Oh, Ye Dead!

Air -- Plough Tune.

OH, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead![1] whom we know by the light you give

From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live,

Why leave you thus your graves,

In far off fields and waves,

Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,

To haunt this spot where all

Those eyes that wept your fall,

And the hearts that wail'd you, like your own, lie dead?

It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;

And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone;

But still thus even in death,

So sweet the living breath

Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er,

That ere, condemn'd, we go

To freeze 'mid Hecla's snow,

We would taste it a while, and think we live once more!

O'Donohue's Mistress.

Air -- The Little and Great Mountain.

OF all the fair months, that round the sun

In light-link'd dance their circles run,

   Sweet May, shine thou for me;

For still, when thy earliest beams arise,

That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,

   Sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves

Its lingering smile on golden eves,

   Fair lake, thou'rt dearest to me;

For when the last April sun grows dim

Thy Naiads prepare his steed[1] for him

   Who dwells, bright lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds that ever bore

Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,

   White Steed, most joy to thee;

Who still, with the first young glance of spring,

From under that glorious lake dost bring

   My love, my chief, to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,

When newly launch'd, thy long mane[2] curls,

   Fair Steed, as white and free;

And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,

Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,

   Around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,

Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,

   Most sweet that death will be,

Which, under the next May evening's light,

When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,

   Dear love, I'll die for thee.

Echo.

Air -- The Wren.

HOW sweet the answer Echo makes

To music at night,

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,

And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,

Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,

Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star,

Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,

The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,

And only then --

The sigh that's breathed for one to hear,

Is by that one, that only dear,

Breathed back again!

Oh, the Sight Entrancing.

Air -- Planxty Sudley.

OH, the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing

O'er files array'd

With helm and blade,

And plumes in the gay wind dancing!

When hearts are all high beating

And the trumpet's voice repeating

That song, whose breath

May lead to death,

But never to entreating.

Oh, the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing

O'er files array'd

With helm and blade,

And plumes in the gay wind dancing!

Yet, tis not helm or feather --

For ask yon despot, whether

His plumed bands

Could bring such hands

And hearts as ours together.

Leave pomps to those who need 'em --

Give man but heart and freedom,

And proud he braves

The gaudiest slaves

That crawl where monarchs lead 'em.

The sword may pierce the beaver,

Stonewalls in time may sever,

'Tis mind alone,

Worth steel and stone,

That keeps men free for ever.

Oh, that sight entrancing,

When the morning's beam is glancing,

O'er files array'd

With helm and blade,

And in Freedom's cause advancing!

Thee, Thee, Only Thee.

Air -- The Market-Stake.

THE dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,

The night's long hours still find me thinking

   Of thee, thee, only thee.

When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,

   And smiles are near, that once enchanted,

Unreach'd by all that sunshine round,

   My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted

By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could waken

My spirit once, is now forsaken

   For thee, thee, only thee.

Like shores, by which some headlong bark

   To the ocean hurries, resting never,

Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,

   I know not, heed not, hastening ever

To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,

And pain itself seems sweet when springing

   From thee, thee, only thee.

Like spells, that nought on earth can break,

   Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,

This heart, howe'er the world may wake

   Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken

By thee, thee, only thee.

Shall the Harp Then Be Silent.

Air -- Macfarlane's Lamentation.

SHALL the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave

   To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?

Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave

   Where the first -- where the last of her Patriots lies?

No -- faint though the death-song may fall from his lips,

   Though his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost,

Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse,

   And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost; -- [1]

What a union of all the affections and powers

   By which life is exalted, embellish'd, refined,

Was embraced in that spirit -- whose centre was ours,

   While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,

   Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime --

Like a pyramid raised in the desert -- where he

   And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;

That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the gloom

   And the madness of ages, when fill'd with his soul,

A Nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom,

   And for one sacred instant, touch'd Liberty's goal?

Who, that ever hath heard him -- hath drunk at the source

   Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own,

In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,

   And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown?

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave

   Wander'd free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone through

As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave,

   With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.

