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Ere proud rebellion first rear'd her standard,
How smoothly glided our time away!
How happy thro' the greenwood we wander'd,
Or on the mountain's brown summit lay !
But mad ambition, and thirst of glory,

Did from my arms the dear youth allure— To the war he bounded, and deeply wounded, He found a grave, far from winding Suir.

The heath unfolding its purple blossomThe small birds hailing the dawn of morn,

Can yield no joy to my troubled bosom

My lover's fate I shall ever mourn :

In vain my comrades attempt to cheer me➡
My settled sadness admits no cure;

In floods of sorrow, I'll mourn the hero

Who silent lies far from winding Suir..

Sweet spring returns with her gentle showers,

And bids new foilage adorn the tree;
Gay summer strews all the plains with flowers-
But now no season brings joy to me;

The arm of death will at last release me-
Then let me calmly my grief endure.

Beneath the willow I'll find a pillow
A peaceful grave on the banks of Suir..

THE JOYS THAT ARE NO MORE.

TUNE-"Banks o' Doon."

"Thou mind'st me o' departed joys,
"Departed, never to return.”

OPPREST with heart-corroding care,

I wander thro' my fav'rite grove; In happier times how often here,

Did I repeat the song of love!

BURNS

Oft near this riv❜let's flow'ry side,

Which murm❜ring seeks the distant shore,

Have I, in rustic numbers, tried

To sing the joys that are no more!

Oft in this cool, sequester'd shade,

Have I beguil'd the summer day,
When o'er the plain soft breezes play'd,
And birds sung sweet on ev'ry spray;

Or when stern winter loudly rav'd,
Delighted, 'midst its awful roar,
With heart-felt joys my bosom heav'd
But ah! those joys are now no more!

Sweet Anna! to my soul most dear!

Here by thy side I've often stray'd

But now, reflection draws the tear

Alas! to shame thou art betray'd:

The blissful hours which here we spent,

All India's wealth could not restore; Why, meddling mem❜ry, dost thou paint The joys that can return no more.

And here, my friend, some happy hours
We spent in manhood's early bloom,

Thy foot has prest these fragrant flow'rs—
But now thou moulder'st in the tomb;

Thy image time shall not efface,

It lives within my bosom's core→→→

In ev'ry walk thy steps I trace,

And mourn the joys that are no more,

ELLEN'S GRAVE.

TUNE-"The Miser's Daughter."

WHEN sober evening sheds a dubious ray,
And western skies yet glow with parting day;
The youthful train, with all their sports, I leave,
And lonely weep o'er Ellen's peaceful grave.

These mouldering walls that cast a cheerless gloom,
With all the secret horrors of the tomb,

Affright me not...and should the tempest rave,
I still would linger near my Ellen's grave.

For here in earth's dark womb she lies at rest,
Who reign'd unrivall'd in my faithful breast;
The fairest form...but beauty could not save
My lovely Ellen from an early grave.

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