Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs, The arrow flies from his sounding bow, "Hilliho-hilliho!" he gaily sings,

While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!"

Alas, 'twas not the white-horned doe
He saw in the rustling grove,
But the bridal veil, as pure as snow,
Of his own young wedded love.
And, ah! too sure that arrow sped,
For pale at his feet he sees her lie

"I die, I die," was all she said,

;

While Echo murmur'd, "I die, I die!"

SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.

TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY.

O-MORROW, comrade, we

On the battle-plain must be,

There to conquer, or both lie low!

The morning star is up,―

But there's wine still in the cup,

And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;

We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes

A passing tear will rise,

When we think of the friends we leave lone ;

But what can wailing do?

See, our goblet's weeping too!

With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;

With its tears we'll chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on;

The last that o'er us shone

Saw our children around us play;

The next-ah! where shall we

And those rosy urchins be?

But no matter-grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;

No matter-grasp thy sword and away!

Let those who brook the chain

Of Saxon or of Dane,

Ignobly by their firesides stay;

One sigh to home be given,

One heartfelt prayer to heaven,

Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra! Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!

17

I flew to the grove,

And chose me a tree of the fairest ;

Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree,

Thou my mistress shalt be,

And I'll worship each bud thou bearest. For the hearts of this world are hollow, And fickle the smiles we follow ;

And 'tis sweet, when all

Their witch'ries pall,

To have a pure love to fly to:

So, my pretty Rose-tree,

Thou my mistress shalt be,

And the only one now I shall sigh to."

(As I brush them away),

"At least there's no art in this weeping."

Although thou shouldst die to-morrow,

'T will not be from pain or sorrow; And the thorns of thy stem

Are not like them

With which men wound each other:

So my pretty Rose-tree,

Thou

my mistress shalt be,

And I'll ne'er again sigh to another.

HUSH, HUSH !

USH, hush!"—how well

That sweet word sounds, When Love, the little sentinel, Walks his night-rounds; Then, if a foot but dare

One rose-leaf crush, Myriads of voices in the air Whisper, "Hush, hush!"

"Hark, hark, 't is he!"
The night-elves cry,
And hush their fairy harmony,
While he steals by ;

But if his silv'ry feet

One dew-drop brush,

Voices are heard in chorus sweet,

Whisp'ring, "Hush, hush!"

LOVE AND TIME.

IS said-but whether true or not

Let bards declare who've seen 'emThat Love and Time have only got

One pair of wings between 'em.

In courtship's first delicious hour,
The boy full oft can spare 'em ;
So loit'ring in his lady's bower,
He lets the grey-beard wear 'em.
Then is Time's hour of play;
Oh, how he flies, flies away!

But short the moments, short as bright,
When he the wings can borrow;
If Time to-day has had his flight,
Love takes his turn to-morrow.

Ah! Time and Love, your change is then
The saddest and most trying,
When one begins to limp again,
And t'other takes to flying.
Then is Love's hour to stray;

Oh, how he flies, flies away!

But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel, And bless the silken fetter,

Who knows, the dear one, how to deal

With Love and Time much better. So well she checks their wanderings,

So peacefully she pairs 'em,

That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings,

And Time for ever wears 'em.

This is Time's holiday;

Oh, how he flies, flies away!