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Then, Mary, dry that bitter tear

T'would break my heart to see ;
And gently sleep my mother dear,

That cannot weep for me :
My spirit yet will seek your home

Though seas roll wide between
For I'll watch the time, that yet will come

For wearing of the Green.

I care not for the Thistle,

And I care not for the Rose ;
For when the bleak winds whistle,

Neither down nor crimson shows :
But like hope to him that's friendless,

When no joy around is seen
O'er our Graves, with love that's endless,

Waves our own true-hearted Green.

Oh, sure God's world was wide enough,

And plentiful for all ;
And ruined cabins were no stuff

To build a lordly Hall :
They might have let the poor man live,

And just as lordly been;
But-Heaven its own good time will give,

For wearing of the Green.

No. XV.

This air, Paidin mac Ruairide, i. e. Paddy Mac Rory has been taken from our own collection, and we believe is not at all as well known as it deserves to be, although it has been published (without words however) in Bunting's second collection of Irish Music—we are not aware that it has appeared in any other collection, and the setting of the air which we here present to our musical readers is, we think, much purer as well as simpler in its structure than that which will be found in Bunting. In fact the latter appears to us to be an instrumental version with embellishments of our more simple air, and in the introduction of the 4th of the key as the 2nd note of the 4th bar, we are of opinion that a grievous injury has been inflicted on the Irish character of the Melody. It is, we should imagine, almost unnecessary to speak to the readers of the Citizen of the words which we have adapted to this air, for they are by one whom no Irish heart can easily or soon forget, and to remember Gerald Griffin is, alas, to lament over our Country's too recent loss of him—these beautiful lines were written in his early days, when all was bright and sunny around him, with a heart ever alive to the beauties of nature, and a spirit whose pure light could indeed “turn the world and its vapours into purple and gold,” and we trust that our having given these exquisite verses in connection with one of our Native Airs hitherto very imperfectly known, will be the ineans of making it as popular as some others of our lighter melodies have been rendered by the immortal lyric poems of our other gifted countryman_MOORE,


My spirit is gay as the breaking of dawn,
As the breeze that sports over the sun-lighted lawn,
As the song of yon lark from his kingdom of light,
Or the harp-strings that rings in the chamber of night.
For the world and its vapours, though darkly they fold,
I have light that can turn them to purple and gold,
Till they brighten the landscape they came to deface,
And deformity changes to beauty and grace.
Yet, say not to selfish delight I must turn
From the grief-laden bosoms around me that mourn ;
For 'tis pleasure to share in each sorrow I see,
And sweet sympathy's tear is enjoyment to me.
Oh! blest is the heart, when misfortunes assail,
That is armed in content, as a garment of mail ;
For the grief of another that treasures its zeal,
And remembers no woe, but the woe it can heal.

When the storm gathers dark on the summer's young bloom,
And each ray of the noontide is sheathed in gloom,
I would be the rainbow, high arching in air,
Like a gleaming of hope on the brow of despair.
When the bursts of its fury is spent on the bower,
And the birds are yet bowed with the weight of the shower,
I would be the beam that comes warming and bright,
And that bids them burst open to fragrance and light.

I would be the smile, that comes breaking serene
O'er the features where lately afiliction had been :
Or the heart-welcome scroll, after years of alloy,
That brings home to the desolate, tidings of joy ;
Or the life-giving rose odour, borne by the breeze
To the sense rising keen from the couch of disease;
Or the whisper of charity, tender and kind,
Or the dawning of hope in a penitent mind.

Then breathe, ye sweet roses, your fragrance around,
And waken, ye wild birds, the groves with your sound.
When the soul is unstained, and the heart is at ease,
There's a rapture in pleasures so simple as these.
I rejoice in each sunbeam that gladdens the vales.
I rejoice in each odour that sweetens the gales,
In the bloom of the spring,–in the summer's gay voice,
With a spirit as gay, I rejoice, I rejoice!


No. XVI.

We here give an Irish Lullaby which we believe is only to be found in the “Farmer and Reilly" collection. The Irish title, Fonncodail, means literally a“ Song of Sleep,"and the character of the air (with all its Irish peculiarities) is such as would we believe sufficiently designate its origin even if no such title had been affixed to it. It is a strange, half-asleep fragmental abortion in one part, repeatable in infinitum. The following simple words are given merely as pointing out the metre which we consider the air to require.


Oh! hush-a-bye ! my baby dear !

Thy Mother watches by thee;
And sweetly sleep, while I am here

No harm shall e'er come nigh thee.


This, like No. XIII., is we believe a “modern Irish Dance,” and is a recent contribution to our collection from the county of Cork; we give it to fill up the page, as it may be acceptable to some of our fair friends—we have endeavoured to give variety to it by treating the repeated bars differently in each part and to the young Piano-Forte player we have only to suggest that the accompaniment will be rendered easier by playing the lower notes of the base singly, and never minding the octaves we have given them. We shall be accused of whimsicality in the arrangements of the music in this number. But no matter. We have already confessed our sin in No. 14. In No. 15, perhaps, we shall also be thought not guiltless. In No. 16, the strangeness of beginning in G. major, for the purpose of falling into C. minor, in order to tumble into the intended key of E. major, rendered us little scrupulous as to what harmonic vagaries we might think of conjoining. Thus, by the time we reached No. 17 we were ready to leap all bounds; and we allow, that if any thing more fiendish had occurred at the time to our imagination, "The Humours of Passage” should have had the benefit of it; and we could have had it in our hearts to have kicked the discords in smithereens, from the Ferry to Cove and thence back again to the city of Cork.

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