ADVERTISEMENT. In presenting this Sixth Number to the Public as our last, and bidding adieu to the Irish Harp for ever, we shall not answer very confidently for the strength of our resolution, nor feel quite sure that it may not prove, after all, to be only one of those eternal farewells which a lover takes of his mistress occasionally. Our only motive indeed for discontinuing the Work, was a fear that our treasures were beginning to be exhausted, and an unwillingness to descend to the gathering of mere seed-pearl, after the very valuable gems it has been our lot to string together. But this intention, which we announced in our Fifth Number, has excited an anxiety in the lovers of Irish Music, not only pleasant and flattering, but highly useful to us; for the various contributions we have received in consequence, have enriched our collection with so many choice and beautiful Airs, that, if we keep to our resolution of publishing no more, it will certainly be an instance of forbearance and selfcommand, unexampled in the history of poets and musicians. To one gentleman in particular, who has been many years resident in England, but who has not forgot, among his various pursuits, either the language or the melodies of his native country, we beg to offer our best thanks for the many interesting communications with which he has favoured us; and we trust that he and our other friends will not relax in those efforts by which we have been so considerably assisted; for though the Work must now be considered as defunct, yet—as Reaumur, the naturalist, found out the art of making the cicada sing after it was dead-it is not impossible that, some time or other, we may try a similar experiment upon the Irish Melodies. Mayfield, Ashbourne, March, 1815. T. M. IRISH MELODIES. mmmm No. VI. mmm COME O'ER THE SEA. AIR.-Cuishlih ma Chree. I. COME o'er the sea, Maiden! with me, Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows! Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes. Let fate frown on, so we love and part not; 'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not! Then, come o'er the sea, Maiden! with me, Come wherever the wild wind blows ; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes. Is not the Sea II. Made for the Free, Land for courts and chains alone? Here we are slaves, But, on the waves, Love and Liberty's all our own! No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all Heaven around us!— Then, come o'er the sea, Maiden! with me, Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows! But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes. HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED? AIR.-Sly Patrick. I. HAS sorrow thy young days shaded, 11. Has love to that soul, so tender, Been like our Lagenian mine,* But, if in pursuit we go deeper, Allured by the gleam that shone, * Our Wicklow Gold-Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, the character here given of them. |