EILEEN AROON.*

GERALD GRIFFIN.

WHEN, like the early rose,

Eileen aroon !

Beauty in childhood blows;
Eileen aroon !

When, like a diadem,

Buds blush around the stem,

Which is the fairest gem?

Eileen aroon !

Is it the laughing eye?

Eileen aroon !

Is it the timid sigh?

Eileen aroon !

Is it the tender tone,

Soft as the string'd harp's moan?
Oh, it is truth alone.

* For the convenience of the English reader the sound of the Irish title is given, in this spelling of it. In its native form it is spelt Eibhlin a ruin-meaning "Ellen my secret love." A closer approximation to the pronunciation would be obtained by the spelling Ile-yeen; but that is too far removed from the native orthography.

1

The old Irish air to which this is written is called "Eileen Aroon ;" is very ancient and of great beauty. The Scotch claim it under the title of "Robin Adair;" but it is altered, much for the worse, a lilting character, or what Dr. Burney calls the Scotch snap, being given to the third and seventh bars of the first part of the air, and the seventh bar of the second part. Burns, whose ear was so finely attuned to sweet measures, objects to it, on this very account. Here are his words :

"I have tried my hand on 'Robin Adair,' and you will probably think with little success: but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that I despair of doing anything better to it."-Burns to Mr. Thomson, August, 1793.

Now, the Irish air, in its original purity, is as smooth as an unbroken ascending and descending scale can make it; it is anything but the "cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure," of which Burns' sensitive ear was so painfully conscious in the Scottish form.

THE BLUSH OF MORN.

Translated from the Irish by Miss BALFOUR.

THE blush of morn at length appears;
The hawthorn weeps in dewy tears;
Emerging from the shades of night,
The distant hills are tipped with light;

The swelling breeze, with balmy breath,
Wafts fragrance from the purple heath;
And warbling woodlarks seem to say,
Sweet Anna! 'tis the dawn of day!

Ah! didst thou Love's soft anguish feel,
No sleep thy weary eye would seal;
But to the bank thou wouldst repair,
Secure to meet thy lover there.
In pity to my pangs awake!
Unwilling I thy slumbers break;
But longer absence would betray
I met thee at the dawn of day.

Yet though our parents now may frown.
Some pitying power our vows shall crown;

Be constancy and truth but thine,

While youth, and health, and love are mine ;
Then shall our hearts united glow

With all that fondness can bestow,
And love extend his gentle sway

O'er close of eve and dawn of day.

These words are adapted to a graceful air in "A General Collection of the Ancient Music of Ireland," by Edward Bunting. The melody is entitled "The Dawning of the Day;" but there is another and finer Irish melody of the same name.

I NE'ER COULD ANY LUSTRE SEE.

SHERIDAN.

I NE'ER could any lustre see

In eyes that could not look on me ;
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,

But where my own did hope to sip.

Has the maid, who seeks my heart,
Cheeks of rose, untouched by art?
I will own the colour true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue.

Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it, to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
Till it grateful press again.

Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so, when I see

That heaving bosom sigh for me.

These are graceful lines, but they cannot fail to remind us of "Shall I like a hermit dwell?" attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh, the concluding couplet of the first verse of which is as follows:

"If she undervalue me,

What care I how fair she be?"

And this burden running, with slight variety, through Raleigh's song, is the germ of the idea in Sheridan. Sheridan, however, is not the only one open to the charge of plagiarism, for the happy idea had sufficient fascination to induce George Wither to take it up; but he certainly wrought it out still more beautifully in his exquisite song "Shall I, wasting in despair?"—so exquisite as to tempt me to the insertion of the first verse, even at the expense of throwing Sheridan, so far, into the shade. The author of "The School for Scandal," however, can afford it.

"Shall I, wasting in despair,

Die because a woman's fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care,
'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day,

Or the flowery meads in May;

If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be?"

MOLLY ASTORE.*

From the Irish. Translated by S. FERGUSON, M.R I.A.

Он, Mary dear—oh, Mary fair,
Óh, branch of generous stem,

White blossom of the banks of Nair,

Though lilies grow on them;

You've left me sick at heart for love,

So faint I cannot see;

The candle swims the board above,
I'm drunk for love of thee!

Oh, stately stem of maiden pride,
My woe it is and pain,

That I, thus severed from thy side,
The long night must remain.

* Molly my treasure.

H

Through all the towns of Innisfail
I've wandered far and wide,
But, from Downpatrick to Kinsale,
From Carlow to Kilbride,

'Mong lords and dames of high degree,
Where'er my feet have gone,
My Mary, one to equal thee
I never looked upon :

I live in darkness and in doubt
Whene'er my love's away—

But were the gracious sun put out,
Her shadow would make day.

'Tis she, indeed, young bud of bliss,
And gentle as she's fair-
Though lily-white her bosom is,
And sunny bright her hair,
And dewy azure her blue eye,
And rosy red her cheek,
Yet brighter she in modesty,

More beautifully meek!

The world's wise men, from north to south

Can never ease my pain

But one kiss from her honey mouth

Would make me well again.

SUCH WAS THE EYE.

From the Irish.

SUCH was the eye that won my love,

And thrilled me with its brilliant glance; And such the form that once could moveThe voice could charm, the smile entrance.

I view thee, fairest, and I sigh,

Thou look'st so like what once was mine; Her red, red lip, and sparkling eye,

And voice, and smile, were just like thine.

She's gone-inconstant as the wind,

That wantons with the summer flower; She's gone-but madness stays behind; And heartless home, and joyless bower.

A fading eye, a powerless hand,

When, o'er the strings, it fain would stray ; Deserted steed, and idle brand,

All tell me that my love's away.

E