DICK «fc FITZGERALD’S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. Arts of Beauty ; or, Secret3 of a Lady's Toilet. With Hints to Gen- tlemen on the Art of Fascinating. By Madame Lola Montez, Coun- tess of Landsfeidt. Cloth, gilt side, price - - - $0 50 This book contains an account, in detail of all the arts employed by the fashionable ladies of all the chief cities of Europe, for the purpose of develop- ing and preserving their charms. In- dependent of its rare and really useful matter, the book is a curiosity as a piece of art, itself, for the most deli- cate subjects are handled with a skill, and an unexceptionable propriety of language, which is really surprising. This work is also full of the curious and useful recipes used by the beauties of Europe, and will enable our Ladies to supplytheir toilets, at a trifling cost, with what cannot be purchased at the perfumer’s at any cost. The Family Aquarium. A New pleasure For the Domestic Circle. Being a familiar and complete in- structor upon the subject of the con- struction, fitting, up, stocking, and maintenance of the Marine and Fresh Water Aquaria, or River and Ocean Gardens. By H. D. Butler, Esq. 12mo., cloth, gilt side stamp, price 50 This work ia a complete adaptation to American peculiarities of every spe- cies of useful information upon Marine and Fresh Water Aquariums, to be met with in the elaborate volumes of European authority ; together with a careful concentration of all the practi- cal results of the author’s great expe- rience in the structure and manage- ment of Aquaria. Ladies’ Guide to Crochet. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. Copiously illus- trated with original, and very choice designs in Crochet, etc., printed in colors, separate from the letter press, on tinted paper. Also with numer- ous wood cuts printed with the let- ter press, explanatory of terms, etc. Oblong, pp. 117, beautifully bound in extra cloth, gilt, - - price 1 80 This is by far the best work on the subject of Crochet yet published. — There are plonty of other books con- taining Crochet patterns, but the diffi culty is, they do not have the neces sary instructions how to work them, and are, therefore, useless. This work, however, supplies this much felt and glaring deficiency, and has the terras in Crochet so clearly explained that any Crochet pattern, however difficult, may be worked with ease. The Ladies’ Guide to Beauty. A Companion for the Toilet. Contain- ing practical advice on improving the complexion, the hair, the hands, the form, tb> teeth, the eyes, the feet, the features, so as to insure the highest degree oi perfection oi which they are susceptible. And also up- wards of one hundred recipes for various cosmetics, oils, pomades, etc., etc., being a result of a combi- nation of practical and scientific skill. By Sir James Clark, Private Physician to Queen Victoria. Re- vised and edited by an American Physician and Chemist. Paper, price 25 Humorous Books. The Harp of a Thousand Strings ; or, Laughter for a Life- Time. Large 12mo,, cloth, gilt side and back stamp, nearly 400 pages, illustrated with 200 comic engravings, price $1 25 And being a large collection of Hu- morous Stories, Funny Poetry, etc., etc., konceived, kompiled, and komi- cally konkokted, by Spavery, aided, added, and abetted by over 200 kurious Kuts, from original designs karefully drawn out by McLenan, Hoppin, Dar- ley, Hennessey, Bellew, Gunn, How- ard, &c., to say nothing of Leach, Phiz, Doyle, Cruikshank, Meadows, Hine, and others. Mrs. Partington’s Carpet-Bag of Fun. Illustrated with over 150 of the most laughable engravings ever designed, from drawings by Darley, McLennan, Leach, Phiz, Henning, Hine, Tenniel,Crowquill, Cruikshank, Meadows, Doyle, Goderand others, and a collection of over 1000 of the most comical stories, amusing ad- ventures, side-splitting jokes, cheek- extending poetry, funny conun- drums, QUEER SAYINGS of MRS. PARTINGTON, heart-rending puns, witty repartees, etc., etc. The whole illustrated by about 150 comio wood-cuts. 12mo., 300 pages, cloth, gilt, with tinted frontispiece by Darley, - - - price 1 00 Ornamented paper cover, - price 60 This entertaining book is well print- ed on fine white paper, and contains 300 pages, with tinted frontispiece by Darley. Over 20,000 copies of this work liave already been sold. Any Book on this List will be sent to any address in the United States or Canada, Free of Postage. Send Cash Orders to DICE & FITZGERALD, 18 Ann St., N. Y. DICK «fc FITZGERALD’S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. Dashes of American Humor. With numerous laughable illustrations, on tinted paper, from designs from John Leach, 320 pages, paper cover, $0 Cloth, gilt, ... price 1 This work contains in its 320 pages, some thirty of the most amusing arti- cles wo have ever perused, redolent with not only humor, hut with wisdom and pathos; the happiest days and most innocent recreations ofour youth are here recalled. Dr. Valentine’s Comic Lectures. A Budget of Wit and Humor; or. Morsels of Mirth for the Melancholy. A r-.