This Life Is All Chequer'd With Pleasures and Woes.

Air -- The Bunch of Green Rushes that grew at the Brim.

This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,

   That chase one another like waves of the deep --

Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,

   Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.

So closely our whims on our miseries tread,

   That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried;

And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,

   The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.

But pledge me the cup -- if existence would cloy,

   With hearts ever happy and heads ever wise,

Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,

   And the light brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,

   Through fields full of light, and with heart full of play,

Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,

   And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.

Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted

   The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine,

Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,

   And left their light urns all as empty as mine.

But pledge me the goblet; -- while idleness weaves

   These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see

One bright drop or two that has fall'n on the leaves

   From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

Oh, the Shamrock.

Air -- Alley Croker.

Through Erin's Isle

To sport awhile

   As Love and Valour wander'd,

With Wit, the sprite,

Whose quiver bright

   A thousand arrows squander'd;

Where'er they pass,

A triple grass[1]

   Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,

As softly green

As emeralds seen

   Through purest crystal gleaming.

Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

   Old Erin's native Shamrock!

Says Valour, "See,

They spring for me,

   Those leafy gems of morning!" --

Says Love, "No, no,

For me they grow,

   My fragrant path adorning."

But Wit perceives

The triple leaves,

   And cries, "Oh! do not sever

A type that blends

Three godlike friends,

   Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!"

Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf, etc.

So firmly fond

May last the bond

   They wove that morn together,

And ne'er may fall

One drop of gall

   On Wit's celestial feather.

May Love, as twine

His flowers divine,

   Of thorny falsehood weed 'em:

May Valour ne'er

His standard rear

   Against the cause of Freedom!

Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf, etc.

At the Mid Hour of Night.

Air -- Molly, my dear.

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly

To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;

   And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,

   To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,

And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear!

When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear;

   And, as Echo far off through the vale my said orison rolls,

   I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls,[1]

Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

One Bumper at Parting.

Air -- Moll Roe in the Morning.

ONE bumper at parting! -- though many

   Have circled the board since we met,

The fullest, the saddest of any

   Remains to be crown'd by us yet.

The sweetness that pleasure hath in it

   Is always so slow to come forth,

That seldom, alas, till the minute

   It dies, do we know half its worth.

But come -- may our life's happy measure

   Be all of such moments made up;

They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,

   Thy die 'midst the tears of the cup.

As onward we journey, how pleasant

   To pause and inhabit awhile

Those few sunny spots, like the present,

   That 'mid the dull wilderness smile!

But Time, like a pitiless master,

   Cries "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours --

Ah, never doth Time travel faster

   Than when his way lies among flowers.

But come -- may our life's happy measure

   Be all of such moments made up;

They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,

   They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

We saw how the sun look'd in sinking,

   The waters beneath him how bright;

And now, let our farewell of drinking

   Resemble that farewell of light.

You saw how he finish'd by darting

   His beam o'er a deep billow's brim --

So, fill up, let's shine at our parting,

   In full liquid glory, like him.

And oh! may our life's happy measure

   Of moments like this be made up,

'Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure,

   It dies 'mid the tears of the cup.

'Tis the Last Rose of Summer.

Air -- Groves of Blarney.

'TIS the last rose of summer

   Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

   Are faded and gone:

No flower of her kindred,

   No rose-bud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

   Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

   To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

   Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

   Thy leaves o'er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden

   Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

   When friendships decay,

And from Love's shining circle

   The gems drop away.

When true hearts lie wither'd,

   And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

   This bleak world alone?

The Young May Moon.

Air -- The Dandy O!.

THE young May moon is beaming, love.

The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love.

How sweet to rove,

Through Morna's grove,[1]

When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!

Then awake! -- the heavens look bright, my dear,

'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

And I, whose star,

More glorious far,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.

Then awake! -- till rise of sun, my dear,

The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,

Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light,

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

The Minstrel Boy.

Air -- The Moreen.

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,

   In the ranks of death you'll find him;

His father's sword he has girded on,

   And his wild harp slung behind him.

"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,

   "Though all the world betrays thee,

One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

   One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell! -- but the foeman's chain

   Could not bring his proud soul under;

The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

   For he tore its chords asunder;

And said, "No chains shall sully thee,

   Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free,

   They shall never sound in slavery."

