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THE FORLORN HOPE.

A SONG OF THE IRISH BRIGADE.
AIR-Cruiskeen Lawn.

LET us lift the green flag high
Underneath this foreign sky,
Unrol the verdant volume to the wind.
As we hasten to the fight
Let us drink a last good night

To the beauty which we leave, boy, be hind, behind, behind;

To the beauty which we leave, boy, behind.

Plant it high upon the breach, And within the flag-staff's reach; We'll offer it the tribute of our gore. Yes! on that altar high, 'Spite of tyrants we can die,

And our spirits to the saints above may soar, soar, soar;

And our spirits to the saints above may

soar.

Liberty is gone,

Now 't is glory leads us on,
And spangles gloomy slavery's night;
If freedom's shattered bark

Have not foundered i' the dark

Her wreck must see this beacon bright, bright, bright;

Her wreck will see this beacon bright.

Yes; glory's shining light
Must irradiate the night,

And renew the flaming splendor of the day!

And freedom's sinking crew
Shall recover hope anew,

And hail the blazing splendor of this ray,

ray, ray;

And hail the blazing splendor of this ray.

The green flag on the air,
Sons of Erin and despair,

To the breach in serried column quick advance.

On the summit we may fall:

Hand in hand, my comrades all,

Let us drink a last adieu to merry France, France, France;

Let us drink a last adieu to merry France.

To Erin, comrades, too,
And her sunny skies of blue,
A goblet commingled with tears !

With the fleur-de-lis divine, The green shamrock shall entwine; But the Ancient* see the Sun-burst rears rears, rears;

The Ancient see the Sun-burst rears.

AILEEN MAVOURNEEN.

He tells me he loves me, and can I be lieve

The heart he has won he can wish to deceive,

Forever and always his sweet words to me,

Are Aileen Mavourneen, acushlamachree. Last night when we parted, his gentle good bye,

A thousand times said, and each time with a sigh,

And still the same sweet words he whispered to me,

My Aileen Mavourneen, acushlamachree.

The friend of my childhood, the friend of my youth,

Whose heart is all pure, and whose words

are all truth;

Standard bearer.

O, still the same sweet words he whis pered to me, My Aileen Mavourneen, acushlamachree.

O, when will the day come, the dear happy day,

That a maiden may hear all a lover can say,

And speak out the words he now whispers to me,

My Aileen Mavourneen, acushlamachree.

DERMOT ASTHORE.

O, DERMOT ASTHORE, between waking and sleeping,

I heard tay dear voice and wept to its lay,

Every pulse of my heart the sweet measure was keeping,

Till Killarney's wild echoes had borne it away.

O, tell me, my love is this my last meeting?

Shall we wander no more in Killarney's green bowers,

To watch the bright sun o'er the dim hills retreating,

And the wild stag at rest in his bed of spring flowers?

O, Dermot Asthore, how this fond heart would flutter,

When I met thee by night in the shady boreen,

And heard thine own voice in a soft whisper utter

Those words of endearment
vourneen Colleen."

66 Ma

I know we must part, but O, say not forever,

That it may be for years adds enough to my pain;

But I'll cling to the hope, that though now we must sever,

In some blessed hour I shall meet thee

again.

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:

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