-rtain cure 1* »r the Blues, and all otherserious complaints. Compris- ing Comic Lectures on Heads, Faces, Noses, Mouths, Animal Magnetism, etc., with Specimens of Eloquence, Transactions of Learned Societies, Delineations of Eccentric Charac- ters. Comic Songs, etc., etc. B y Dr. W. V ai.kntine, the favorite delinea- tor of Eccentric Characters. Illus- trated with twelvo portraits of Dr. Valentino in his most celebrated characters. 12mo., Cloth, gilt 1 Ornamented paper cover - price Dr. Valentine’s Comic Metamor- phoses. Being the second series of Dr. Vnlentine’s Lectures, with char- acters as given by the lato Yankco Hill. Embellished with numerous portraits. Ornnincntal Paper Cover Cloth, gilt - 50 ful love adventures with Fanny Elss- ler and Miss Gambol. Illustrated with 200 comic engravings - price $0 2b 00 : The Extraordinary and Mirth- Provoking Adventures by Sea and Land, of Oscar Shanghai. Illus- trated by nearly 200 comic engrav- ings - - - - price 25 All told in a series of nearly two hundred of the most risible, quizzible, provoking, peculiar, saucy and spicy cuts ever gathered within tho leaves of any one book. All fond of a hearty laugh, here is amusement for raauy % merrv hour. Charley White’s Ethiopian Joke Book. Being a perfect Casket of Fun, the first and only work of the kind ever published. Containing a full expose of all the most laughable Jokes, Stories, Witticisms, Ac., ns told by tho celebrated Ethiopian Comedian, Charles White. 18mo., M pages - - - price 12 oo Black Wit and Darkey Conversa- r _ ! tions. By Charles White. Contain- 00 ing a lnri;<‘ oolleotion <>l Laughable Anecdotes, Jokes. Stories, Witti- cisms, and Darkey Conversations. I 18ino., - price 12,Jj 50 price 1 00 Laughable Adventures of Messrs. Brotm , Jones and Robinson, show- ing where they went, nnd how they went ; what they did, nnd how they did it. With nearly 200 most thrill- ingly comic engravings. - price Laughing Gas. An Encyclopedia of Wit, Wisdom nnd Wind. By Sam Slick, Jr. Comically illustrated with 100 original nnd lnughablo en- gravings, and near 500 side-extend- ing jokes, nnd other things to get fat on ; and tho best of it is, that everything about the book is new nnd fresh — all new; new designs, new stories, new type— no comic al- manac stuff. It will be found a complete antidote to “hard times.” price Tho Courtship of Chevalier Sly- Fox- Wikoff. \ showing his heart-rend- ing. astounding, and most wondcr- Chips from Uncle Sam’s Jack Knife. Illustrated with over one hundred Comical Engravings, and comprising a collection of over 500 Laughable Stories, Funny Adven- tures, Comic Poetry, Queer Conun- drums, Tonific Puns, Witty Sayings, Sublime Jokes and Sentimental Sen- tences. The whole being a most perfect portfolio for those who love to laugh. Large Octavo - price 25 The Comical Adventures of David DuJJicks. Illustrated with over 100 Funny engravings. Largo Octavo, price - - - - - - 25 Yale College Scrapes ; or How the Boys Go It at New Haven. - price This is a book of 114 pages, contain- ing accounts of all the noted nnd fa- mous “Scrapes” and “Sprees,” of which students at Old Yale have been guilty for the last quarter of a century. The Comic Wandering Jew. Full of Fun and containing 100 Humor- I ous engravings - 25 price 25 BrF* Any Book on this List will bo sent to any address in the United States or Canada, Free qf Postage. Send Cash Orders to DICft & FITZGERALD, 18 Ann St., N. Y. