SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

AIR-"The Humming of the Ban." Sail on, sail on, thou fearless barkWhere ever blows the welcome wind, It cannot lead to scenes more dark,

More sad than those we leave behind. Each wave that passes seems to say,

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Though death beneath our smile may be, Less cold we are less false than they,

Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee.” Sail on, sail on--through endless spaceThrough calm-through tempest--stop no

more;

The stormiest sea's a resting-place

To him who leaves such hearts on shore. Or, if some desert land we meet,

Where never yet false-hearted men Profan'd a world, that else were sweetThen rest thee, bark, but not till then.

OH, YE DEAD.
AIR-"Plough tune."

Он, уe dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know by the light you give

From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live,

Why leave you thus your graves,

In far off fields and waves,

Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,

To haunt this spot, where all
Those eyes that wept your fall,

And the hearts that bewail'd you, like your own, lie dead?

It is true-it is true-we are shadows cold and

wan:

It is true-it is true-all the friends we love are

gone.

But, oh! thus ev'n in death,

So sweet is still the breath

Of the fields and the flow'rs in our youth we wander'd o'er,

That, ere condemn'd, we go

To freeze mid Hecla's* snow,

We would taste it awhile, and dream we live once more!

DRINK OF THIS CUP.

AIR-" Paddy O'Rafferty."

DRINK of this cup-you'll find there's a spell in Its very drop 'gainst the ills of mortalityTalk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Would you forget the dark world we are in, Only taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it;

*Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Iceland, where the gests of persons who have died in foreign lands, walk about and converse with those they meet like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately,

But would you rise above earth, till akin To immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it."

Send round the cup— for oh, there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality-
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup is a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter form'd with such power
To charm and bewilder as this we are quaf

fing;

Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour, As a harvest of gold in the fields it stood

laughing.

There, having, by nature's enchantment, been fill'd,

With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather,

This wonderful juice from its core was distil'd, To enliven such hearts as are here brought together!

Then drink of the cup-you'll find there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality-Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

And though, perhaps—but breathe it to no one-Like caldrons the witch brews at midnight so awful,

In secret this philter was first taught to flow on, Yet 'tis not less potent for being unlawful.

What, though it may taste of the smoke of that

flame,"

Which in silence extracted its virtue forbid

den

Fill up there's fire in some hearts I could

name,

Which may work too its charm, though now lawful and hidden.

So drink of the cup-for oh, there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality-Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

ECHO.

AIR-" The Wren."

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To Music at night,

When roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,

Goes answering light.

Yet love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,

Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,
The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh in youth sincere,

And only then

The sigh, that's breath'd for one to hear,

Is by that one, that only dear,

Breath'd back again!

OH, BANQUET NOT.

AIR-" Planxty Irwine.”

OH banquet not in those shining bowers,
Where youth resorts—but come to me,
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,
More fit for sorrow, for age and thee.

And there we shall have our feasts of tears.
And many a cup of silence pour-
Our guests, the shade of former years,
Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs
Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,
To friends long lost, the chang'd, the dead.
Or, as some blighted laurel waves
Its branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected groves,
Where valour sleeps, unnam'd, forgot!

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

AIR-" Staca an Mharaga."—(The Mark stake.)

THE dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking The night's long hours still find me thinking Of thee, thee, only thee.

When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,