For Adam's race is born to die,
And sternly the sepulchral urn
Mocks human pride!

Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne, Nor place thy trust in arm of clayBut on thy knees

Uplift thy soul to God alone,

For all things go their destined way
As He decrees.

Embrace the faithful Crucifix,

And seek the path of pain and prayer
Thy Saviour trod;

Nor let thy spirit intermix

With earthly hope and worldly care
Its groans to GOD!

And Thou, O mighty Lord! whose ways Are far above our feeble minds

To understand,

Sustain us in these doleful days,

And render light the chain that binds
Our fallen land!

Look down upon our dreary state,
And through the ages that may still
Roll sadly on,

Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate,
And shield at least from darker ill
The blood of Conn!

K

THE COURT OF CAHIRASS.

["About a mile from Croom, (saye the "History of Limerick," by Fitzgerald and MacGregor) situated on the Maig, is Cahirass House, with its finely wooded park and plantations, belonging to Mr. (now Sir David) Roche, a descendant of the house of Fermoy;" and a note adds, "There was once a chapel of ease here belonging to the Carbery family, whose property it was. The chaplain falling desperately in love with the daughter of Lord Carbery, and being disappointed, hanged himself in the chapel, which soon afterwards went to decay. This unfortunate lover had composed a song beginning with At the Court of Cahirass there lives a fair maiden,' which is still recollected by the country people."]

IN the Court of Cahirass there dwells a fair lady,
Of beauty the paragon, and she is called Katey;
Her lofty descent, and her stately deportment,
Prove this lovely damsel was for a king's court meant.

There's many a great lord from Dublin has sought her;
But that is not strange for a nobleman's daughter:
Yet if she was poor as the poorest of creatures,
There's no one her rival in figure or features.

On a fine summer's morning, if you saw but this maiden,
By the murmuring Maig, or the green fields she stray'd

in;

Or through groves full of song, near that bright flowing

river,

You'd think how imperfect the praise that I give her.

In order arranged are her bright flowing tresses,
The thread of the spider their fineness expresses;
And softer her cheek, that is mantled with blushes,
Than the drift of the snow, or the pulp of the rushes.
But her bosom of beauty, that the heart which lies under,
Should have nothing of womanlike pride, is my wonder;
That the charms which all eyes daily dwell on delighted,
Should seem in her own of no worth, and be slighted.

I felt on my spirit a load that was weighty,

In the stillness of midnight, and lled upon Katey ; And a dull voice replied, on the ear of the sleeper, "Death! death!" in a tone that was deep, and grew deeper.

'Twas an omen to me-'twas an onien of sadness,

That told me of folly, of love, and of madness;

That my fate was as dark as the sky that was o'er me,
And bade me despair, for no hope was before me.

O, Katey, dear Katey, disdain not your lover;
From your frowns and your coldness he cannot recover:
For if you but bid him his passion to smother,
How fatal the day when we first met each other.

[I have ventured to omit a verse which I have always considered an interpolation. It contained a ludicrous instance of bathos, certain to interrupt the tender and pathetic sentiment of the ballad. To wit:

"To the sick and the needy profuse is her bounty,

And her goodness extends through the whole of the county!"]

MAIRE BHAN ASTOR.

BY THOMAS DAVIS, M.R.I.A.

IN a valley, far away,

With my Maire bhan astór,
Short would be the summer-day,

Ever loving more and more;

Which means, "fair Mary my treasure." If we are to write gibberish to enable some of our readers to pronounce this, we must do so thus, Maur-ya vaun asthore. Really it is time for the inhabitants of Ireland to learn Irish.

Winter-days would all grow long,
With the light her heart would pour,
With her kisses and her song,

And her loving mait go léor*
Fond is Maire blian astór,
Fair is Maire bhan astór,
Sweet as ripple on the shore,
Sings my Maire bhan astór.

Oh! her sire is very proud,
And her mother cold as stone;
But her brother bravely vow'd

She should be my bride alone;
For he knew I lov'd her well,

And he knew she lov'd me too,
So he sought their pride to quell,
But 'twas all in vain to sue.

True is Maire blian astór,
Tried is Maire bhan astór,
Had I wings I'd never soar
From my Maire bhan astór.

There are lands where manly toil

Surely reaps the crop it sows, Glorious woods and teeming soil,

Where the broad Missouri flows;

Through the trees the smoke shall rise,
From our hearth with mait go léor,
There shall shine the happy eyes

Of my Maire blan astór.

Mild is Maire blian astór,

Mine is Maire blan astór,

Saints will watch about the door
Of my Maire bhan astór.

Much plenty, or, in abundance.

THE RETURN OF O'RUARK,

PRINCE OF BREFFNI.

BY THOMAS MOORE.

AIR-" Cailin Deas Cruite na-m-bo."

This ballad is founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances as related by O'Halloran:"The King of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the King of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage, (an act of piety frequent in those days,) and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns." The monarch Roderic esponsed the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac-Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II. "Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis, (as I find in an old translation,) "is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy."]

THE Valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind;

Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
That sadden'd the joy of my mind.

I looked for the lamp which she told me
Should shine when her Pilgrim return'd,
But, though darkness began to infold me,
No lamp from the battlements burn'd!

I flew to her chamber-'twas lonely
As if the lov'd tenant lay dead!

Ah! would it were death, and death only!
But no the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute, that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss,

While the hand, that had wak'd it so often,
Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.