20 Irische Lieder mit Begleitung von Pianoforte, Violine und Violoncello , opus WoO. 153

When eve's last rays in twilight die
And stars are seen along the sky,
On Liffy's banks I stray;
And there with fond I regret I gaze,
Where oft I've pass'd the fleeting days
With her that's far away.

When she would sing some lovely strain,
How sweet the echoes gave again
In fainter notes the lay;
Tho' mute the echoes of the grove,
In fancy still I hear my love.
Though now she's far away.

Her from the stream reflected clear,
And still it seem'd, when she was near,
To move with fond delay;
But though its wave no trace retains,
Her image in my heart remains,
Tho' now she's far away.

No riches from his scanty store
My lover could impart;
He gave a boon I valued more - 
He gave me all his heart!
His soul sincere, his gen'rous worth,
Might well this bosom move;
And when I ask'd for bliss on earth,
I only meant his love.

But now for me, in search of gain,
From shore to shore he flies:
Why wander, riches to obtain,
When love is all I prize!
The frugal meal, the lowly cot,
If blest my love with thee!
That simple fare, that humble lot,
Were more than wealth to me.

While he the dang'rous ocean braves,
My tears but vainly flow:
Is pity in the faithless waves
To which I pour my woe?
The night is dark, the waters deep;
Yes, soft the billows roll:
Alas! At every breeze I weep; - 
The storm is in my soul.

'Twas a Marechal of France, and he fain would honour gain,
And he long'd to take a passing glance at Portugal from Spain,
With his flying guns this gallant gay,
And boasted corps d'armée,
O he fear'd not our dragoons with their long swords boldly riding.
Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la,
And Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la.

To Campo Mayor come, he had quietly sat down,
Just a fricassee to pick, while his soldiers sack'd the town,
When 'twas peste! Morbleu! Mon General,
Hear th'English bugle call!
And behold the light dragoons with their long swords boldly riding.
Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la,
And Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la.

Three hundred British lads they made three thousand reel,
Their hearts were made of English Oak, their swords of Sheffield steel,
Their horses were in Yorkshire bred,
And Beresford them led;
So huzza for brave dragoons with their long swords boldly riding.
Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la,
And Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la.

There here's a health to Wellington, to Beresford, to Long,
And a single word of Bonaparte before I close my song:
The eagles that to fight he brings
Should serve his men with wings,
When they meet the brave dragoons with their long swords boldly riding.
Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la,
And Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la.

Since greybeards inform us that youth will decay,
And pleasure's soft transports glide swiftly away:
The song, and the dance, and the vine, and the fair,
Shall banish all sorrow and shield us from care.
Away with your proverbs, your morals, and rules,
Your proctors, and doctors, and pedants, and schools:
Let's seize the bright moments while yet in our prime,
And fast by the forelock catch old father Time.

Tho' spring's lovely blossoms delight us no more,
Tho' summer forsake us, and autumn be o'er;
To cheer us in winter, remembrance can bring
The pleasures of autumn, and summer, and spring:
So when fleeting seasons bring life's latest stage,
To speak of youth's frolic shall gladden our age:
Then seize the bright moments while yet in our prime,
And fast by the forelock catch old father Time.

I dream'd I lay where flow'rs were springing,
Gaily in the sunny beam;
Tho' to the wild birds singing,
By a falling crystal stream.
At once the sky grew black and daring,
While through the woods the whirlwinds rave, 
The trees with aged arms were warring,
Across the swelling drumlie wave.

Such was my life's deceitful morning,
Such the pleasures I enjoy'd;
But long ere noon loud tempest storming,
All my flow'ry bliss destroy'd.
Though fickle fortune has deceiv'd me,
Promised fair, and perform'd but ill,
Of many a joy and hope bereav'd me,
I bear a heart shall support me still.

Sad and luckless was the season,
When to court fair Ellen flew,
Flew from Love, and Peace, and Reason,
Worlds to see of promise new.
Back she comes - each grace is finer,
Ev'ry charm that crowds adore,
All the form divine, diviner -
But the heart is there no more.

