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REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE
Air — Molly Macalpin.
REMEMBER the glories of Brien the Brave,
Though the days of the hero are o'er; Though lost to Mononia’, and cold in the grave,
He returns to Kinkorano more!
Brien Borombe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the eleventh century, after having defeated the Danes in twentyfive engagements.
3 The Palace of Brien.
That star of the field, which so often has pour'd
Its beam on the battle, is set; But enough of its glory remains on each sword
To light us to victory yet.
Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the tint
Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
The footstep of Slavery there? No, Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine
Than to sleep but a moment in chains!
Forget not our wounded companions *, who stood
In the day of distress by our side;
4 This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favourite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, Prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated tha they might be allowed to fight with the rest.-—~ Let stukes,'
The sun, that now blesses our arms with his light,
Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain! -
they said “ be stuck in the ground; and suffer each of us, tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man.”---“ Between seven and eight hundred wounded men,” adds O'Halloran, " pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops !---Never was such another sight exhibited.”-History of Ireland, book 12. chap. i.
ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE
Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes
Shining through sorrow's stream,
Weep while they rise!
Erin! thy silent tear never shall cease,
Till, like the rainbow's light,
One arch of peace!
OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.
Air-The Brown Maid.
Ou! breathe not his name—let it sleep in the
shade, . Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid ! Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it
weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he
sleeps; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it
rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.