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NAY, TELL ME NOT.

AIRDennis, don't be Threatening.

Nay, tell me not, dear! that the goblet drowns

One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.

Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream
That ever was shed from thy form or soul;

The balm of thy sighs,

The spell of thine eyes, Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl! Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee!

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower

Had two blush-roses, of birth divine; He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower, But bathed the other with mantling wine,

Soon did the buds,

That drank of the floods
Distilld by the rainbow, decline and fade;

While those, which the tide

Of ruby had dyed, All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid ! Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee !

AVENGING AND BRIGHT FALL THE SWIFT

SWORD OF ERIN.

Air-Crooghan a Venee'.

Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of

Erin, On him, who the brave sons of Usna betray’d! For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er

her blade.

1 The name of this beautiful and truly Irish air, is, I am told, properly written, Cruachàn na Fèine, i. e. the Fenian mount, or mount of the Finnian heroes, those brave followers of Finn Mac Cool, so celebrated in the early history of our country.

The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called “ Deirdri, or the lamentable fate of the sons of Usnach,” which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr, O'Flanagan (see Vol. 1. of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin) and upon which it appears that the “ Darthula” of Macpherson is founded. The

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark

dwelling, When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in

goreBy the billows of war, which so often high swelling,

Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore!

treachery of Conor, king of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. “ This story (says Mr. O'Flanagan) has been from time immemorial held in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are · The death of the Children of Touran,' · The death of the Children of Lear,' (both regarding Tuatha de Danans) and this · The death of the Children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story.”-- It will be recollected, that, in the Second Number of these Melodies, there is a ballad upon the story of the Children of Lear or Lir: “Silent, oh Moyle,” &c.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity, which Mr. O'Flanagan and others, advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement which they merit.

?“Oh Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red.” Deirdri's song.

3 Ulster.

We swear to revenge them!-no joy shall be

tasted, The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie

wasted, Till vengeance is wreak’d on the murderer's

• head!

Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recol

lections, Though sweet are the tears that from tender

ness fall; Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes and

affections, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

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