Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,--
Or, if thy bard have shared the crown,
From thee the borrowed glory came,
And at thy feet is now laid down.
Enough, if Freedom still inspire
His latest song and still there be.
As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee.
[1] It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these
lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old
and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.
NATIONAL AIRS
ADVERTISEMENT.
It is Cicero, I believe, who says "_natura, ad modes ducimur;_" and the
abundance of wild, indigenous airs, which almost every country, except
England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The
lovers of this simple, but interesting kind of music, are here presented
with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions
will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of
those _half_ creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in
search of the remainder of themselves through the world. To supply this
other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies
which have hitherto had none,--or only such as are unintelligible to the
generality of their hearers,--it is the object and ambition of the present
work.
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