THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. Air-Pease upon a Trencher. The time I've lost in wooing, The light that lies Though Wisdom oft has sought me, My only books Were Woman's looks, Her smile when Beauty granted, 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 If once their ray Was turn'd away. And are those follies going? Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance 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, 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 Farewell, Erin! farewell all, Less dear tne laurel growing, . Than that, whose braid Is pluck'd to shade · The friends we've tried Are by our side, Farewell, Erin! farewell all 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, 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, |