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 https://archive.org/details/songsofirelandcoOOIove THE SONGS OF IRELAND CONTAINING SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS; CONVIVIAL, COMIC, MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, SATIRICAL, PATRIOTIC, HISTORICAL, MILITARY, POLITICAL, AND MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. EDITED AND ANNOTATED BY SAMUEL LOVER,^ AUTHOR OP “HANDY ANDY,” “RORY O’MORE,” “ LEGENDS AND STORIES OP IRELAND,” ETC. PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED WITH ENGRAVINGS DESIGNED BY PHIZ AND IIARERISON WEIR, AND ENGRAVED BY DALZIEL. NEW YORK : DICK & FIZGERALD, PUBLISHERS, 18 ANN STREET. BOSTON COLLEGE LIBRARY CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. ri\ f 57(4 . R & b PREFACE. A general collection of Irish Lyrics, carefully selected, affording the best specimens of various authors, and in various styles, has been a long-existing want in the library, and that it has been so, is presumptive evidence cf the task of producing such a work being difficult. I felt this when first invited to become Editor of such a collection, and it was only repeated requests, after some lapse of time, and arguments which my love of country could not resist, that overcame my reluctance to engage in editorial duty — a duty quite new to me — and if I have failed in it, I can plead in extenuation that I did not rush into the difficulty pre- sumptuously ; and I can add, with equal truth, that having un- dertaken what the judgment of others entrusted me with, I have made every endeavour to discharge the onerous duties of my post becomingly. Having said thus much in mitigation of any editorial errors whereof I may be guilty, I will offer a few re- marks upon the subject-matter of this book. Two volumes of national songs have, at short intervals, pre- ceded this — a book of English and a book of Scotch songs, and with these this volume must come into immediate comparison. That comparison, I think, must prove singularly honourable to Ireland, if the disadvantageous circumstances be considered under which she appears in literary competition with the other portions of the united kingdom: — to those whose judgment may not award her a high place, the consideration I solicit will afford sufficient cause for the supposed inferiority, while, if the % iv PREFACE. judgment be on the other hand, it will conduce the more to her honour. I will ask it, then, to be remembered, going no further back than the time of Elizabeth, that England, in the fulness of prosperity, had her Shakspeare, Spenser, Sidney, Bacon, and many others, great in letters ; while in Ireland, at the same time, the English language was a stranger-tongue outside the pale, the country yet unconquered, and undergoing the horrors of war. At this very period, Spenser, an eye-witness of those horrors, deprecating the charge of inefficiency made against the English clergy in Ireland, uses these memorable words — “It is ill time to preach among swords .” If it was an ill time to preach, it was also an ill time for literary culture, and a sufficient reason why Ireland cannot be expected to com- pete with England in literary honours. So far from expecting this, we may rather wonder that Ireland, in an interim far from peaceful, should have done so much, more particularly in a language which she had yet to learn. With respect to Scotland, her literature, in general, has done her the highest honour; as for her songs, a large amount are of the first mark ; but Scotland has been more favourably cir- cumstanced for literary pursuits than Ireland. She has not suffered the' penalties of political strife so heavily, nor so recently ; she has not been shaken by internal convulsion for the last century ; while in Ireland, within about half the period, raged a rebellion that drenched her in blood, since which she has had many a political throe : in fact, it is not quite thirty years since that large question, Catholic Emancipation, which kept her so long disturbed, was settled. Such a state of things made fiery orators, and produced the fierce outpouring of political invective in prose and verse, mingled with the wild wail of national grief, or the sudden burst of pent-up gall that sense of wrong and hope deferred engender; but, for the sweeter flowers of poesy, there was small chance of their spring- TREFACE. V ing in so uncongenial a soil ; and even in the vindicative verse of that time of strife there was not much merit ; the shafts that flew fast and thick, from both sides, were unpolished : — hut that mattered not; — they were meant less to dazzle than to wound. It was not until 1807 that the lyric muse of Ireland might spread her wing in a somewhat calmer atmosphere ; and sing of gentler themes ; and then appeared that work, not only the crowning wreath of its author, but among the glories of the land that gave him birth — I need scarcely say I mean “ Moore’s Irish Melodies.’’ To the finest national music in the world he wrote the finest lyrics ; and if Ireland never produced, nor should ever produce, another lyric poet, sufficient for her glory is the name of Thomas Moore. Why, then, fear to meet any poetic rivals in the field ? Why the deprecatory tone in which I commence my preface ? Be- cause the songs of Moore are not at my command. If they were, such a book of the collected lyrics of Ireland might be made as could scarcely be matched, — certainly not excelled, — but the strictness with which the proprietors of Moore’s works guard the copyright — a strictness that cannot in the least be blamed however much it may be lamented in the present case — forbids me the use of those exquisite lyrics ; and yet, even without these, I hope this volume will be considered honourable to the lyric genius of Ireland. How much would not a collec- tion of Scottish Songs suffer, wanting the lays of Burns : what, then, must not an Irish collection lose in wanting Moore’s ? Ireland thus competes with England and Scotland at the greatest disadvantage : — her battle is like that of the Greeks without Achilles. As to the arrangement of the following collection, I felt bound to follow that of the two preceding volumes in the series, which classes the songs under different heads, and this created VI PREFACE. a difficulty in my editorial task, though no such difficulty existed in compiling the former volumes, with ample stores to select from ; but even this difficulty in my “ labour of love’ 1 — (for such the editing of this book became, after my being some time engaged in it) — had its reward; for, in distributing the contents into sections, I found a remarkable and rather interest- ing coincidence between the Scottish Songs and the Irish, in three particulars, — namely : that while in the Book of English Songs there are distinct sections for pastoral and rural, sea, and sporting songs, there are no such sections in the Book of Scottish Songs; nor in this did such a section become necessary. So remarkable a coincidence suggested some mental inquiry as to the cause ; for, Scotland and Ireland being both pastoral coun- tries, why this absence of pastoral songs ? I then found that many of the pastoral songs of England arose out of a fashion that sprung up, at one period in that country, in Literature and in the Fine Arts, to affect the rural ; — when city gallants made love under the name of Corydon and Amintor to their Sylvias and Daphnes ; kings and queens were represented on canvass as Endymions and Dianas; while dukes and duchesses took the humbler forms of shepherds and shepherdesses. This was unreal ruralism, whereas the pastoral feeling of both Scotland and Ireland was genuine, and is manifested not ostentatiously, but accidentally and naturally, as may befit or illustrate the subject of the lyric ; and, as regards the Songs of Ire- land, it may be observed that mere allusion is often made to pastoral pursuits ; and that images derived from nature are more frequent in the songs translated from the native tongue. Why Sporting Songs do not so much abound in Scottish and Irish composition was not so easily accounted for, as the Celts of old passionately loved the chase — a love as passionately inherited by their descendants ; and yet we do not find the PREFACE. vii chase specially treated as a theme by the Celtic lyrist. Like the pastoral lays before alluded to, songs of the chase have been cultivated, in England, as a peculiar style of composition, while in the lyrics of Scotland and Ireland the love of the chase only appears incidentally. Again, I asked myself, “ why is this ?” And memory gave me the answer, by calling up before me that charming scene in the Lady of the Lake, where Douglas, on meeting his daughter, who had been anxiously awaiting his return, accounts for his absence by saying — “ My child, the chase I follow’d far; — ’Tis mimicry of noble war.” And this, I think, is the answer to the question. The Celt looked upon the chase as but the mimicry of war — and as he had the real article but too often on his hands, he did not care much about the bardic celebration of the mimicry. With respect to Sea-Songs, the solution is sufficiently easy. That England, the Mistress of the Seas, should be great in maritime ode and song — that she should revel, as it were, in such a subject, and leave little to be done by any other portion of the united kingdom, is quite natural. But though the bulk of English maritime lyrics has proceeded from English pens, the few that have been produced by Scotch and Irish are of the highest class. It will scarcely be questioned that Scotland may claim the first place, in right of Campbell’s “ Battle of the Baltic,” and “Ye Mariners of England,” and though “Rule Britannia” is not a sea-song, it is worthy of remark that this finest and most exultant