Who, what ever approach'd him, when free from the crowd,

   In a home full of love, he delighted to read

'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bow'd,

   As if each brought a new civic crown for his head -- [2]

Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life

   But at distance observed him -- through glory, through blame,

In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,

   Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same? -- [3]

Oh no, not a heart that e'er knew him but mourns

   Deep, deep, o'er the grave where such glory is shrined --

O'er a monument Fame will preserve 'mong the urns

   Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!

Sweet Innisfallen.

Air -- The Captivating Youth.

SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well,

   May calm and sunshine long be thine!

How fair thou art let others tell --

   To feel how fair shall long be mine.

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell

   In memory's dream that sunny smile,

Which o'er thee on that evening fell,

   When first I saw thy fairy isle.

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one,

   Who had to turn to paths of care --

Through crowded haunts again to run,

   And leave thee bright and silent there;[1]

No more unto thy shores to come,

   But, on the world's rude ocean tost,

Dream of thee sometimes as a home

   Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hour

   To part from thee, as I do now,

When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers,

   Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.

For, though unrivall'd still thy grace,

   Thou dost not look, as then, too blest,

But, thus in shadow, seem'st a place

   Where erring man might hope to rest --

Might hope to rest, and find in thee

   A gloom like Eden's, on the day

He left its shade, when every tree,

   Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!

   And all the lovelier for thy tears --

For though but rare thy sunny smile,

   'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.

Like feeling hearts whose joys are few,

   But, when indeed they come, divine --

The brightest light the sun e'er threw

   Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!

'Twas One of Those Dreams.[1]

Air -- The Song of the Woods.

'TWAS one of those dreams, that by music are brought,

Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought --

When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,

And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those

He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes,

And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er

From Dinis' green isle, to Glena's wooded shore.

He listen'd -- while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest,

The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;

And the echoes sung back from their full mountain quire,

As if loath to let song to enchanting expire.

It seem'd as if every sweet note that died here

Was again brought to life in some airier sphere,

Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain

That had ceased upon earth was awaking again!

Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath

Seem'd to circle his name with a charm against death,

He should feel a proud spirit within him proclaim,

"Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:

"Even so, though thy memory should now die away,

'Twill be caught up again in some happier day,

And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong,

Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song."

Oh, Banquet Not.

Air -- Planxty Irwine.

OH, banquet not in those shining bowers,

   Where Youth resorts, but come to me,

For mine's a garden of faded flowers,

   More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.

And there we shall have our feast of tears,

   And many a cup in silence pour;

Our guests, the shades of former years,

   Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs

   Their lifeless leaves around us shed,

We'll brim the bowl to broken vows

   To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.

Or, while some blighted laurel waves

   Its branches o'er the dreary spot,

We'll drink to those neglected graves

   Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot.

Fairest! Put on a While.

Air -- Cummilum.

FAIREST! put on a while

   These pinions of light I bring thee,

And o'er thy own green isle

   In fancy let me wing thee.

Never did Ariel's plume,

   At golden sunset, hover

O'er scenes so full of bloom

   As I shall waft thee over.

Fields, where the Spring delays

   And fearlessly meets the ardour

Of the warm Summer's gaze,

   With only her tears to guard her;

Rocks, through myrtle boughs

   In grace majestic frowning,

Like some bold warrior's brows

   That Love hath just been crowning.

Islets, so freshly fair,

   That never hath bird come nigh them,

But, from his course through air,

   He hath been won down by them; --[1]

Types, sweet maid, of thee,

   Whose look, whose blush inviting,

Never did Love yet see

   From heaven, without alighting.

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,[2]

   And caves, where the gem is sleeping,

Bright as the tears thy lid

   Lets fall in lonely weepin.

Glens,[3] where Ocean comes,

   To 'scape the wild wind's rancour;

And harbours, worthiest homes

   Where Freedom's fleet can anchor.

Then, if, while scenes so grand,

   So beautiful, shine before thee,

Pride for thy own dear land

   Should haply be stealing o'er thee,

Oh, let grief come first,

   O'er pride itself victorious --

Thinking how man hath curst

   What Heaven hath made so glorious.

