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Then, oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be doom'd to find something still that is · dear; And to know, when far from the lips we love, We have but to make love to the lips that are THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.



AIR-I once had a True Love.

Through grief and through danger thy smile

hath cheer'd my way, Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that

round me lay; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure

love burn'd, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn’d: Oh! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless'd e'en the sorrows that made me more

dear to thee.

Thy rival was honour'd while thou wert wrong'd

and scorn'd; Thy crown was of briers while gold her brows


She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid

in caves; Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas!

were slaves; Yet cold in the earth at thy feet I would rather be Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought

from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are

frailHadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd

less pale! They say too, so long thou hast worn these

ling’ring chains ! That deep in thy heart they have printed their

servile stains; Oh! do not believe them-no chain could that

soul subdue; Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth


1 - Where the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty,"

St. Paul, 2 Corinthians iii. 17.



AIR-Banks of Bunna.

When through life unblest we rove,

Losing all that made life dear; Should some notes, we used to love

In days of boyhood, meet our ear; Oh! how welcome breathes the strain,

Wakening thoughts that long have sleptKindling former smiles again

In faded eyes that long have wept!

Like the gale that sighs along

Beds of oriental flow'rs,
Is the grateful breath of song,

That once was heard in happier hours.

Fill’d with balm the gale sighs on,

Though the flow'rs have sunk in death: So, when pleasure's dream is gone,

Its memory lives in Music's breath!

Music! oh! how faint, how weak,

Language fades before thy spell! Why should Feeling ever speak,

When thou canst breathe her soul so well? Friendship's balmy words may feign,

Love's are ev'n more false than they; Oh! 'tis only Music's strain

Can sweetly sooth, and not betray!

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