Though England's a beautiful city,
Full of illigant boys, oh what then-
You wouldn't forget your poor Terence,
You'll come back to ould Ireland again.

Och, those English! deceivers by nature,
Though maybe you'd think them sincere,
They'll say you're a sweet charming creature,
But don't you believe them my dear.
No, Kathleen, agra!* don't be minding
The flattering speeches they'll make,
Just tell them a poor boy in Ireland
Is breaking his heart for your sake.

It's a folly to keep you from going,

Though, faith, it's a mighty hard case-
For, Kathleen, you know, there's no knowing
When next I shall see your sweet face.
And when you come back to me, Kathleen,
None the better will I be off, then-
You'll be spaking such beautiful English,
Sure, I won't know my Kathleen again.

Eh, now, where's the need of this hurry—
Don't flutter me so in this way-
I've forgot, 'twixt the grief and the flurry,
Every word I was maning to say;
Now just wait a minute, I bid ye,-
Can I talk if ye bother me so?
Oh, Kathleen, my blessing go wid
Ev'ry inch of the way that you go.

ye,

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'ning for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest-
For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends,
But, oh! they love the better still,
The few our Father sends!

And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessin' and my pride:

There's nothin' left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it, for my sake!

I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore-
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling!
In the land I'm goin' to;

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there-
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side:

And the springin' corn, and the bright may morn,
When first you were my bride.

LOVE NOT.

HON. MRS. NORTON.

Here we find another gifted daughter of the house of Sheridan upholding the hereditary honours of her race in this exquisite lyric.

LOVE not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay !

Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow'rs—

Things that are made to fade and fall away,

When they have blossomed but a few short hours.
Love not, love not!

Love not, love not! The thing you love may die—
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
Beam on its grave as once upon its birth.

Love not, love not!

Love not, love not! The thing you love may change ;
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you;
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange ;
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.

Love not, love not!

Love not, love not!-Oh, warning vainly said.
In present years, as in the years gone by:
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head,
Faultless, immortal-till they change or die.

Love not, love not!

In making the record in the line above, I have noted a birth and death the most brilliant and the most lamented of all the lyric poets that have done honour to that land, emphatically called, "The Land of Song." I have alluded already, in the preface to this volume, to the want of a selection from Moore's best songs in a work like this, which the strict guardianship kept over them by the proprietors of the copyright renders impossible. A few of his early songs, however, young firstlings of fancy, strayed away into the world and were forgotten, or not thought worthy, perhaps, of being gathered into the fold of the "gentle shepherds" of Paternoster-row, and some of them I have caught; and though they will not bear a comparison with those that climbed higher up Parnassus in later years, yet, as of the same stock that became so famous, there is interest in looking at them, however much the breed was afterwards improved. But, imagery apart, we like to see the first attempts of genius; and the early specimens of the muse of Moore that follow, will not be unacceptable when looked upon in the light they are presented. The song that follows derives an additional interest from the name that it celebrates, as we may infer it was addressed to that lovely and amiable woman who awaked the rapturous adoration of his youth, and was the solace of his age.

SWEETEST love, I'll ne'er forget thee,
Time shall only teach my heart
Fonder, warmer, to regret thee,
Lovely, gentle, as thou art!
Farewell, Bessy!

We may meet again.

Yes, oh yes, again we'll meet, love,
And repose our hearts at last;
Oh sure 'twill then be sweet, love,
Calm to think on sorrow past.
Farewell, Bessy!

We may meet again.

Yet I feel my heart is breaking,
When I think I stray from thee,
Round the world that quiet seeking
Which I fear is not for me!
Farewell, Bessy!

We may meet again.

Calm to peace thy lover's bosom—
Can it, dearest, must it be,
Thou within an hour wilt lose him,—
He for ever loses thee?

Farewell, Bessy!

Yet, oh! not for ever.

MILD MABLE KELLY.*

CAROLAN. Born, 1670, Died, 1738. Translated by SAMUEL FERGUSON.

Turlogh O'Carolan, born at Nobber in the county of Westmeath, may be looked upon as the last of the race of the ancient bards of Ireland. When we consider that he lost his sight at the age of eighteen, from smallpox, which bereft him of the use of books, it is surprising what an air of literary accomplishment, and how much refinement pervade his compositions. When we remember the country he lived in had been recently devastated by civil war, it is evident the mingled mirthfulness and tenderness of his effusions sprang from innate inspiration, not from the "form and pressure" of the time. Though he is more generally known by his music than by his poetry, the latter was of such a high standard, in the opinion of Goldsmith, who in his boyhood saw Carolan, and in later life wrote about him, that he said "his songs may be compared to those of Pindar, they having the same flight of imagination." The works of Carolan, taken altogether, display a wonderful fertility of invention, and, being the last of the bards, we may well apply to him the often-quoted

"Tho' last not least."

Limited space forbids saying more about one of whom so much might be said; so, without further preface, we give one of his songs, which fully sustains his own reputation and that of his country.

There are three versions of this famous song: one by Miss Brooke, in her "Reliques of Irish Poetry," and another in “Hardiman's Minstrelsy :" but, as in many other instances, Mr. Ferguson's translation is far the best.