national ode of Britain is by a Scotch- man. Ireland contributes to the lyric celebration of England’s naval glory in the music of “The Arethusa;” that noble air, by Carolan, being very shabbily purloined by W. Shield. “ The Mid Watch,” by Sheridan, is of the first mark ; Cherry’s “Bay of Biscay, 0!” achieved great popularity; “The Boat- man’s Hymn” (a translation from the Irish) is full of spirit and Till PEEFACE. originality ; and last, and greatest, is “ The Forging of the Anchor,” by Mr. Samuel Ferguson; an ode of surpassing power and beauty. Under the head of Patriotic and Military Songs, the three books are pretty equal in quantity ; in quality I think Ireland has rather the advantage. The class entitled Jacobite Songs, in the Scottish collection, has its counterpart in this, under the head of Historical and Political Songs ; and this section might have been much larger, but that the nature of the subject ren- dered the most condensed form the best. Some would, perhaps, say, “ Why introduce such songs at all ?” But I think, in a book purporting to be a comprehensive national collection of lyrics, exemplifying national character and incident, such a sec- tion could not be omitted. Such songs, odes, and ballads are historically interesting ; the specimens are not confined to the lyric effusions of one party ; those of both are given, arranged in succession, according to their date — or, at least, according to the succession of the times they illustrate. The editorial notice given to some of these may appear long, at first sight, but the notes are no longer than is necessary for the perfect under- standing of the text. I considered it a duty to insert in this volume many songs that have appeared in English collections from the pens of Irish writers. After having stated the unfavourable nature of our start in the race of literature, we cannot afford to have some favourites “scratched” out of our list. The works of Gold- smith, Sheridan, O’Keefe, Cherry (and not unfrequently Moore), have been placed to the credit side of the account of England’s lyric literature. This is a mistake which should be rectified. The lyric works of all who are Irish should appear in a book of Irish Songs ; and I am supported in this opinion by the pre- cedent afforded me in the Book of Scottish Songs, where numerous lyrics are given without any distinctive Scotticism to PREFACE. IX mark their nationality, but merely because they are the works of Scottish writers. It is not requisite that the Shannon, or the Liffey, or some other topographical mark, or Hibernian epithet or idiom, should appear in a song to give Ireland a right to claim it. Human affections, passions, sentiments, are expressed in Ireland without allusion to the Shamrock, or an appeal to St. Patrick ; why then should some national emblem or idiom be insisted upon to constitute a right in Ireland to claim some admirable production of the lyric muse to add to her garland ? No one would venture to dispute that Moore’s songs, “ The Meeting of the Waters,” “The Last Rose of Summer,” and scores of ethers, stand to the credit of Irish literature, though there is not one word in any of them to identify them as Hibernian. In this collection, the very first song is that of a lady of the illustrious race of Sheridan — “ Terence’s Fare- well,” by Lady Dufferin ; — that song describes the parting of an Irishman from his sweetheart. No one will dispute that Ireland fairly lays claim to literary honour in that song. Well, close beside this is a lyric by that lady’s sister — the exquisite song, “Love Not,” by the Honourable Mrs. Norton. Who can say that Ireland is not as well entitled to the honour of that ? What nicety of argument can divide her claim between two sisters ? If the genius of the one do her honour, she is equally entitled to honour from the genius of the other. Some few songs are given whose authors are not Irish ; but the lyrics being thoroughly Hibernian in subject, cannot be omitted here. Such songs, however, are few — indeed, there are but two of any celebrity, and they arc adapted to Irish music : Colman’s “ Savourneen Deelish,” and Campbell’s far- famed lyric, “ The Exile of Erin.” Numberless songs of a comic character have been written by stranger-hands which have not been inserted, utterly deficient as they are in true 1 * X PREFACE, Irish character. Indeed, our native comic song writers, at one period, were too prone to compose their songs on this foreign, false, and exaggerated model, copying all the gross absurdities that were once supposed to constitute an Irish