Never again in the green sunny bowers,

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 who 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 wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?

Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?

And where is the bosom-friend dearer than all!

Ah my sad heart, long abandon'd by pleasure!

Why did it dote on a fast fading treasure!—
Tears like the rain-drops may fall without measure;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollection suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom can 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, mavournin Erin-go-bragh!"

GERMAN DRINKING SONG.

SWEET Iser! were thy sunny realm,

And flow'ry fountains mine;

Thy waters I would shade with elm,

To prop the tender vine.

My golden flaggons I would fill

With rosy draughts from every hill;

And under each green spreading bower,

My gay companions should prolong

The feast, the revel, and the song,

To many a sportive hour:

Like rivers crimson'd by the beam

Of yonder planet bright,

P

Our nectar cups should ever stream

Profusion of delight!

No care should touch the mellow heart,

And sad or sober none depart;

(For wine can triumph over woe)

And Love and Bacchus, brother powers,

Should build in Iser's sunny bowers

A Paradise below!

LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

WIZARD.

LOCHIEL, Lochiel, beware of the day,

When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight:
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,

And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.—

But hark! through the fast flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desart flies frantic and far?