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Then, Mary, dry that bitter tear
T'would break my heart to see ;
That cannot weep for me :
Though seas roll wide between
For wearing of the Green.
I care not for the Thistle,
And I care not for the Rose ;
Neither down nor crimson shows :
When no joy around is seen
Waves our own true-hearted Green.
Oh, sure God's world was wide enough,
And plentiful for all ;
To build a lordly Hall :
And just as lordly been;
For wearing of the Green.
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,
When the storm gathers dark on the summer's young bloom,
I would be the smile, that comes breaking serene
Then breathe, ye sweet roses, your fragrance around,
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;
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.
euse I cursed tre ty -- 11n_Dy That wring your heart to sore ; that same lore 1 cin, not be Laid with him in his rest: ru-ind
Ca_tins were no stuff To build lord_ly hall;
But And They
no -- Vos stall my cheek be wet Or grief on be lore. Ty my sweet lore must stray That was our village might base let the
poor man live And just lordly
Por Queen, for her been But