FITZ-EUSTACE'S SONG. W HERE shall the lover rest, From his true maiden's breast, Parted for ever? Where through groves deep and high Sounds the loud billow; Where early violets die, Under the willow; Chorus. Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow. There, through the summer day, Parted for ever; Never, O never. Chorus. Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never. Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin and leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With the groans of the dying. Chorus. Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying. Her wing shall the eagle flap His warm blood the wolf shall lap By his grave ever : Chorus. Eleu loro, &c. Never! O never! SCOTT. THE EXILE. THE HE swallow with summer Will visit thy trees, Thy ports shall contain, -I must never But me See England again. There's many that weep But one weeps alone there; For the tears that are falling So far from her own ;- If death is between us, When the white cloud reclines Except in the skies. HOOD. SONNET. [LOVE'S CONSOLATION.] WHEN, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least, O'BRIEN OF ARRA.1 (AIR THE PIPER OF BLESSINGTON.") ALL are the towers of O'Kennedy, TA Broad are the lands of MacCarha, Desmond feeds five hundred men a-day; Up from the Castle of Drumineer, See you the mountains look huge at eve— To give him the Cead Millia Falta. Horses the valleys are tramping on, To give him the Cead Millia Falta. An Irish Chieftain, fighting against the English of "The Pale." 2 Irish words, meaning, "A hundred thousand welcomes!" and pronounced like Kade Meel-ya Fault-ya. He has black silver from Killaloe, To give him the Cead Millia Falta. Scarce 'tis a week since through Ossory Tall are the towers of O'Kennedy, LORD AMIENS' SONG, IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 66 [FROM AS YOU LIKE IT."] I. BLOW, blow, thou winter wind! Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; |