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THE SONG OF FIONNUALA,

SILENT, OH, MOYLE! BE THE ROAR OF THY WATER.

A-Arrah, my dear Evéleen.

SILENT, oh Moyle! be the roar of thy water,
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose;
While murmuring mournfully Lir's lonely
daughter

Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.

To make this story intelligible in a song wouia require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorised to inflict on an audience at once; the reader must therefore be content to learn in a note, that FionQuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over certain lakes and tivers of Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of mass-bell was to be the signal of her release. I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of Ire and, the late Countess of Moira.

When ́shall the swan her death-rote singing,
Sleep with wings in darkness furl❜d?
When will Heaven its sweet bell ringing,

Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, oh Moyle! to thy winter-wave weeping,
Fate bids me languish long ages away;
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping;
Still, doth the pure light its dawning delay!
When will that day star, midly springing,
Warm our isle with peace and love?
When will Heaven, its sweet bell ringing.
Call my spirit to the fields above?

To simpleton sages and reasoning fools; This moment's a flower, too fair and brief

To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the

schools.

Your glass may be purple and mine may be blue ; But while they are fill'd from the same bright

bowl,

The fool who would quarrel for diflerence of hue Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.

Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me? From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly,

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss? No! perish the hearts and the laws that try Truth, valour, or love, by a standard !ike this?

SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.

AIR-The Black Joke.

SUBLIME was the warning which liberty spoke, And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke

It was life and revenge from the Conqueror's

chain!

Oh, liberty! let not this spirit have rest

Till it move like a breeze o'er the waves of the

west

Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, Nor, oh! be the Shamrock of Erin forgot,

While you add to your
Spain!

Garland the Olive of

Ifthe fame of your fathers, bequath'd with their rights,

Give to country its charm and to home its delights,
If deceit be a wound, and uspicion a stain;
Then ye men of Iberia! our cause is the same—
And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name,
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,
Than to breathe his last sigh into Victory's breath,
For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain.

Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd The green hills of their youth among strangers to

find

That repose which, at home, they had sigh'd for

in vain,

Breathe a hope that the magical flame which you

light,

May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright; And forgive even Albion, while blushing she draws, Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted

cause

Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

God prosper the cause.-Oh! it cannot but thrive, While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,

Its devotion to free and its rights to maintain: Then how sainted by sorrow its maryrs will die! The finger of glory shall point where they lie; While far from the footsteps of coward or slave, The young Spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave.

Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!

BELIEVE ME IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING
YOUNG CHARMS.

AIR-My Lodging is on the cold Ground.

BELIEVE me if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow and feet in m

arms