Oh! 'tis gone, the temper even,
Careless nature, artless ease!
All that makes retirement heaven - 
Pleasing, without toil to please,
Hope no more, sweet lark, to cheer her,
Vain to her these echoing skies - 
Bloom non more, ye violets, near her,
Yours are charms she would not prize.

Ellen! Go where crowds admire thee,
Chariots rattle, torches blaze;
Here our dull content would tire thee,
Worthless be our village praise.
Go! Yet oh, that Thought's soft season
Ellen's heart might but restore!
Hard the task - whate'er the reason - 
Hard the task to love no more.

O soothe me, my lyre, with thy tones of soft sorrow,
O soothe thy sad mistress that sinks in decay,
Fainter today, to be fainter tomorrow,
I fade like the flow'r and am passing away.

Pale is my cheek, - it was fair as they told me - 
Who in the dance that but lately had been,
Who that had seen me, and now should behold me,
Would think me the Ellen that there he had seen?

Dear was the world - I had youth, I had beauty,
But 'tis not for life that I heave this sad sigh - 
Firm is my soul in its hope and its duty, - 
But oh! To be lov'd - then untimely to die.

 Farewell mirth and hilarity,
 Love has my heart in cruel subjection;
 Ah me! Norah in charity
 Spare a fond soul one throb of affection.
 Why, as I pass'd, did I gaze on her casement,
 Alas! With one look all my courage she shook!
 But while I linger'd in moonstruck amazement, 
 Not a smile all the while cheers recollection.

Refrain:
 Love, love, wins us by treachery,
 Yet leaves no choice but humble submission;
 What spell can conquer this witchery,
 Woman our bane's the only physician.

 Far, far hence tho' I fly from her,
 Where other shores are kiss'd by the ocean,
 Blest powers! Draw but one sigh from her,
 Let her not live thus dead to emotion.
 Yet I must steal one last glance ere I leave her,
 Perhaps in her heart she may grieve when we part;
 Hope, ah I dread thee, deluding deceiver,
 Fair thy cup turn'd up, bitter the potion.

(Refrain)

 Ah me! Had we the agency
 Of a kindhearted feat little fairy,
 Good bye then to the regency,
 Norah, the witch of Balamagairy!
 Looks she, or speaks she, the lads are all sighing,
 She scatters her spells, and then ev'ry heart swells;
 Not a young clown but is pining and dying,
 Ah! The fools, thus she rules Balamagairy.

(Refrain)

The kiss, dear maid, thy lip has left,
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love, may see;
The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast
Whose thoughts are all thine own.

 ... 

By day or night, in weal or woe,
This heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.

Oh! Thou hapless soldier,
Left unseen to moulder
Here on the lonely plain.
Far thy comrades flying,
Lost, abandon'd, dying
Here on the lonely plain.
Faint - and none to cheer thee,
Moaning - none to hear thee,
Dying - and none near thee
On this lonely plain.
No fond tears fall o'er thee,
No fond hearts deplore thee,
Here on the lonely plain.

Power! Ambition! Glory!
Read we then your story
Here on the lonely plain.
Some fond maid is sighing
For the hero lying
Here on the lonely plain.
Never, hapless soldier,
Fated to behold her,
Left unseen to moulder
On this lonely plain.
No fond tears fall o'er thee,
No fond hearts deplore thee,
Here on the lonely plain.

When far from the home of your youth we have rang'd,
How fondly we think of the days that are past;
Their image through changes is ever unchang'd,
Wherever our lot may be cast.
I muse on the features of those whom I lov'd;
The farewell of friendship I yet seem to hear:
The scenes I remember where oft I have rov'd,
The songs that delighted my ear.

In slumbers their music some vision recalls,
And oft I implore it a moment to stay;
But, ah! Soon the measure in soft cadence falls,
I wake, and the sound dies away.
How sad the reverse, - once I wept but in dreams,
The dawn then awoke me to hope and delight;
Now hope never comes with the morning's gay beams,
And joy is a phantom of night.

