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Was a syren of old, who sung under the sea; . And who often at eve through the bright bilows

roved, . To meet on the green shore a youth whom she

. loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, And in tears all the night her gold ringlets to

steep, Till Heav'n look'd with pity on true love so warm, And changed to this soft harp the sea-mainden's


Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheek smiled the

same, While sea-beauties gracefully curl'd round the

frame; And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its

bright rings, Fell over her white arn, to make the gold strings !

Hence it came that this soft harp so long hath been


This thought was suggested by an ingenious design, prefixed to an Ode upon St. Cecilia, published some years since, by M. Hudsph, of Publin

To mingle love's language with sorrow's soft tone, Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond

lay . . To be love when I'm near thee, and grief when




Air-- The Old Woman.

OH! the days are gone, when beauty bright

My hearts chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night

Was love, still love :
New hopes may bloom,

And days may come,

Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream!
Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream!

Though the bard to purer fame may soar,

When wild youth's past ; Though he win the wise, who frown'd before,

• To sinile at last;

He'll never meet

A joy so sweet

In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear

His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blush'd to hear

The one-loved name.

Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,

Which first love has traced ; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot

On memory's waste ! ''Twas odour fled

As soon as shed ;

'Twas morning's winged dream! Twas a light that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream!
Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream!



AIR-St. Patrick's Day.

Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget

them, And smile through our tears, like a sun-beam in

showers ; There never were hearts, if our rulers would let

them, More form’d to be grateful and blest than ours !

But, just when the chain

Has ceased to pain,
And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers,

There comes a new link
Qur spirits to sink!

1 This song was written for a fête in honour of the Prince of Wales's birth-day, given by my friend, Major Beyan, last year (1810), at his scat in the county of Kil henny.

Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the

poles, Is a flash amid darknes, too brilliant to stay; But though 'twere the last little spark in our souls,

We must light it up now, on our Prince's day.

Contenipt on the minion, who calls you disloyall Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you

are true! And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, Is love from a heart, that loves liberty too.

While cowards, who blight

Your fame, your right, Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array ;

The standard of green • In front would be seen.Oh! my life on your faith! were you summon'd

this minute, You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, Aud shew what the arm of old Erin has in it,

When roused by the foe, on ler Prince's day.

He loves the green isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts which have suffer'd too much to

forget; And hope shall be crown'd, and allachment re

warded, .
And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet!

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