For

every fond eye he hath waken'd a tearin, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep cer her blade.

Fenian mount, or mount of the Finnian heroes, those brave followers of Finn Mac Cool, so celebrated in the early history of our country.

The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called « Deirdri, or the lamentable fate of the sons of Usnach », which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by M. O'Flanagan (see vol. 1. of Transactons of the Gaelic Society of Dublin) and upon which it appears that the « Darthula » of Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Conor, king of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. This story (says Mr. O'Flanagan) has been from time immemorial held in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are « the death of the children ɔf Touran, «The death of the children of Lear,» (both regarding Tuatha de Danans) and this «the death of the children of Usnach, which is a Milesian story. »It will be recollected, that, in the second number of these Melodics, there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir: « Silent, oh Moyle, » etc.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiqnity, which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encourageuent which they merit

By the red cloud that hung over CONOR's dark

dwelling,1

When ULAD's three champions lay sleeping in

gore

By the billows of war, which so often high swell

ing,

Have wafted these heroes to Victory's shore!

We swear to revenge them :-no joy shall be tasted;

The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted,

Till vengeance is wreaked on the murderer's

head.

Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollections,

Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness

fall;

Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, and affections,

Revenge on a tyrant is sweeter than all !

"Oh, Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red." -Deirdri's Song.

2 Ulster.

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

AIR.-The Yellow Horse.

HE.

WHAT the bee is to the floweret,

When he looks for honey dew
Through the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you!

SHE

What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear!

But, they say, the bee's a rover,

That he'll fly, when sweets are gone;
And, when once the kiss is over,

Faithless brooks will wander on.

HE.

Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,

If

sunny

banks will wear away,

Tis but right, that bees and brooks

Should sip and kiss them while they may

LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

HERE WE DWELL.

AIR-Cean dubh Delish.

HERE we dwell in holiest bowers,

Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers To heaven in mingled odour ascend! Do not disturb our calm, oh Love!

So like is thy form to the cherubs above, It well might deceive such hearts as ours.

Love stood near the Novice, and listen'd,
And love is no novice in taking a hint;
His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten'd;
His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint.

« Who would have thought,» the urchin cries; "That Love could so well, so gravely disguise His wandering wings, and wounding eyes?'»

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping,
Young Novice! to him all thy orisons rise;

He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping,
He brightens the censor's flame with his sighs!
Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast,

And angels themselves would admit such a

guest,

If he came to them clothed in Piety s vest.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH
PLEASURES AND WOES.

AIR-The Bunch of Green Rushes that grew at the Brim

THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, That chase one another like waves of the deep, Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,

Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. So closely our whims on ours miseries tread, That the laugh is awaked, ere the tear can be dried;

And as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,

The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, Be ours the light grief, that is sister to joy, And the short brilliant folly, that flashes and dies!