I have loved thee.

I have loved thee, dearly loved thee,
Through an age of worldly wo,
How ungrateful I have proved thee,
Let my mournful exile show.
Ten long years of anxious sorrow,
Hour by hour I counted o'er,
Looking forward till to-morrow,
Every day I loved thee more.

Power nor splendor could not charm me,
I no joy in wealth could see,
Nor could threats or fears alarm me,
Save the fear of losing thee;
When the storms of fortune pressed thee,
I have wept to see thee weep,
When relentless cares distressed thee,
I have lulled those cares to sleep.

The Sprig of Shillelah,

Och, love is the soul of a nate Irishman,
He loves all the lovely, loves all that he can,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green; His heart is good-humored-'tis honest and sound, No malice or hatred is there to be found,

He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights, For love, all for love, for in that he delights,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green. Who has e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair, An Irishman all in his glory is there,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green; His clothes spick and span new without e'er a speck, A neat Barcelona tied round his white neck: He goes to a tent, and he spends half a crown, He meets with a friend, and for love knocks him down With a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.

At evening returning, as homeward he goes,
His heart soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows
From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green,
He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile,
Cries, 'Get ye gone, Pat,' yet consents all the while;
To the priest then they go-and, nine months after
that,

A fine baby cries out, 'How d'ye do, father Pat, With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ?'

Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak, and its neighboring earth,

Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green, May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon,

Drub the foe who dares plant on our confines a can

non;

United and happy, at loyalty's shrine,

May the rose, leek and thistle, long flourish and twine Round a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.

My lovely Brunette,

My lovely brunette, to your Spanish guitar,
"Tis sweet to be dancing beneath the night star;
Now winding through mazes, now culling eve flowers
Weeping with dew-drops from Spain's sultry bowers.
My own native shores could I ever forget,

I should blame your guitar and your light castanet.

But my charming brunette, 'twere sweeter to me,
To be seated beneath my own hawthorn tree;
To be telling my tale in my dear native isle,
My Spanish love smiling upon me the while,
Oh! there by the moonlight, 'twere sweeter by far,
To dance, my brunette, to your Spanish guitar.

Venetian Boat Song.
The daybeam is over the sea,

Oh haste every bark, to the shore;
No joy in the morning can be,

With moonlight our pleasure is o'er :
Perhaps it is sweet on the hills

To watch how the daylight appears,
To see it all bright in the rills,

And shining through night's dewy tears.

But oh! in the wild hour of night,
When loud winds are hushed to a breeze,
With music and moon-beams so bright,
"Tis heaven to glide o'er the seas.
How sweet 'tis to watch the bright glow,
And taste the wild freshness of heaven;
How sweet 'tis to gaze on below

The likeness the blue wave has given.

To breathe the soft night air, perfum'd
With the sighs of the groves on the shore,
To see how the moon has illum'd

The droppings that fall from the oar,
Such pleasures the morn never gave,
Then haste, every Gondolet, on,
Oh, who would remain on the wave
When moonlight and music are gone.

Auld Robin Gray.

Written by Lady ANNE BARNARD.

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,

And a' the warld to sleep are gane;

The waes of my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and he sought me for his bride;

But saving a crown he had naething beside,

To mak' the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea; And the crown and the pound were baith for me.

He hadna' been gone a week but only twa,

When my father brake his arm, and our cow was stown awa',

My mither she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea, And auld Robin Gray came a courting me.

My father couldna' work, and my mither doughtna'

spin ;

I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna' win;

Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e,

Said, Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me

My heart it said Nay-I look'd for Jamie back;
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a
wrack,

The ship it was a wrack; why didna' Jenny die?
Oh! why was I spared to cry Wae's me!

My father urged sair-my mither didna' speak,
So they gi'd him my hand, though my heart was at
the sea,

Now auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me.

I hadna' been a wife a week but only four,

When sitting sae mournfully ae night at the door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith-for I couldna' think it he,
Till he said, 'I'm come back, love, to marry thee.'
O sair did we greet, and muckle did we say,
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves awa',
I wish'd I were dead-but I'm no like to die;
Oh! why do I live to say Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena' to spin,

I darena' think on Jamie, for that would be a sin; But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,

For auld Robin Gray is kind to me.

'Nae langer she wept her tears were a' spent-
Despair it was come, and she thought it content,
She thought it content; but her cheek it grew pale,
And she droop'd like a lily broke down by the hail.'

Bring Flowers.

By Mrs. HEMANS.

Bring flowers, young flowers, to the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd.
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale,
Their breath floats out on the southern gale,
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.

Bring flowers, to strew in the conqueror's path-
He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath,
He comes with the spoils of nations back;
The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track;
The turf looks red where he won the day;-
Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way.

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell,
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye,
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,
And a dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild
flowers.

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair,
She is leaving the home of her childish mirth;
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth;