Yes, my young friend, if I may claim
For humble bard so dear a name,
Still let thy heart revere the lyre,
Still let thy hands awake its fire,
Walk in the light that God hath given,
And make Dunmanus' wilds a heaven.

be,

For me, believe, where'er I stray
Through life's uncertain, toilsome way,
Whether calm peace my lot may
Or tossed on fortune's stormy sea,
I'll think upon the young, the fair,
The kind warm hearts that met me there.

LINES TO ERIN.

When dullness shall chain the wild harp that would praise thee,

When its last sigh of freedom is heard on thy shore, When its raptures shall bless the false heart that betrays thee,

Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!

When thy sons are less tame than their own ocean

waters,

When their last flash of wit and of genius is o'er, When virtue and beauty forsake thy young daughters, Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!

When the sun that now holds his bright path o'er thy mountains

Forgets the green fields that he smiled on before, When no moonlight shall sleep on thy lakes and thy fountains,

Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!

When the name of the Saxon and tyrant shall sever,

When the freedom you lost you no longer deplore, When the thoughts of your wrongs shall be sleeping for

ever,

Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!

WELLINGTON'S NAME.

How blest were the moments when liberty found thee The first in her cause on the fields of the brave, When the young lines of ocean were charging around thee With the strength of their hills and the roar of their wave! .

Oh, chieftain, what then was the throb of thy pride,

When loud through the war-cloud exultingly came, O'er the battle's red tide, which they swelled as they died, The shout of green Erin for Wellington's name.

How sweet, when thy country thy garland was wreathing, And the fires of thy triumph blazed brightly along, Came the voice of its harp all its witchery breathing, And hallowed thy name with the light of her song!

And oh, 'twas a strain in each patriot breast

That waked all the transport, that lit all the flame, And raptured and blest was the Isle of the West

When her own sweetest bard sang her Wellington's name!

But 'tis past-thou art false, and thy country's sad story
Shall tell how she bled and she pleaded in vain ;
How the arm that should lead her to freedom and glory,
The child of her bosom did rivet her chain!

Yet think not for ever her vengeance shall sleep,
Wild harp that once praised him, sing louder his shame,
And where'er o'er the deep thy free numbers may sweep,
Bear the curse of a nation on Wellington's name!

SONG.

THE EXILE'S FAREWELL.

Adieu, my own dear Erin,
Receive my fond, my last adieu;
I go, but with me bearing

A heart still fondly turned to you.

The charms that nature gave thee
With lavish hand, shall cease to smile,
And the soul of friendship leave thee,
E'er I forget my own green isle.

Ye fields where heroes bounded
To meet the foes of liberty;

Ye hills that oft resounded
The joyful shouts of victory,

Obscured is all your glory,

Forgotten all your former fame, And the minstrel's mournful story Now calls a tear at Erin's name.

But still the day may brighten

When those tears shall cease to flow,

And the shout of freedom lighten
Spirits now so drooping low.

Then should the glad breeze blowing
Convey the echo o'er the sea,

My heart with transport glowing

Shall bless the hand that made thee free.

SONG.

AIR. "Laddie of Buchan."

Awake thee, my Bessy, the morning is fair,
The breath of young roses is fresh on the air,
The sun has long glanced over mountain and lake,
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake.

Oh come whilst the flowers are still wet with the dew, I'll gather the fairest, my Bessy, for you,

The lark poureth forth his sweet strain for thy sake,

Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake.