Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on, TO ****** **********. NEVER mind how the pedagogue proses, The lip, that s so scented by roses, Old Cloe, whose withering kisses Young Sappho, for want of employments, But for you to be buried in books— Astronomy finds in your eye Better light than she studies above, And Music must borrow your sigh, As the melody dearest to love. In Ethics-'tis you that can check, In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels ; Oh! show but that mole on your neck, And 'twill soon put an end to their morals. Your Arithmetic only can trip When to kiss and to count you But eloquence glows on your lip endeavour; When you swear that you'll love me for ever. Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance A course of most exquisite science And, oh!-if a fellow like me May confer a diploma of hearts, With my lip thus I seal your degree, My divine little Mistress of Arts! MOORE'S IRISH MELODIES. VOLUME VII. ADVERTISEMENT. IF I had consulted only my own judgment, this work would not have been extended beyond the six numbers already published, which contain, perhaps, the flower of our national melodies, and have attained a rank in public favour, of which I would not willingly risk the forfeiture by degenerating, in any way, from those merits that were its source. Whatever treasures of our music were still in reserve, (and it will be seen, I trust, that they are numerous and valuable) I would gladly have left to future poets to glean, and with the ritual words "tibi trado," would have delivered up the torch into other hands, before it had lost much of its light in my own. But the call for a continuance of the work has been, as I understand from the publisher, so general, and we have received so many contributions of old and beautiful airs,* the suppression of which, for the enhancement of those we have published, would resemble too much the policy of the Dutch in burning their spices, that I have been persuaded, though not without considerable diffidence in my success, to commence a new series of the Irish Melodies. T. M. * One gentleman in particular, whose name I shall feel happy in being allowed to mention, has not only sent us near forty ancient airs, but has communicated many curious fragments of Irish poetry, and some interesting traditions current in the country where he resides, illustrated by the sketches of the romantic scenery to which they refer: all of which though too late for the present number, will be of infinite service to us in the prosecution of our task. MELODIES. MY GENTLE HARP! AIR-" The Coina, or Dirge." I. My gentle Harp! once more I waken II. And yet, since last thy chord resounded, |