Quick! We Have But a Second.

Air -- Paddy Snap.

QUICK! we have but a second,

   Fill round the cup while you may;

For time, the churl, hath beckon'd,

   And we must away, away!

Grasp the pleasure that's flying,

   For oh, not Orpheus' strain

Could keep sweet hours from dying,

   Or charm them to life again.

Then, quick! we have but a second,

   Fill round the cup while you may!

For Time, the churl hath beckon'd,

   And we must away, away.

See the glass, how it flushes,

   Like some young Hebe's lip,

And half meets thine, and blushes

   That thou shouldst delay to sip.

Shame, oh shame unto thee,

   If ever thou see'st that day,

When a cup or lip shall woo thee,

   And turn untouch'd away!

Then, quick! we have but a second,

   Fill round, fill round while you may,

For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,

   And we must away, away!

And Doth Not a Meeting Like This.

Air -- Unknown.

AND doth not a meeting like this make amends

   For all the long years I've been wandering away --

To see thus around me my youth's early friends,

   As smiling and kind as in that happy day?

Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,

   The snow -- fall of time may be stealing -- what then?

Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,

   We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart,

   In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!

The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,

   Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng.

As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,

   When held to the flame, will steal out on the sight,

So many a feeling, that long seem'd effaced,

   The warmth of a meeting like this brings to the light.

And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide,

   To visit the scenes of your boyhood anew,

Though oft we may see, looking down on the tide,

   The wreck of full many a hope shining through;

Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,

   That once made a garden of all the gay shore,

Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours,

   And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.[1]

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,

   Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;

And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,

   For want of some heart, that could echo it, near.

Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,

   To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,

For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on,

   Is all we enjoy of each other in this.[2]

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart,

   The more we should welcome and bless them the more;

They're ours, when we meet -- they are lost when we part,

   Like birds that bring Summer, and fly when 'tis o'er.

Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,

   Let Sympathy pledge us, through pleasure, through pain,

That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,

   Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.

The Mountain Spite.

Air -- The Mountain Sprite.

IN yonder valley there dwelt, alone,

A youth, whose moments had calmly flown,

'Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night,

He was haunted and watch'd by a Mountain Sprite.

As once, by moonlight, he wander'd o'er

The golden sands of that Island shore,

A foot-print sparkled before his sight --

'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite!

Beside a fountain, one sunny day,

As bending over the stream he lay,

There peep'd down o'er him two eyes of light,

And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.

He turn'd, but, lo, like a startled bird,

That spirit fled! -- and the youth but heard

Sweet music, such as marks the flight

Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.

One night, still haunted by that bright look,

The boy, bewilder'd, his pencil took.

And, guided only by memory's light,

Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.

"Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," cried

A voice, low whispering by his side,

"Now turn and see," -- here the youth's delight

Seal'd the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.

"Of all the Spirits of land and sea,"

Then rapt he murmur'd, "there's none like thee,

And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light

In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!"

As Vanquish'd Erin.

Air -- The Boyne Water.

AS vanquish'd Erin wept beside

   The Boyne's ill-fated river,

She saw where Discord, in the tide,

   Had dropp'd his loaded quiver.

"Lie hid," she cried, "ye venom'd darts,

   Where mortal eye may shun you;

Lie hid -- the stain of manly hearts,

   That bled for me, is on you."

But vain her wish, her weeping vain --

   As Time too well hath taught her --

Each year the Fiend returns again,

   And dives into that water;

And brings, triumphant, from beneath

   His shafts of desolation,

And sends them, wing'd with worse than death,

   Through all her maddening nation.

Alas for her who sits and mourns,

   Even now, beside that river --

Unwearied still the Fiend returns,

   And stored is still his quiver.

"When will this end, ye Powers of Good?"

   She weeping asks for ever;

But only hears, from out that flood,

   The Demon answer, "Never!"

Desmond's Song.[1]

Air -- Unknown.

