Like your love the rose hath faded,
All its fragrant pow'r is over;
Sorrow's blight the leaf invaded,
Emblem of your
lover.

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,
Those wretches shall find that my father is brave;
My father! she cried, with the wildest emotion,
Ah! no, my poor father now sleeps in the grave!
They have toll'd his death bell, they've laid the turf
o'er him,

His white locks were bloody, no aid could restore him,
He is gone! he is gone! and the good will deplore him,

When the blue wave of Erin hides Mary le More.

A lark, from the gold-blossom'd furze that grew near her,
Now rose, and with energy caroll'd his lay;
Hush! hush! she continued, the trumpet sounds clearer,
The horsemen approach! Erin's daughters, away!
Ah! soldiers, 'twas foul, while the cabin was burning,
And o'er a pale father a wretch had been mourning-
Go, hide with the sea-mew, ye maids, and take warning,
Those ruffians have ruin'd poor Mary le More.

Away! bring the ointment! O God! see those gashes!
Alas! my poor brother, come dry the big tear;
Anon, we'll have vengeance for those dreadful lashes,
Already the screech-owl and ravens appear.

By day the green grave, that lies under the willow,
With wild flowers I'll strew, and by night make my pillow,
Till the ooze and dark sea-weed, beneath the curl'd billow,
Shall furnish a death-bed for Mary le More.

Thus rav'd the poor maniac in tones more heart-rending
Than sanity's voice ever pour'd on my ear,

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,
Then through the tall fern, loudly screaming she darted;
With an overcharg'd bosom I slowly departed,
And sigh'd for the wrongs of poor Mary le More.

PATRICK O'STERN.

To the foregoing Air.

WHEN the rude yell of war had ceas'd its loud thunder,
And peace on the land cast its sweet smiling ray;
Then Britain, of nations the envy and wonder,
At sea held its power, its dominion and sway

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,
And pity with me the poor sailors' fate;
Those pillars of war-that uphold your great nation,
Preserving your King, your church, and your state-
Drop a tear for poor Catherine-dejected-forlorn!
Whose heart like the billow in tempest was torn,
O'er her two lovely boys, left in anguish to mourn!
Whilst her Patrick in tears was torn from his Kate!

But view the reverse!-the wars now are ended,
And Patrick arrives, rich in wealth and in fame!
His Catherine, dejected, poor, and unfriended,

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,
At home and abroad, or alone in a throng,

I find that my passion's so lively and strong,
That your name, when I'm silent, still runs in my song.
Sing Ballinamona ora,

A kiss of your sweet lips for me.

Since the first time I saw you I take no repose,
I sleep all the day to forget half my woes;
So hot is the flame in my bosom that glows,
By St. Patrick! I fear it will burn through my clothes.
Sing Ballinamona ora,

Your pretty black hair for me.

In my conscience I fear I shall die in my grave,
Unless you comply, and poor Phelim do save,
And grant the petition your lover does crave,
Who never was free till you made him your slave.
Sing Ballinamona ora,

Your pretty black eyes for me.

On that happy day when I make you my bride,
With a swinging long sword how I'll strut and I'll stride,
In a coach and six horses with honey I'll ride,
As before you I walk to the church by your side.
Sing Ballinamona ora,

Your lily-white fist for me.

SLEEP ON, MY KATHLEEN DEAR.

SLEEP on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear,
May peace possess thy breast;
Yet dost thou dream thy true love's here,
Depriv'd of peace and rest?

The birds sing sweet, the morning breaks,
Those joys are none to me:

Tho' sleep is fled, poor Dermot wakes
To none but love and thee.

O WILL YOU SIT IN THE BOW'R WITH ME.

TUNE" Planxty Drury.”

O WILL you sit in the bow'r with me?
The grape's rich juice is flowing;
'Tis sweet to sit in the bow'r with me,
We pass our time in festive glee,
Oh! merrily, merrily,

And we sing cheerily,

As the rough weather is blowing;
Oh! merrily, &c.

There beauty breathes the melting sigh,
And courts the soft enjoyment of delight;
Then haste happy pleasure to try,

Ere youth shall wing its rapid flight,
And smoothly the current of life will flow,
As wine shall inspire us merrily;
Joy shall gild our days below,

And we'll look to the future cheerily.
Joy shall gild, &c.

THE YORKSHIRE IRISHMAN.

My father was once a great merchant,
As any in Ireland is found,
But faith he could ne'er save a shilling,
Tho' 'tatoes he sold by the pound.
So, says he to my mother, one night,
To England suppose you and I go;
And the very next day, by moonlight,
They took leave of the county of Sligo.
That the land is all cover'd with water,
'Twixt England and Ireland, you'll own,
And single misfortunes, they say,

To Irishmen ne'er come alone: