The sweetness o'thy artless smile,

Thy sparkling e'e's resistless wile, Gars sober reason back recoil,

Wi' love turn'd tapsalteerie, O.

Thy lips, sure seats o'sweet delight,

Wha e'er may haflins see them, 0, Maun be a cauldrife, lifeless wight,

Should he no try to pree them, O. To me thou ever shalt be dear,

Thy image in my heart I'll wear, Contentment's sun my day shall cheer,

As lang's thou'lt be my dearie, 0.

Nae will-o'-wisp's delusive blaze,

Through fortune's fen sae drearie, 0, Nor wealth, nor fame's attractive rays,

Shall lure me frae my dearie, 0; But through the rural shady grove,

O'er flow'ry lea wi' thee I'll rove; My cot shall be the seat o' love

While life remains, my dearie, 0.

The pleasing scenes of nature gay,

May charm the heart that's sairy, 0); Yet even such scenes to me add wae,

When absent frae my dearie, 0. Remembrance broods still on the hour,

When first within yon lonely bower, I felt the love-enslaving power

Of thy sweet charms, my dearie, 0.

R

XL.

THE MAID OF TRALEE.

Young Connel was gallant, young Ellen was fair,
He gaz’d, and she blush'd, no one whisper'd—beware;
Young Ellen was fair, and young Connel was brave,
He swore to her beauty his heart was a slave ;
He pip'd, and he danc'd, and he sang full of glee,
And his song was of love, and the maid of Tralee.

Fair Ellen, sweet Ellen, fair Ellen O'Reilly,
Fair Ellen, the maid of Tralee.

O say, can the tongue a soft language impart,
Persuasive and sweet, yet unknown to the heart?
Can true love so soon with possession grow cold?
Or, say, did he sigh after glory or gold ?
For high wav'd the banner, he went o'er the sea,
And left to her sorrow the maid of Tralee.

Fair Ellen, sweet Ellen, fair Ellen O'Reilly,
Fair Ellen, the maid of Tralee.

That cheek where the roses and lilies were spread,
Now boasts but the lily—the roses are fled ;
That eye, whose bright glance the heart's raptures reveald,
Now dim with a tear, no more lustre shall yield ;

And broken with sighs, now for ever must be
The once tuneful voice of the maid of Tralee.

Fair Ellen, sweet Ellen, fair Ellen O'Reilly,
Fair Ellen, the maid of Tralee.

XLI.

I COME IN THE MORN.*

Flora's Song

I come in the morn, I come in the hour

When the blossoms of beauty rise ;
I gather the fairest and richest flower,
Where heaven's dew purest lies.

Then rest thee, Bride,

In thy beauty's pride-
Thou wilt rest to-night by Flora's side.

* For the better understanding of this song, it may be necessary to remark that the Western Islanders entertain a tradition that, previous to the death of any young and remarkably beautiful bride among them, an apparition, resembling a mermaid, is always observed. This phantom they distinguish by the name of Flora, or the spirit of the Green Isle, and concur in affirming that it made its appearance immediately before the death of the late much-lamented Princess Charlotte of Wales. Whatever credit may be due to the assertion, or even to the fancy on which it is founded, the song itself possesses considerable merit, and is not unworthy the mournful occasion which

The eye

I touch must be soft and blue
As the sky where the stars are gleaming, -
And the breast must be fair as the fleecy clouds

Where the angels of bliss lie dreaming, -
And the spirit within as pure and bright

As the stream that leaps among tufts of roses,
And sparkles along all life and light,
Then calm in its open bed reposes.

Ah! rest thee, Bride,

By thy true love's side,-
To-morrow a shroud his hope shall hide.

it is meant to commemorate. The following stanzas, which we have placed under the note, are, in the original, prefixed to the song, and serve very properly as a useful introduction, by solemnizing our minds for the mournful dirge.

A voice said from the silver sea,
“Woe to thee, Green Isle !-woe to thee!"
The Warden from his watch-tow'r bent,
But land, and wave, and firmament
So calmly slept, he might have heard
The swift wing of the mountain bir-
Nor breeze nor breath his beacon stirr'd ;

Yet from th' unfathom'd caves below,
Thrice came that drear, death-boding word,

And the long echoes answer'd, “WOE!"

The Warden from his tow'r looks round,

And now he hears the slow waves bringing,
Each to the shore a silver sound, -

The spirit of the Isle is singing
In depths which man hath never found.
When she sits in the pomp of her ocean-hed,
With her scarf of light around her spread,
The mariner thinks on the misty tide,
He sees the moon's soft rainbow glide :
Her song in the noon of night he hears,
And trembles while his bark he stocrs.

I saw them wreathing a crown for thee,

With riches of empire in it,
And thy bridal robe was a winding sheet,

And the Loves that crown’d thee sat to spin it.
They heap'd with garlands thy purple bed,

And every flower on earth they found thee, But every flower in the wreath shall fade, Save those thy bounty scatter'd round thee,

Yet sweetly sleep,

While my hour I keep,
For angels, to-night, shall watch and weep.

0, Green Isle !-woe to thy hope and pride!

To-day thy rose was bright and glowing; The bud was full, the root was wide,

And the streams of love around it flowing;-
To-morrow thy tower shall stand alone,

Thy hoary oak shall live and flourish;
But the dove from its branches shall be gone---

The rose that deck'd its stem shall perish.