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BY THAT LAKE WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE. I
AIR-The Brown Irish Girl.
By that lake, whose gloomy shore
'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,
Eyes of most unholy blue!
She had loved him well and long,
Wish'd him her's, nor thought it wrong,
This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. KEVIN, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.
a There are many other curious traditions concerning this lake, which may be found in Giraldus. Colgan, etc
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
On the bold cliff's bosom cast, Tranquil now he sleeps at last; Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er Woman's smile can haunt him there; But nor earth, nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be : while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.
Fearless she had track'd his feet
And when morning met his view,
Glendalough! thy gloomy wave Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave; Soon the Saint (yet, ah! too late) Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said « Heav'n rest her soul!»
SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.
AIR-Open the Door.
SHE is far from the land, where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his cold grave is lying!
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
He had lived for his love, for his country he died They were all that to life had entwined him,Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him!
Oh: make her a grave, where the sun-beams rest.
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own loved Island of sorrow!
NAY, TELL ME NOT.
AIR-Dennis, don't be Threatening.
NAY, tell me not, dear! that the goblet drowns
Been lost in the stream
That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
The spell of thine eyes,
Still float on the surface, and hallow my Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bow! but brightens my love for thee!
They tell us that Love in his fairy bower
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,
That drank of the floods
Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade;
Of ruby had dyed,
All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee!
AVENGING AND BRIGHT FALL THE SWIFT SWORD OF ERIN.
AIR-Croghan a Venee
AVENGING and bright fall tne swift sword of Erin, On him, who the brave sons of Usna betray'd!
The name of this beautiful and truly Irish air, is, I am told, properly written, Cruachàn na Fèine i, e. the