But that false fortune,
Which is still uncertain,

Has caused this parting between him and me;

His name I'll advance

In Spain and in France,

And seek out my blackbird wherever he be.

The birds of the forest they all meet together,

The turtle was chosen to dwell with the dove,

But I am resolved in fair or foul weather, To seek out until I find my true love;

He is all my heart's treasure,
My joy and my pleasure,

And justly, my love, my heart will follow

thee,

Who is constant and kind,
And courageous in mind.

All bliss to my blackbird wherever he be.

In England my blackbird and I were together,

Where he was noble and generous of

heart;

And woe to the time that he first went

thither;

Alas! he was forced from thence to

depart;

In Scotland he is deemed,

And highly esteemed ;

"

In England he seemed a stranger to be ; Yet his name I'll advance

In Spain and in France, All bliss to my blackbird, wherever he be

OLD IRELAND I ADORE.

WILLIAM CARLETON.

OH! Erin's Isle, my heart's delight,
I long to see thee free-
Where'er I am by day or night,

This heart beats warm for thee.
I'm grieved to see thee so oppressed,
But what can I do more-
Oh! gramachree, I weep for thee,
Old Ireland I adore.

Your scenes surpasses all on earth,
They are so rich and rare,
Your sons are of the noblest birth,
None with them can compare;
Oppressed and starved, they are
Compelled to wander from your shore.

Oh, gramachree, I weep for thee,
Old Ireland I adore.

Oh, hard must be the tyrant's heart,
To link you to his chains,
And yet your sons have took his part
On many well-fought plains;
And yet you're bound there as a slave,
While we our loss deplore.
Oh, gramachree, I weep for thee,
Old Ireland I adore.

I'd like to know what you have done,
That still you can't be free;
But this I know, you had a son,

That struggled hard for thee; O'Connell was that hero's name,

He was known from shore to shore ; Oh, gramachree, he'd have set thee free; But, alas! he is no more.

If we were free, as once we were,
How happy might we be !

No foreign landlord then would dare
To lord it over thee.

We'd have our homes, and bread to eat As once we had before.

Oh, gramachree, may we live to see
Old Ireland free once more.

KATE OF GARNAVILLA.

HAVE you been at Garnavilla?

Have you seen at Garnavilla Beauty's train trip o'er the plain

With lovely Kate of Garnavilla? O, she's pure as virgin snows,

Ere they light on woodland hill-O; Sweet as dewdrop on wild rose,

Is lovely Kate of Garnavilla! Philomel, I've listened oft

To thy lay, nigh weeping willow; O, the strain's more sweet, more soft, That flows from Kate of Garna villa. Have you been, etc

As a noble ship I've seen

Sailing o'er the swelling billow,
So I've marked the graceful mien
Of lovely Kate of Garnavilla.
Have you been, etc.
If poets' prayers can banish cares,

No cares shall come to Garnavilla ;
Joy's bright rays shall gild her days,
And dove-like peace perch on her pillow,
Charming maid of Garnavilla !
Lovely maid of Garnavilla!
Beauty, grace, and virtue wait
On lovely Kate of Garnavilla I

m

A SONG FOR THE POPE.

BY REV. P. MURRAY, D. D., OF MAYNOOTH COL

A SONG for the Pope, for the royal Pope, Who rules from sea to sea,

Whose kingdom or sceptre never can fail;

What a grand old king is he !

No warrior hordes has he with their swords

His rock-built throne to guard; For against it the gates of hell shall

war

In vain, as they ever have warred.

O never did mightiest monarch yet,

In the day of his power and pride, Rule, as the good old Pontiff rules, With his Cardinals by his side. In terror and death is the conqueror's

march,

As the steel tides rise and roll;

But the bonds he binds with are faith and love,

Clasping the heart and the soul.

Great dynasties die, like flowers of the field, Great empires wither and fall;