IRISH MELODIES. mwm No. IV. wwwmm LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. AIR.-The Old Woman. I. On! the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love! New hope 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 II. Though the bard to purer fame may soar, Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear And, at every close, she blush'd to hear III. Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot, Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 'Twas odour fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream ; Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again THE PRINCE'S DAY.* AIR.-St. Patrick's Day. I. 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 bless'd than ours! But, just when the chain Has ceased to pain, And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, There comes a new link Our spirit to sink Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, * This song was written for a fête in honour of the Prince of Wales's Birth-Day, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of Kilkenny, II. Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal! Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true; And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, 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, And show what the arm of old ERIN has in it, III. He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded The gem may be broke By many a stroke, But nothing can cloud its native ray; Each fragment will cast A light, to the last!— And thus, ERIN, my country! though broken thou art, There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay; A spirit which beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at their pain, on the Prince's Day! WEEP ON, WEEP ON. AIR.-The Song of Sorrow. I. WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past; In vain the hero's heart hath bled; The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain ;- |