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TUNE.-Crusken Lhan.

You ask me then to sing; Come your wine and goblets bring, I've a toast that shall light up your


It is my country's name, With her proud and holy fame— Hear's to Erin of the Streams-then arise!-then arise !

Hear's to Erin of the Streams-then arise!

When last our proud flag rose,
To strike ruin on our foes,

'Midst the ranks of that foe did it fall. Next time our hands unfold This dear flag of green and gold, O'er a nation shall it wave-lov'd by all!-lov'd by all!

O'er a nation shall it wave-loved by all!

Then fill your goblets high, And drink your bumpers dry, Sure souls like our own shall be free!


Of love let others sing, Among us this toast shall ring— Here's to Erin of the Streams-drink with me-drink with me! Here's to Erin of the Streams-drink with me-drink with me!


THE savage loves his native shore, Tho' rude the soil and chill the air, Then well may Erin's sons adore

Their isle which nature formed so fair. What flood reflects a show so sweet,

As Shannon's great or pastoral band, Or who a friend or foe can meet, So gen'rous as an Irishman?

Tho, his hand be rash, his heart is warm
And principle is still his guide,
None more regrets a deed of harm,
None more forgives with nobler pride;
He may be duped, but won't be dared;
But fit to practice and to plan,
He ably earns his poor reward,

And spends it like an Irishman.
If poor in weal, he'll for you pay,
And guile you where you safe may be;

If you're his comrade, whilst you stay,
His cottage holds a jubilee;
His inmost soul he will unlock,

And if he may your merits scan, Your confidence he scorns to mock, For faithful is an Irishman.

By honour bound in wo or weal,

Whate'er she bids he dares to do, Try him with gold, it won't prevail, But e'en in fire you'll find him true;

He seeks not safety-let his post
Be where there's aught in danger's


Or if the field of fame be lost
It won't be by an Irishman.

Erin's lov'd land, from
Be thou more great, more fam'd and

age to age,


May peace be yours, or should you


Defensive wars, cheap victory, May plenty flow in every field, And gentle breezes sweely fan, May cheerful smiles serenely glide, In the breast of every Irishman.


AIR.-Meeting of the waters.

LET me go to my home that is far dis

tant west,

of my youth that I like

Where the tall cedars are and the bright waters flow,

To the scenes the best,

Where my parents will greet me: white man, let me go!

Let me go to the spot where the cataract plays,

Where oft I have sported in my boyish.


There is my poor mother, whose heart will o'erflow

At the sight of her child: O, there let me go!

Let me go to the hills and the valleys so fair,

Where oft I have breathed my own mountain air,

And there through the forest with quiver and bow

I have chased the wild dear: O there let me go


Let me go to my father, by whose valiant side,

I have sported so oft in the height of my pride,

And exulted to conquer the insolent foe,

To my father, that chieftain: 0 there let me go!

And O let me go to my dark-eyed maid,

Who taught me love beneath the willow shade,

Whose heart's like the fawn's, as pure as the snow,

And she loves her dear Indian: to her let me go!

And O let me go to my fair forest home,

And never again will I wish to roam, And there let my body in ashes lie low ; To that scene in the forest, white man,

let me go!

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