Like your love the rose hath faded, THE IRISH MANIAC. TUNE-" Erin go Bragh." As I stray'd o'er the common on Cork's rugged border, While the dew-drops of morn the sweet primrose array'd, I saw a poor female, whose mental disorder Her quick-glancing eye and wild aspect betray'd; On the sward she reclin'd, by the green fern surrounded, At her side speckled daisies and wild flow'rs abounded; To its inmost recesses her heart had been wounded; Her sighs were unceasing-'twas Mary le More. Her charms by the keen blast of sorrow were faded, Yet the soft tinge of beauty still play'd on her cheek; Her tresses a wreath of pale primroses braided, And strings of fresh daisies hung loose on her neck. While with pity I gaz'd, she exclaim'd, O my mother! See the blood on that lash, 'tis the blood of my brother; They have torn his poor flesh, and they now strip another; 'Tis Connor, the friend of poor Mary le More. Tho' his locks were as white as the foam on the ocean, His white locks were bloody, no aid could restore him, When the blue wave of Erin hides Mary le More. A lark, from the gold-blossom'd furze that grew near her, Away! bring the ointment! O God! see those gashes! By day the green grave, that lies under the willow, Thus rav'd the poor maniac in tones more heart-rending When lo! on the waste, and their march tow'rds her bending, A troop of fierce cavalry chanc'd to appear. O the fiends! she exclaim'd, and with wild horror started, PATRICK O'STERN. To the foregoing Air. WHEN the rude yell of war had ceas'd its loud thunder, Poor Patrick O'Stern-now discharg'd from his duty, Had hoarded his prize-money, pay, and his bootyHimself, and his wealth, to resign to his beauty The pride of fair Wicklow-sweet Catherine O'Gray Those hands are soon join'd, where the hearts are united And fair looks the house where love dwells within: Their hours pass'd in joy-with delight; and delighted Was Patrick with Kate, and Catherine with him. But war soon broke out; the press-gang assail'd him; His griefs all prevail'd, his courage had fail'd him; Nought the tears of his wife or his children avail'd him: He was torn from the arms of sweet Catherine O'Gray! You in peace now that hear this sad true relation, But view the reverse!-the wars now are ended, He finds yet in health and in virtue the same; His boys, by the parish maintain'd, bold and hearty, Now clasp'd in his arms, make glad the blythe party: No words can their joy, their bliss here impart t'ye! Then blest be of Providence, the pow'r and the name BALLINAMONA ORA. WHEREVER I'm going, and all the day long, I find that my passion's so lively and strong, A kiss of your sweet lips for me. Since the first time I saw you I take no repose, Your pretty black hair for me. In my conscience I fear I shall die in my grave, Your pretty black eyes for me. On that happy day when I make you my bride, Your lily-white fist for me. SLEEP ON, MY KATHLEEN DEAR. SLEEP on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear, The birds sing sweet, the morning breaks, Tho' sleep is fled, poor Dermot wakes O WILL YOU SIT IN THE BOW'R WITH ME. TUNE" Planxty Drury.” O WILL you sit in the bow'r with me? And we sing cheerily, As the rough weather is blowing; There beauty breathes the melting sigh, Ere youth shall wing its rapid flight, And we'll look to the future cheerily. THE YORKSHIRE IRISHMAN. My father was once a great merchant, To Irishmen ne'er come alone: |