The Song of O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni[1]

Air -- The Pretty Girl milking her Cow.

THE valley lay smiling before me,

   Where lately I left her behind;

Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,

   That sadden'd the joy of my mind.

I look'd for the lamp which, she told me,

   Should shine when her Pilgrim return'd;

But, though darkness began to infold me,

   No lamp from the battlements burn'd!

I flew to her chamber -- 'twas lonely,

   As if the loved tenant lay dead; --

Ah, would it were death, and death only!

   But no, the young false one had fled.

And there hung the lute that could soften

   My very worst pains into bliss;

While the hand that had waked it so often

   Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.

There was a time, falsest of women,

   When Breffni's good sword would have sought

That man, through a million of foemen,

   Who dared but to wrong thee in thought!

While now -- oh degenerate daughter

   Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame!

And through ages of bondage and slaughter,

   Our country shall bleed for thy shame.

Already the curse is upon her,

   And strangers her valleys profane;

They come to divide, to dishonour,

   And tyrants they long will remain.

But onward! --- the green banner rearing,

   Go, flesh every sword to the hilt;

On our side is Virtue and Erin,

   On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt.

Oh! Had We Some Bright Little Isle of Our Own.

Air -- Sheela na Guira.

OH! had we some bright little isle of our own,

In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone,

Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,

And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers;

Where the sun loves to pause

   With so fond a delay,

That the night only draws

   A thin veil o'er the day;

Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live,

Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.

There with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,

We should love, as they loved in the first golden time;

The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,

Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there.

With affection as free

   From decline as the bowers,

And, with hope, like the bee,

   Living always on flowers,

Our life should resemble a long day of light,

And our death come on, holy and calm as the night.

Farewell! -- But Whenever You Welcome the Hour.

Air -- Moll Roone.

FAREWELL! but whenever you welcome the hour

That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,

Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,

And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.

His griefs may return, not a hope may remain

Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain,

But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw

Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up

To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,

My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,

And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles --

Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer,

Some kind voice has murmur'd, "I wish he were here!"

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,

Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;

Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,

And bring back the features that joy used to wear.

Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd!

Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd --

You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

Oh! Doubt Me Not.

Air -- Yellow Wat and the Fox.

OH! doubt me not -- the season

   Is o'er when Folly made me rove,

And now the vestal, Reason,

   Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.

Although this heart was early blown,

   And fairest hands disturb'd the tree,

They only shook some blossoms down --

   Its fruit has all been kept for thee.

Then doubt me not -- the season

   Is o'er when Folly made me rove,

And now the vestal, Reason,

   Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.

And though my lute no longer

   May sing of Passion's ardent spell,

Yet, trust me, all the stronger

   I feel the bliss I do not tell.

The bee through many a garden roves,

   And hums his lay of courtship o'er,

But when he finds the flower he loves,

   He settles there, and hums no more.

Then doubt me not -- the season

   Is o'er when Folly kept me free,

And now the vestal, Reason,

   Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.

You Remember Ellen.[1]

Air -- Were I a Clerk.

YOU remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,

   How meekly she bless'd her humble lot,

When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,

   And love was the light of their lowly cot.

Together they toil'd through winds and rains,

   Till William, at length, in sadness said,

"We must seek our fortune on other plains;" --

   Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.

They roam'd a long and a weary way,

   Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease,

When now, at close of one stormy day,

   They see a proud castle among the trees.

"To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there;

   The wind blows cold, the hour is late;"

So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air,

   And the porter bow'd, as they passd the gate.

"Now, welcome, Lady," exclaim'd the youth, --

   "This castle is thine, and these dark woods all!"

She believed him crazed, but his words were truth,

   For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall!

And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves

   What William the stranger woo'd and wed;

And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,

   Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed.

I'd Mourn the Hopes.

Air -- The Rose-Tree.

I'D mourn the hopes that leave me,

   If thy smiles had left me too;

I'd weep when friends deceive me,

   If thou wert, like them, untrue.

But while I've thee before me,

   With heart so warm and eyes so bright,

No clouds can linger o'er me,

   That smile turns them all to light.

'Tis not in fate to harm me,

   While fate leaves thy love to me:

'Tis not in joy to charm me,

   Unless joy be shared with thee.

One minute's dream about thee

   Were worth a long, an endless year

Of waking bliss without thee,

   My own love, my only dear!

