While, far from the footstep of coward or slave, The young spirit of freedom shall shelter their grave Beneath shamrocks of Erin and olives of Spain ! Believe me, if all those endearing young charms. Air-My Lodging is on the cold Ground. Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Thou wouldst still be ador'd as this moment thou art, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, But as truly loves on to the close; As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turn'd when he rose ! Erin! oh Erin! Air-Thamama Hulla. Like the bright lamp that lay on Kildare's holy shrine, And burn'd through long ages of darkness and storm, Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain, Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm! Erin! oh Erin! thus bright, through the tears Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears! The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, Thy star will shine out, when the proudest shall fade! Unchill'd by the rain, and unawaked by the wind, The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour, Till the hand of spring her dark chain unbind, And daylight and liberty bless the young flower. 21 Erin! oh Erin! thy winter is past, And the hope, that lived thro' it, shall blossom at last! Drink to her. Air-Heigh ho! my Jackey. Drink to her, who long Hath wak'd the poet's sighThe girl who gave to song What gold could never buy! Oh! woman's heart was made For minstrel hands alone; By other fingers play'd It yields not half the tone. Then here's to her, who long Hath wak'd the poet's sighThe girl who gave to song What gold could never buy! At Beauty's door of glass, When Wealth and Wit once stood, They ask'd her, "Which might pass?" She answer'd, "He who could." With golden key Wealth thought To pass-but 'twould not do; While Wit a diamond brought, Which cut his bright way through! Then here's to her, who long The girl who gave to song ! The love that seeks a home That dwells in dark gold mines; Can boast a brighter sphere; Though woman keeps it here! 22 Oh! blame not the bard.2 Air-Kitty Tyrrel. Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart ;23 Might have pour'd the full tide of the patriot's heart! But, alas for his country! her pride is gone by, For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend ! Unpriz'd are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray; Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires: And the torch that would light them thro' dignity's way, Must be caught from the pile where their country expires! Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream, He should try to forget what he never can heal! Oh! give but a hope-let a vista but gleam Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel! That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down Ev'ry passion it nurs'd, ev'ry bliss it ador'd; While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown, Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.24 But, tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away, Thy name, loved Erin! shall live in his songs; Not e'en in the hour when his heart is most gay, Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs! The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains; The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep! |