. Patrick's Day.

THOUGH dark are our sorrows, today we'll forget them,

   And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers:

There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,

   More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours.

But just when the chain,

Has ceased to pain,

   And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers,

There comes a new link,

Our spirits to sink --

Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,

   Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;

But, though 'twere the last little spark in our souls,

   We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.

Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal!

   Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true;

And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,

   Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.

While cowards, who blight

Your fame, your right,

   Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,

The Standard of Green

In front would be seen --

Oh, my life on your faith! were you summon'd this minute,

   You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,

And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,

   When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded

   In hearts which have suffer'd too much to forget;

And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded,

   And Erin's gay jubileee shine out yet.

The gem may be broke

By many a stroke,

   But nothing can cloud its native ray;

Each fragment will cast

A light to the last --

And thus, Erin, my country, though broken thou art,

   There's lustre wiithin thee, that ne'er will decay;

A spirit which beams through each suffering part,

   And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.

Weep On, Weep On.

Air -- The Song of Sorrow.

WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past,

   Your dreams of pride are o'er;

The fatal chain is round you cast,

   And you are men no more.

In vain the hero's heart hath bled;

   The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain;

Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,

   It never lights again!

Weep on -- perhaps in after days,

   They'll learn to love your name,

When many a deed may wake in praise

   That long hath slept in blame.

And when they tread the ruin'd isle,

   Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,

They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile

   Could conquer hearts so brave?

"'Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate

   Your web of discord wove;

And while your tyrants join'd in hate,

   You never join'd in love.

But hearts fell off that ought to twine,

   And man profaned what God had given;

Till some were heard to curse the shrine

   Where others knelt in heaven.!"

Lesbia Hath a Beaming Eye.

Air -- Nora Creina.

LESBIA hath a beaming eye,

   But no one knows for whom it beameth;

Right and left its arrows fly,

   But what they aim at no one dreameth.

Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

   My Nora's lid that seldom rises;

Few its looks, but every one,

   Like unexpected light, surprises!

      Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,

   My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,

   Beauty lies

   In many eyes,

   But Love in yours, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

   But all so close the nymph hath laced it,

Not a charm of beauty's mould

   Presumes to stay where Nature placed it.

Oh! my Nora's gown for me,

   That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free

   To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.

      Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,

   My simple, graceful Nora Creina,

   Nature's dress

   Is loveliness --

   The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined,

   But, when its points are gleaning round us,

Who can tell if they're design'd

   To dazzle merely, or to wound us?

Pillow'd on my Nora's heart,

   In safer slumber Love reposes --

Bed of peace! whose roughest part

   Is but the crumpling of the roses.

      Oh! my Nora Creina, dear,

   My mild, my artless Nora Creina!

   Wit, though bright,

   Hath no such light

   As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

I Saw Thy Form in Youthful Prime.

Air -- Domhnall.

I SAW thy form in youthful prime,

   Nor thought that pale decay

Would steal before the steps of Time,

   And waste its bloom away, Mary!

Yet still thy features wore that light,

   Which fleets not with the breath;

And life ne'er look'd more truly bright

   Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines,

   Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines

   Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So veil'd beneath the simplest guise,

   Thy radiant genius shone,

And that which charm'd all other eyes

   Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,

   Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;

Or could we keep the souls we love,

   We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!

Though many a gifted mind we meet,

   Though fairest forms we see,

To live with them is far less sweet

   Than to remember thee, Mary![1]

By That Lake, Whose Gloomy Shore.[1]

Air -- The Brown Irish Girl.

BY that Lake, whose gloomy shore

Sky-lark never warbles o'er,[2]

Where the cliff hangs high and steep,

Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.

"Here, at least," he calmly said,

"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!

She had loved him well and long,

Wish'd him hers, 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 heaven, 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.

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, "Heaven 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 sunbeams 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.