comic song ; among the fancied characteristics of this class were expletive oaths, “ Whack fol de rols,” — “ hurroos,” pigs, pratees, brogues, shillelahs, jewels, and joys; and coarseness and vulgarity were the offensive substitutes for wit. Happily those songs, too long a disgrace to the literature of Ireland, are being banished by degrees from our literary currency, to give place to others bearing the true stamp of nationality. Nevertheless, some few will be found among the comic songs in this collection not quite free from alloy, but the greater num- ber are of pure metal ; and where they are not so, their presence here has been deemed indispensable, from their having been very popular. And yet some, of great popularity, I have omitted; for example, “O’Rourke’s Noble Feast,” a para- phrase from the Irish by Dean Swift, which Sir Walter Scott mentions in his edition of the works of the Dean with great praise, but which I think long, even to tediousness, and, what is worse, very coarse, in parts, and its absence, therefore, need not be regretted by any person of refinement. There is another of great celebrity, called “ The Night before Larry was Stretched,” which has been attributed to a clergyman, whose name I forbear to mention ; but any one who values the character of a churchman will hope a churchman never wrote it. As the work of a divine (if it be so), it may be looked upon as a literary curiosity ; but the hanging of a felon who plays cards on his coffin before his execution, described in barbarous slang, is, in my opinion, far more disgusting than comic, and therefore it has not been admitted. Respecting the notes that are scattered through this volume, I am under some apprehension that a desire to make them more TEEFACE. xi interesting than notes, under similar circumstances, generally are, may have rendered them sometimes diffuse, but, I trust, not tiresome. Giving the mere date of a song, or the birth and death of its author, is but dry information, partaking too much of the parish register ; and I had rather be gossiping than dull ; besides, as a collection of lyrics may be considered as contri- buting to the lighter pleasures of literature — looked into rather for relaxation than study, — a severe, or sober tone of annotation, if not out of place, may at least be dispensed with, except in some rare cases ; and, therefore, I have indulged in an occa- sional pleasantry of tone in my annotations, rather unusual, I believe, but 1 hope not unbecoming ’ or misplaced ; and wherever a point was worthy of serious explanation, I trust I may be found to have taken pains to be accurate. In the course of this work I have had occasion to notice certain trespasses committed by Scottish publishers, not only on the music, but the words of Irish songs. The complaint, as far as the music goes, has been often made before ; Moore, for instance, in the third number of the “ Irish Melodies,” says, “ The Scotch lay claim to some of our best airs, but there are strong traits of difference between their melodies and ours. They had formerly the same passion for robbing us of our Saints ; and the learned Dempster was, for this offence, called ‘ The Saint Stealer.’ ” But so far from remonstrance producing any beneficial result, the publishers and editors of recent days transgress still more than their antecessors. I wish it to be noticed that it is of Scottish publishers and editors I complain, rather than of the Scottish people ; for it is only natural that any people will be prone to believe that a beautiful melody had its birth among them, if editors and publishers will go on telling them so. What makes this more inexcusable is, that Scotland has enough of beautiful songs of her own without wronging other lands by appropriating theirs ; and having already in this Xll PREFACE. preface paid the tribute of my highest admiration to the lyric genius of Scotland, I feel myself the more free to expose any false claims of hers on this subject, and in doing so I have been most scrupulous that the proofs I advance should be irrefragable. In conclusion, I would say that I have endeavoured to make this collection, both in text and annotation, as national as possible. Now, I think the true meaning of the word “national” has, of late, been sometimes misunderstood in Ireland. The word has sometimes been used there in a sense which seems to me rather sectional than national. Several volumes of Irish Songs have been published in Ireland, of late years, far from being general in their character ; they tend rather to minister to the predilections of a