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THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

Air-Pease upon a Trencher.

The time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing

The light that lies
! In Woman's eyes,
· Has been my heart's undoing.

Though Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorn’d the lore she brought me;

My only books

Were Woman's looks,
And Folly's all they've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,

Like him the Spriteit

This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields, at dusk ;-as long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power; but the moment you look away (and he is inge

Whoni maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me ,
But, while her eyes were on me,

If once their ray

Was turn'd away.
! winds could not outrun me.

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And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing

Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing?
No-vain, alas ! th' endeavour
From bonds so sweet to sever ;

Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever!

nious in furnishing, some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun ; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady MORGAN (in a note upon her national and interesting novel, «O'Donnel») has given a very different account of that goblin.

OH! WHERE'S THE SLAVE!

AIR —Sios agus sios liom.

On! where's the slave so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,

Who, could he burst

His bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly? What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, Would wait till time decay'd it,

When thus its wing

At once may spring
To the the throne of Him who inade it?

Farewell, Erin! farewell all,
Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear tne laurel growing, .
Alive, untouch'd and blowing,

Than that, whose braid

Is pluck'd to shade
The brows with victory glowing !
We tread the land that bore us,
Oar green flag glitters o’er us,

· The friends we've tried

Are by our side,
And the foe we hate before us !

Farewell, Erin! farewell all
Who live to weep our fall!

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Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken

deer! Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home

is still here: Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'er

cast, And the heart and the hand all thy own to the

last;

Oh! what was ove made for, if ’tis not the same Through joy and through torments, through glory

i and shame!

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee. whatever thou art!'

Thou hast call'd me thy angel, in moments of

bliss, Still thy angel I'll be, mid the horrors of this, Through the furnace. unshrinking, thy steps to

pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there

too!

'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER.

Air-Savournah Deelish.

'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the

dead, When man, from the slumber of ages awaking, Look'd upward and bless'd the pure ray ere il . fled! .

. . 'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning, But deepen the long night of bondage and mour

ning,

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