But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion ; "Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger: Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours: Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of ERIN GO BRAGH! "Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far, foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more! Oh, cruel Fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me: They died to defend me- or live to deplore. "Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wildwood? "Yet all its sad recollections suppressing One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw :Erin! an exile bequeaths thee - his blessing! Land of my forefathers! - ERIN GO BRAGH! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, ERIN MAVOURNEEN! ERIN GO BRAGH!" HOHENLINDEN. can'o-py, the covering of smoke. I'ser (ezer), a river of Germany. many. Mu'nich (mu'nik), capital of Bavaria. ON Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills, with thunder riven; But redder yet those fires shall glow 'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Few, few shall part where many meet! Shall be a soldier's sepulcher. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. Loch-gyle' (lok-ğile'), a lake in Scot- | wa'ter-wraith (-rãth), water-spirit. land. sore, greatly. wight (wit), man, person. win'some, winning, attractive. A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound "Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle, "Oh, I am chief of Ulva's isle, And this, Lord Ullin's daughter. “And fast before her father's men My blood would stain the heather. "His horsemen hard behind us ride: Out spoke the hardy island wight, It is not for your silver bright, "And, by my word, the bonny bird So, though the waves are raging white, By this the storm grew loud apace, But still as wilder blew the wind, "Oh, haste thee, haste!" the lady cries; The boat has left a stormy land, When, oh! too strong for human hand, And still they rowed amidst the roar Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore: His wrath was changed to wailing. For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover: |