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IRISH MELODIES.

mwm

No. IV.

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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
As love's young dream!

II.

Though the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;

Though he win the wise, who frown'd before,
To smile 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!

III.

Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,
Which first-love 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!

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,
Is a flash amid darkness, 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.

* 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,
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,

And show what the arm of old ERIN has in it,
When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

III.

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 attachment rewarded,
And ERIN's gay jubilee shine out yet!

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;
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more!

In vain the hero's heart hath bled;

The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain ;-
Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again!

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