Then, Mary, dry that bitter tear I care not for the Thistle, And I care not for the Rose; Neither down nor crimson shows: O'er our Graves, with love that's endless, Oh, sure God's world was wide enough, 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, No. XV. This air, Paidin mac Ruaipide, 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 means 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, Yet, say not to selfish delight I must turn From the grief-laden bosoms around me that mourn; When the storm gathers dark on the summer's young bloom, I would be the rainbow, high arching in air, And the birds are yet bowed with the weight of the shower, I would be the smile, that comes breaking serene Then breathe, ye sweet roses, your fragrance around, 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, 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. IRISH LULLABY. Oh! hush-a-bye! my baby dear! Thy Mother watches by thee; No. XVII. 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. that same love 1 ru-ind Ca-bins cause I cursed the tyran-ny That wrings your heart so can not be Laid with him in his were no stuff To build a lord-ly |