Oh1 Sleep, how enchanting the power of thy wand,
More swift are thy pinions than fancy e'er spread;
For back o'er the ocean of time they expand,
And bring us to scenes that are fled.
Tho' hope never comes with the morning's gay beams,
Tho' long o'er the desert of life I may roam,
Oh! Let thy soft magic still waft me in dreams
To all the lov'd scenes of my home.

I'll praise the saints with early song,
For now the wars are ended; 
I'll praise our Lady late and long,
That has my Love defended.
Yes, home is come my Patrick dear,
From me no more to sever;
And in his looks, I see it clear:
He loves me more than ever.

He sits our evening fire beside,
The cabin round surveying,
And looks with all a father's pride,
While near the child is playing.
Even me he turns to gaze upon,
As in my maiden beauty,
Before my bloom was worn and gone
By many a toilsome duty.

And, true - his cheek is sallow now,
That once was bright and ruddy;
A fearful scar is on his brow,
The mark of battle bloody.
And oft in sleep disturb'd he seems,
While o'er him I am bending;
He makes the cross while in his dreams,
As if for life contending.

But happier hours are coming fast,
Sir Phelim - angels bless him - 
Says Patrick Toole shall rest at last,
And nothing more distress him.
He grants a farm, with turf-ground near, 
He grants a lease for ever;
And heaven will bless, I need not fear,
The honest heart's endeavour.

'Tis sunshine at last, come, my Ellen, sit near me,
And twine me these roses, we sorrow no more;
Come taste of my cup, while it sparkles to cheer me,
The cup that I fill, now the tempest is o'er.
Oh! Not that my mirth, with unhallow'd intrusion,
Would thy gentle mind to rude transport beguile,
But catch from my bowl one fond passing illusion,
And crown my gay heart with thy sympathy's smile.

Come taste of my cup - for 'till Ellen shall share it,
In vain are the roses - in vain is the wine:
Past sorrow shall sweeten, and love shall prepare it,
For forms that are softer and finer like thine.
Bright beams a new world, and sweet visions break o'er us,
And as landscapes are fresher when past are the show'rs,
So richer the bliss and the gay  hopes before us - 
For where are the hearts that have sorrow'd like ours.

Oh! Ever, my love, must I think of that season,
When, friendless, we mingled our terrors and sighs;
And how had I failed, in the night of my reason,
Had comfort not beam'd from thine eloquent eyes.
Take the glass that I fill, take the homage I render:
No riot shall break the soft dreams of the soul;
Around us shall breathe an Elysium more tender,
And finer enchantment be waked from my bowl.

Paddy O'Rafferty, merry and vigorous,
Laugh'd at his lot, tho'  'twas somewhat too rigorous;
Poor was his prize from the wheel of life's lottery,
Turning the wheel in old Dennis Keogh's pottery.
Still he kept turning, and still the clay tapering,
Grew a black pot to hold ink for with paper in,
Sometimes a brown jar to hoard a small pension in,
Sometimes, faith, something not worth a word's mentioning.

Arrah, quoth Paddy, and so goes the round about,
So come those fortunes they make such a sound about,
Some in their save-alls their thousands are gathering,
Some from these ink-pots great families fathering.
So Mister Keogh I no longer will stay with ye,
Luck, whispers Paddy, take heart and away with ye,
Stout are your limbs, a good countenance carrying,
Why should not Paddy catch money by marrying?

Pat took the hint and gambol'd like a mountebank,
Small were his dealings with town or with county bank,
Short his accounts were, and no need of docqueting,
Light was his money-bag, easy in pocketing.
Up with his bundle, his trusty stick shouldering,
Set them, quoth Pat, stay at home and be mouldering;
But a smooth shilling I'd willingly now wager,
Paddy O'Rafferty hooks an old dowager.

'Tis but in vain, for nothing thrives,
Where Dermot has to do,
Ill-fortune seems, howe'er he strives,
His footsteps to pursue!
But one by one, when friends are gone,
Must I forsake him too.

O poverty! Full sure thou art
A foe the most unkind;
And weary, weary is the heart
That feels thee still behind.
But one by one, when friends are gone,
Must I forsake him too.

