AIR-The Brown Irish Girl.

By that lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er, a
Where the cliff hangs high and steep;
Young St. Kevin stole to sleep;
« Here, at least, » he calmly said,
« Woman ne'er shall find my bed.»
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

'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,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.

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,

Even now,

Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;

And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too,
your saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And, with rude repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

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!»
Round the Lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide!


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,
Every note which he loved awaking.—
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.

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!


AIR-Dennis, don't be Threatening.

NAY, tell me not, dear! that the goblet drowns
One charm of feeling, one fond regret ;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream

That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
The balm of thy sighs,

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
Had two blush-roses, of birth divine;

He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,
But bathed the other with mantling wine,
Soon did the buds,

That drank of the floods

Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade;
While those, which the tide

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!


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

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