BY the Feal's wave benighted,

   No star in the skies,

To thy door by Love lighted,

   I first saw those eyes.

Some voice whisper'd o'er me,

   As the threshold I cross'd,

There was ruin before me,

   If I loved, I was lost.

Love came, and brought sorrow

   Too soon in his train;

Yet so sweet, that to-morrow

   'Twere welcome again.

Though misery's full measure

   My portion should be,

I would drain it with pleasure,

   If pour'd out by thee.

You, who call it dishonour

   To bow to this flame,

If you've eyes, look but on her,

   And blush while you blame.

Hath the pearl less whiteness

   Because of its birth?

Hath the violet less brightness

   For growing near earth?

No -- Man for his glory

   To ancestry flies;

But Woman's bright story

   Is told in her eyes.

While the Monarch but traces

   Through mortals his line,

Beauty, born of the Graces,

   Ranks next to Divine!

They Know Not My Heart.

Air -- Coolan Das.

They know not my heart, who believe there can be

One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;

Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,

As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower,

I could harm what I love, -- as the sun's wanton ray

But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

No -- beaming with light as those young features are,

There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:

It is not that cheek -- 'tis the soul dawning clear

Through its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear:

As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair,

Is look'd up to the more, because Heaven lies there!

I Wish I Was By That Dim Lake.

Air -- I wish I was on yonder Hill.

I WISH I was by that dim Lake,[1]

Where sinful souls their farewell take

Of this vain world, and half-way lie

In death's cold shadow, ere they die.

There, there, far from thee,

Deceitful world, my home should be;

Where, come what might of gloom and pain,

False hope should n'er deceive again.

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound

Of unseen waters falling round;

The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head,

Like man, unquiet even when dead!

These, ay, these shall wean

My soul from life's deluding scene,

And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom

Like willows, downward towards the tomb.

As they, who to their couch at night

Would win repose, first quench the light,

So must the hopes, that keep this breast

Awake, be quench'd, ere it can rest.

Cold, cold, this heart must grow,

Unmmoved by either joy or woe,

Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown

Within their current turns to stone.

She Sung of Love.

Air -- The Munster Man.

SHE sung of Love, while o'er her lyre

   The rosy rays of evening fell,

As if to feed with their soft fire

   The soul within that trembling shell.

The same rich light hung o'er her cheek,

   And play'd around those lips that sung

And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,

   If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

But soon the West no longer burn'd,

   Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew;

And, when to gaze again I turn'd,

   The minstrel's form seem'd fading too.

As if her light and heaven's were one,

   The glory all had left that frame;

And from her glimmering lips the tone,

   As from a parting spirit, came.[1]

Who ever loved, but had the thought

   That he and all he loved must part?

Fill'd with this fear, I flew and caught

   The fading image to my heart --

And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom?

   Oh light of youth's resplendent day!

Must ye then lose your golden bloom,

   And thus, like sunshine die away?"

Sing -- Sing -- Music Was Given.

Air -- The Humours of Ballamaguiry; or the Old Langolee.

SING -- sing -- Music was given

   To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;

Souls here, like planets in heaven,

   By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,

   But Love from the lips his true archery wings;

And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks,

   At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.

Then sing -- sing -- Music was given,

   To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;

Souls here, like planets in heaven,

   By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

When Love, rock'd by his mother,

   Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him,

"Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other

   Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him."

Dreaming of music he slumber'd the while,

   Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke,

And Venus, enchanted, look'd on with a smile,

   While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.

Then sing -- sing -- Music was given,

   To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;

Souls here, like planets in heaven,

   By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

Though Humble the Banquet.

Air -- Farewell Eamon.

THOUGH humble the banquet to which I invite thee,

   Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command;

Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,

   And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

And though Fortune may seem to have turn'd from the dwelling

   Of him thou regardest her favouring ray,

Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,

   Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion

   Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves,

Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,

   Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,

   And with this, though of all other treasures bereaved,

The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet

   Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.

Then, come, if a board so untempting hath power

   To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;

And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower,

   Who, smiling will blend her bright welcome with mine.