portion of Ireland than to enlist the sympathies of all. The introductions to those volumes, and many of their notes, savour so much of the partisan as to limit their circulation — to isolate Ireland, rather than introduce her to an enlarged community of social sympathy. The use of the Celtic alphabetical character mingled in the text with the Homan letter, which has been adopted in some of these volumes, as it embarrasses the English reader, I think a mistake tending to that isolation which I lament, and, therefore, the Celtic alphabetical character has been avoided in this volume. There can be no objection to give an original Irish poem in the old Celtic character, and the translation opposite, or following — as in “ Hardiman’s Minstrelsy — but to give every Irish name and Irish word in the Celtic character, mixed with the Iloman letter, seems to me a mere literary foppery. While I say this, I beg at the same time to disclaim the smallest disrespect to Irish scholarship. All honour to the translators of Irish works ; be it to those who live, or to the memories of those who have passed away: — all honour to them, I say ! I honour them as the emancipators of their country’s PREFACE. Xlll literature from the “ chain of silence,” that that literature might be free to go abroad into the world and raise friends to the land of its birth, by touching the chords of human sym pathy: — and, in the spirit of thorough emancipation, I say, let no particle of the fetter from which it has been freed obstruct its way to the English reader. But, while I express my deepest respect for Irish scholar- ship, I beg to say that a man may have a sincere love of Ire- land, and employ his pen effectively in her cause, without that accomplishment. It is not an ancient alphabetic character ostentatiously appended to a very green ribbon that constitutes the highest Irish “ order of merit the “ trappings and the suits” of patriotism are as little to be depended upon as those of “ woe.” And sure am I that the springs from which the purest love of country flows must be sought for in nobler sources than a fount of Celtic type. SAMUEL LOVER. Barges, London , January , 1860. P. S. I beg to return thanks to all friends who afforded me assistance in the compilation of the following pages, either in granting me permission to use their works, or in forwarding to me, from distant places, extracts from records I pointed out. To name them all is needless, but I must ^particularize one, W. Chappell, Esq., F.S.A., who, from his extensive knowledge in ballad literature, was enabled to offer me some useful sug- gestions, and to him I am indebted for pointing out Duffett’s song, “ Since Ccelia’s my Foe,”* which clears up, definitively, a disputed musical claim between Ireland and Scotland. * Page 38. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTIONS TO Page Songs of the Affections 1 Convivial and Comic Songs 75 Moral, Sentimental, and Satirical Songs 153 Patriotic and Military Songs 197 Historical and Political Songs 235 Miscellaneous Songs •. 305 SONGS AND ODES. A Bumper of Good Liquor Rt. Hon. R. R. Sheridan Ah, Cruel Maid Rt. Hon. R. R. Sheridan Ailleen John Ranim Alas ! thou hast no Wings, Oh ! Time Rt. Hon. R. R. Sheridan Annie, Dear Thomas Davis A place in thy Memory, Dearest Gerald Griffin A Prospect Edward Lysaght A Sigh for Knockmany William Carleton .... A Soldier to-night is our Guest Gerald Griffin As panting flies the hunted Hind Oliver Goldsmith .... A Spinning-Wheel Song J. F. Waller , LL.D. . . A Sup of Good Whiskey Avondhu Callanan 88 34 35 179 22 13 298 232 226 163 311 143 231 Bad Luck to this Marching Charles Lever Banish Sorrow Right Hon. Geo. Ogle.. Barney Brallaghan’s Courtship Beauty and Time Samuel Lover 206 123 117 191 CONTENTS. XV ’Be H-Eirinn I Boatman’s Hymn Bridget Cruise Bridget Cruise to Carolan Bumper, Squire Jones . . By Coelia’s Arbour Pago ( From the Irish) 21 ( From the Irish) 321 Carolan 46 ( From the Irish) 48 Baron Dawson 114 Hi. Hon. R. B. Sheridan 54 Caitrin, the Daughter of John Can I again that Look recall ? Cate of Araglen Cease, oh, cease to tempt .... Come, all you pale Lovers .... Cormac Oge Could I her Faults remember Coulin cPCorinna Cruiskin Lawn Cupid’s Wing Cushla ma Chree Cuslila ma Gliree Moore Domhnal Gleannach . . Moore Thomas Duffett Rt. Hon. R. B. Sheridan Caroll Malone Dean Swift Samuel Lover {From the Irish) Rt. Hon. J. B. Curran . 