Next month he sails to find a home
Beyond the western tide;
And heav'n knows where he means to roam,
His houseless head to hide.
But one by one, when friends are gone,
Must I forsake him too.

Oh! Breathe it not thou passing wind,
I tell it thee alone,
My Dermot is not always, kind - 
He breaks my heart, I own,
But one by one, when friends are gone,
Must I forsake him too.

 O might I but my Patrick love!
 My mother scolds severely,
 And tells me I shall wretched prove,
 Because I love him dearly!
 In vain she rates me o'er and o'er
 With lessons cold and endless;
 It only makes me love him more,
 To find him poor and friendless.

Refrain:
 Oh! Patrick, fly from me,
 Or I am lost for ever -
 Oh! Fortune kinder be,
 Nor thus two Lovers sever.

 What bliss, to me my Patrick cries, 
 In splendour and in riches?
 He says, we love too little prize,
 That gold too much bewitches!
 More blest the lark, tho' hard its doom
 Whene'er the winter rages,
 Than birds, he says, of finer plume,
 That mope in gilded cages.

(Refrain)

 He tells me when the bosom's warm,
 We mock the storm that's blowing,
 That honest hearts can take no harm
 Tho' hard the world be going.
 He says - ah me! I'm sore afraid
 Lest I from duty falter;
 I wish he could as soon persuade
 The mother as the daughter.

(Refrain)

Come, Darby dear! Easy, be easy,
So be sure, and it may not well please ye;
But she's gone, as I said,
With young Pat to be wed,
And in vain will we fret,
'Till we're crazy.
And troth! He's proper fine creature,
Of mighty good figure and feature,
And our daughter Kitty,
Why she's young and pretty - 
O Darby dear! Is not nature?

They're tied before this, never fear them,
So love and good luck ever cheer them,
And faith in a crack
They'll be all coming back - 
By the virgin! - The Piper!
I hear them.
And it was, and it is always thus now,
So no longer be making a fuss now:
Cross words and uncivil
Och, pitch to the devil!
And give your old woman a buss now.

No more, my Mary, I sigh for splendour,
And riot's joys no longer prize:
On thee I muse in visions tender,
Or gaze on thy fond eyes.
Oh! Not the sages
With pedant pages,
'Tis thy soft smiles
Have made me wise.

For life's delusions of joy had left me;
With sated heart I turn'd to pine - 
A faded world I thought was left me,
Tho'all its pleasure mine.
O hours of folly!
Of melancholy!
How chang'd for bliss, - 
For love like thine.

Judy, lovely, matchless creature,
Beauty shines thro'  ev'ry feature,
Like yon light, the  pride of nature,
Thro' the morning dew.
Come, then, to your Patrick's dwelling,
All around the buds are swelling,
Ev'ry little linnet's telling,
'Tis the time to woo.

Dame o' Flyn, sweet Judy's mother,
Would you bid me passion smother!
Sure I'll speak as well's another
Tho' poor Pat O' Doyle.
Love within my breast is teazing,
Where I dumb  'twould be amazing;
Sooner, when the coals are blazing,
Bid your pot not boil.

Thy ship must sail, my Henry dear,
Fast comes the day, too soon, too sure;
And I, for one long tedious year,
Must learn thy absence to endure.
Come let me by my pencil's aid
Arrest thy image ere it flies;
And like the fond Corinthian maid,
Thus win from Art what Fate denies.

And I will hang with fondness warm
O'er all that there I pictur'd see;
To others but a mimic form, - 
But oh! My life, my love to me.
Or let me sing the song so dear,
The song that told thy bosom's fire,
When first, our favorite willows near,
I bade thee wake thy ready lyre.

Yes, o'er and o'er, I'll sing and play
The song beneath those willow trees,
When thou, alas! Art far away,
And nought but thoughts of thee can please.
Dear sister Arts! Of power divine,
To soothe the heart when cheerless found,
And near, with moonlight gleam to shine,
When all the world is darkness round.