And though the hope be gone, love,

   That long sparkled o'er our way,

Oh! we shall journey on, love,

   More safely, without its ray.

Far better lights shall win me,

   Along the path I've yet to roam --

The mind that burns within me,

   And pure smiles from thee at home.

Thus, when the lamp that lighted

   The traveller at first goes out,

He feels awhile benighted,

   And looks round in fear and doubt.

But soon, the prospect clearing,

   By cloudless starlight on he treads,

And thinks no lamp so cheering

   As the light which Heaven sheds.

Come O'er the Sea.

Air -- Cuishlih ma Chree.

COME o'er the sea,

Maiden with me,

   Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows;

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

   Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;

'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death were thou are not.

Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden with me,

   Come wherever the wild wind blows;

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

   Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Was not the sea

Made for the Free,

   Land for courts and chains alone?

Here we are slaves,

But, on the waves,

   Love and Liberty's all our own.

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us

All earth forgot, and all heaven around us --

Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden, with me,

   Mine through sunshine, storms, and snows

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

   Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Has Sorrow Thy Young Days Shaded.

Air -- Sly Patrick.

HAS sorrow thy young days shaded,

   As clouds o'er the morning fleet?

Too fast have those young days faded

   That, even in sorrow, were sweet?

Does Time with his cold wing wither

   Each feeling that once was dear? --

Then, child of misfortune, come hither,

   I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,

   Been like our Lagenian mine,[1]

Where sparkles of golden splendour

   All over the surface shine --

But, if in pursuit we go deeper,

   Allured by the gleam that shone,

Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,

   Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,[2]

   That flitted from tree to tree

With the talisman's glittering glory --

   Has Hope been that bird to thee?

On branch after branch alighting,

   The gem did she still display,

And, when nearest, and most inviting,

   Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the young hours have fleeted,

   When sorrow itself look'd bright;

If thus the fair hope hath cheated,

   That led thee along so light;

If thus the cold world now wither

   Each feeling that once was dear --

Come, child of misfortune, come hither,

   I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

No, Not More Welcome.

Air -- Luggelaw.

NO, not more welcome the fairy numbers

   Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,

When half awaking from fearful slumbers,

   He thinks the full quire of heaven is near --

Than came that voice, when, all forsaken,

   This heart long had sleeping lain,

Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken

   To such benign blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing

   Of summer wind through some wreathed shell --

Each secret winding, each inmost feeling

   Of all my soul echoed to its spell.

'Twas whisper'd balm -- 'twas sunshine spoken! --

   I'd live years of grief and pain

To have my long sleep of sorrow broken

   By such benign blessed sounds again.

When First I Met Thee.

Air -- O Patrick! fly from me.

WHEN first I met thee, warm and young,

   There shone such truth about thee,

And on thy lip such promise hung,

   I did not dare to doubt thee.

I saw thee change, yet still relied,

   Still clung with hope the fonder,

And thought, though false to all beside,

   From me thou couldst not wander.

But go, deceiver! go,

   The heart, whose hopes could make it

Trust one so false, so low,

   Deserves that thou shouldst break it.

When every tongue thy follies named,

   I fled the unwelcome story,

Or found, in even the faults they blamed,

   Some gleams of future glory.

I still was true, when nearer friends

   Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;

The heart that now thy falsehood rends

   Would then have bled to right thee.

But go, deceiver! go --

   Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken

From pleasure's dream, to know

   The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, though youth its bloom has shed,

   No lights of age adorn thee;

The few who loved thee once have fled,

   And they who flatter scorn thee.

Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,

   No genial ties enwreath it;

The smiling there, like light on graves,

   Has rank cold hearts beneath it.

Go -- go -- though worlds were thine,

   I would not now surrender

One taintless tear of mine

   For all thy guilty splendour!

And days may come, thou false one! yet,

   When even those ties shall sever!

When thou wilt call, with vain regret,

   On her thou'st lost for ever;

On her who, in thy fortune's fall,

   With smiles had still received thee,

And gladly died to prove thee all

   Her fancy first believed thee.

Go -- go -- 'tis vain to curse,

   'Tis weakness to upbraid thee;

Hate cannot wish thee worse

   Than guilt and shame have made thee.

Back to Section 2.
Forward to Section 4.