Oh! go to sleep, my baby dear, And I will hold thee on my knee; Thy mother's in her winding sheet, And thou art all that's left to me. My hairs are white with grief and age, I've borne the weight of every ill, And I would lay me with my child, But thou art left to love me still. Should thy false father see thy face, The tears would fill his cruel e'e, But he has scorned thy mother's wo, And he shall never look on thee: But I will rear thee up alone, And with me thou shalt aye remain; For thou wilt have thy mother's smile, And I shall see my child again. SONG. Oh the tear is in my eye, and my heart it is breaking, Thou hast fled from me, Connor, and left me forsaken; Bright and warm was our morning, but soon has it faded, For I gave thee a true heart, and thou hast betrayed it. Thy footsteps I followed in darkness and danger, From the home of my love to the land of the stranger; Thou wert mine through the tempest, the blight, and the burning; Could I think thou wouldst change when the morn was returning. Yet peace to thy heart, though from mine it must sever, May she love thee as I loved, alone and for ever; I may weep for thy loss, but my faith is unshaken, And the heart thou hast widowed will bless thee in breaking. WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. Grant me, I cried, some spell of art, To turn with all a lover's care, That spotless page, my Eva's heart, And write my burning wishes there. But Love, by faithless Laia taught How frail is woman's holiest vow, Look'd down, while grace attempered thought Sate serious on his baby brow. "Go! blot her album," cried the sage, "There none but bards a place may claim; But woman's heart's a worthless page, Where every fool may write his name." Until by time or fate decayed, That line and leaf shall never part; Ah! who can tell how soon shall fade The lines of love from woman's heart. LINES TO A LADY, ON HEARING HER SING "CUSHLAMACHREE." Yes! heaven protect thee, thou gem of the ocean; Dear land of my sires, though distant thy shores; Ere my heart cease to love thee, its latest emotion, The last dying throbs of its pulse must be o'er. And dark were the bosom, and cold and unfeeling, That tamely could listen unmoved at the call, When woman, the warm soul of melody stealing, Laments for her country and sighs o'er its fall. Sing on, gentle warbler, the tear-drop appearing Shall fall for the woes of the queen of the sea; And the spirit that breathes in the harp of green Erin, Descending, shall hail thee her "Cushlamachree." LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING NEW ROCHELLE. Whene'er thy wandering footstep bends Its pathway to the Hermit tree, Among its cordial band of friends, Sweet Mary! wilt thou number me? Though all too few the hours have roll'd That saw the stranger linger here, In memory's volume let them hold One little spot to friendship dear.