"Three god-like friends, "LOVE, VALOUR, WIT, for ever!" Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old ERIN's native Shamrock! III. So, firmly fond May last the bond They wove that morn together, One drop of gall On WIT's celestial feather! May LOVE, as shoot His flowers and fruit, Of thorny falsehood weed 'em! His standard rear Against the cause of Freedom! Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old ERIN'S native Shamrock! AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT. AIR.-Molly, my Dear. I. Ar the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life was warm in thine eye, And I think that, if spirits can steal from the regions of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky! II. Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear, When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear; And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, oh, my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of souls,* Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. "There are countries," says MONTAIGNE, "where they ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. AIR.-Moll Roe in the Morning. I. ONE bumper at parting!-though many II. As onward we journey, how pleasant believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields; and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo." Those few sunny spots, like the present, Cries, "Onward!" and spurs the gay III. This evening, we saw the sun sinking His beam o'er a deep billow's brim— And oh! may our life's happy measure It dies 'mid the tears of the cup! hours; TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. AIR.-Groves of Blarney. I. 'Tis the last rose of summer, All her lovely companions No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, II. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one ! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them ; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. |