O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

OF ALL THE FAIR MONTHS THAT ROUND
THE SUN.

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, sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, sweet May, returns to me.

The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's account of Killarney, or, more fully detailed, in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen, on the morning of May-day gliding over the lake on his favourite white horse, to the sound of sweet, unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flnug wreaths of delicate spring-flowers in his path.

Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in

Of all the smooth lakes, where day-light leaves
His ling'ring smile on golden eves,

Fair lake, fair lake thou'rt dear to me,
For when the last April sun grows dim,
Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him

Who dwells, who dwells, bright lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore
Young plumed chiefs on sea or shore,

White steed, white steed, most joy to thee,
Who still with the first young glance of spring
From under that glorious lake dost bring,

Proud steed, proud steed, my love to me:

While, white as the sails some bark unfurls,
When newly launch'd, thy long mane1 curls,
Fair steed, fair steed, as white and free;
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,
Eair steed, around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet death that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,

love with him; and, at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning, threw herself into the Lake.

I The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, «O'Donohue's white horses.>>

Most sweet, 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, dear love I'll die for thee.

ECHO.

HOW SWEET THE ANSWER ECHO MAKES.

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, beneatl: the moonlight's star
Of horn, or lute or soft guitar,
The songs repeat.

"Tis when the sigh in youth sicere.

And only then,

The sigh, that's breathed for one to hear,

Is by that one, that only dear,
Breathed back again!

OH, BANQUET NOT.

AIR-Planxty Irwine.

Оn, 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, as some blighted laurel waves

Its branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected graves,
Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot!

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE!

AIR-«Staca an Mharaga,» (The Market-stake.)

THE dawning of morn, the day-light'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,