FITZ-EUSTACE'S SONG.

W

HERE shall the lover rest,
Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden's breast,

Parted for ever?

Where through groves deep and high

Sounds the loud billow;

Where early violets die, Under the willow; Chorus. Eleu loro, &c.

Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving;
There, whilst the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever;
Never again to wake,

Never, O never.

Chorus. Eleu loro, &c.

Never, O never.

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin and leave her?

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle With the groans of the dying. Chorus. Eleu loro, &c.

There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap
Ere life be parted.
Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever :
Blessing shall hallow it,—
Never! O never!

Chorus. Eleu loro, &c.

Never! O never!

SCOTT.

THE EXILE.

THE

HE swallow with summer
Will wing o'er the seas,
The wind that I sigh to

Will visit thy trees,
The ship that it hastens

Thy ports shall contain,

-I must never

But me

See England again.

There's many that weep

But one weeps alone

there;

For the tears that are falling

So far from her own ;-
So far from thy own, love,
We know not our pain;

If death is between us,
Or only the main.

When the white cloud reclines
On the verge of the sea,
I fancy the white cliffs
And dream upon thee.
But the cloud spreads its wings
To the blue heav'n, and flies.
We never shall meet, love,

Except in the skies.

HOOD.

SONNET.

[LOVE'S CONSOLATION.]

WHEN, in disgrace with fortune and men's

eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate,

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art, and that man's

scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least,
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising;
Haply I think on thee, and then my state
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
SHAKESPEARE.

O'BRIEN OF ARRA.1

(AIR THE PIPER OF BLESSINGTON.")

ALL are the towers of O'Kennedy,

TA Broad are the lands of MacCarha,

Desmond feeds five hundred men a-day;
Yet, here's to O'Brien of Arra!

Up from the Castle of Drumineer,
Down from the top of Camalta,
Clansman and kinsman are coming here,
To give him the Cead Millia Falta !?

See you the mountains look huge at eve—
So is our chieftain in battle!
Welcome he has for the fugitive,
Usquebaugh, fighting, and cattle.
Up from the Castle of Drumineer,
Down from the top of Camalta,
Gossip and ally are coming here,

To give him the Cead Millia Falta.

Horses the valleys are tramping on,
Sleek from the Sassenach manger;
Cre-aghts the hills are encamping on-
Empty the bawns of the stranger!
Up from the Castle of Drumineer,
Down from the top of Camalta,
Kern and bonaght are coming here,

To give him the Cead Millia Falta.

An Irish Chieftain, fighting against the English of "The Pale."

2 Irish words, meaning, "A hundred thousand welcomes!" and pronounced like Kade Meel-ya Fault-ya.

He has black silver from Killaloe,
Ryan and Carroll are neighbours,
Nenagh submits with a pillaleu,
Butler is meat for our sabres !
Up from the Castle of Drumineer,
Down from the top of Camalta,
Ryan and Carroll are coming here,

To give him the Cead Millia Falta.

Scarce 'tis a week since through Ossory
Chased he the Baron of Durrow,
Forced him five rivers to cross, or he
Had died by the sword of Red Murrough!
Up from the Castle of Drumineer,
Down from the top of Camalta,
All the O'Briens are coming here,
To give him the Cead Millia Falta.

Tall are the towers of O'Kennedy,
Broad are the lands of MacCarha,
Desmond feeds five hundred men a-day;
Yet, here's to O'Brien of Arra!
Up from the Castle of Drumineer,
Down from the top of Camalta,
Clansman and kinsman are coming here,
To give him the Cead Millia Falta!
THOMAS DAVIS.

LORD AMIENS' SONG, IN THE FOREST

OF ARDEN.

66

[FROM AS YOU LIKE IT."]

I.

BLOW, blow, thou winter wind!

Thou art not so unkind

As man's ingratitude;