330 23 69 27 41 172 157 239 191 131 178 50 223 Dance light, for my Heart it lies under \ _ J* * \ J.F. Waller , LL.D. . . your Feet, Love J Dark Rosaleen {From the Irish) Dear Land Deirdre {From the Irish) Deirdre’s Lament for the Sons of Usnach . . {From the Irish) Deserter’s Meditation Drimmin Dhu {Irish Jacobite Relic) . .. Dry be that Tear Rt. Hon. R. B. Sheridan 187 245 301 342 344 326 256 Eileen Aroon Gerald Griffin O Epigram — As Thomas was cudgelled Dean Swift ^Epigram on the Busts in Richmond Her- ) .. > Dean Swift nntage J Epitaph on Dr. Parnell Oliver Goldsmith .... Epitaph on Edward Purdon. . .. .* Oliver Goldsmith .. .. Cl ICO 189 160 187 XV i CONTENTS. Fair-hill’ d, pleasant Ireland Farewell Farewell, Bessy Forgive, but don’t forget For I am Desolate Fragment from the Irish Fragment from the Greek !" From that cold Sod that’s o’er you Page ( From the Irish) 209 Callanan 56 Thomas Moore 9 Samuel Lover 17 Gerald Griffin 320 John Dalton (Trans.) . . 51 Thomas Moore (Trans.) 51 (From the Irish ) 29 .Garry o wen Gille ma Chree Glenfinnishk Go, Forget me Gougaune Barra Grace Nugent Grainne Maol and Queen Elizabeth Green were the Fields Gerald Griffin Joseph O’Leary Rev. Charles Wolfe. . . . Callanan Carolan (From the Irish) G. N. Reynolds 122 28 318 12 167 316 247 288 Had I a Heart for Falsehood framed Rt. Hon. It. R. Sheridan 46 Had I the Tun which Bacchus used R. A. Milliken 112 Hark! hark! the soft Bugle Gerald GriJJin 184 Harry’s Sword 295 He was famed for Deeds of Arms Andrew Cherry 341 Hope Oliver Goldsmith .... 174 Hours like those I spent with you Callanan 19 How oft, Louisa Rt. Hon. R. R. Sheridan 37 Hy-Brasail — the Isle of the Blest Gerald Griffin 165 I love my Love in the Morning Gerald Griffin. . I’m a ranting, roving Blade Samuel Lover . . I ne’er could any Lustre see Sheridan Inspiring Fount of cheering Wine (From the Irish) It’s little for Glory I care Charles Lever . . I was the Boy for bewitching them I wish I might a Rose-bud grow Moore 16 128 63 100 131 145 51 John O’Dwyer of the Glen (From the Irish) 241 CONTENTS Xvii Page Joys that pass away Moore 34 Kate of Garna villa Edward Lysaght Kate (Cate) of Arraglen Lomhnall Gleannach . . Katlialeen Ny-Houlahan ( Irish Jacobite Relic) . . Kathleen O’More Geo. Nugent Reynolds.. Katty Mooney King James’s Welcome to Ireland Know ye not that lovely Biver ? Gerald Griffin 176 69 266 20 111 253 175 Lament of the Irish Emigrant. Lady Laffer in Larry M‘Hale Charles Lever Last Wish Francis Lavis Leading the Calves ( From the Irish) Leave us a Lock of your Hair J. F. Waller , LL.L. . . Let the Toast pass Rt. Hon. R. R. Sheridan Lilli Burlero ^ Lines written on a Window Pane at Chester, Lean Swift Loony Mactwolter George Colman Love Not Hon. Mrs. Norton .... 6 132 347 336 142 78 254 192 148 8 Margread Ni Chealleadh Mark’d you her Cheek ? Mary Draper Mary Le More Mary of Tipperary Mauryeen Mild Mahle Kelly Molly Astore Molly Astore Molly Bawn Molly Carew Mother, he’s going away Mr. Barney Maguire’s Account of the Coronation My Connor My Friend and Pitcher Edward W alsli Rt. Hon. R. B. Sheridan Charles Lever George Nugent Reynolds Samuel Lover Carolan Rt. Hon. Geo. Ogle . . ( From the Irish) Samuel Lover Samuel Lover Samuel Lover Rev. John Barham .... O'Keefe 327 185 134 294 334 339 10 43 64 55 94 18 150 59 96 XV111 CONTENTS. My Love’s the fairest Creature My Mother Dear My Native Land My Native Town Ned of the Hill Now can’t you he easy ? ............. O’Byrne’s Bard to the Clans of Wicklow Ode to the Minstrel O’Connellan Oh, don’t you remember ? Oh! Erin! Oh ! once we were illigant People Oh, tell me, sweet Kate Oh yield, fair Lids 0, Judith, my dear Old Times O, Memory . . .' One Bottle more On Mrs. Biddy Floyd On returning a Bing to a Lady O ! say, my Brown Drimmin O ! the Days when I was young ! Our Island Over the Hills and far away Paddy the Piper Peggy Browne _ Petrarch’s Inkstand Phelim O’Neill Potteen, good Luck to ye, Dear Purty Molly Brallaghan Boisin Dubh Bory O’More Savourneen Deelish Page Lady Morgan 68 Samuel Lover 14 207 Samuel Lover 195 Samuel Lover 324 Charles Lever 145 {From the Irish ) 227 {From the Irish ) 42 Samuel Lover 31 John Dalton 213 Charles Lever 149 Lady Morgan 68 Sheridan 53 {From the Irish) 12 Gerald Griffin 173 Oliver Goldsmith .... 158 146 Dean Swift 190 lit. Hon. J. P. Curran . . L56 {Irish Jacobite Relic) . . 257 Sheridan 118 Hdivard Lysaght 285 {Irish Jacobite Song) . . 264 13G Carolan 21 Miss Fdgeworth 186 Carolan 135 Charles Lever 93 87 {From the Irish) 244 Samuel Lover 108 George Colman 30 CONTENTS. XIX See the ripe Fruit John D' Alton . . Serenade J. J. Cdllanan . . Shan Van Vougli Since Ccelia’s my Foe Thomas Dujfebt Sleep on John O'Keefe . . Sleep, that like the couched Dove Gerald Griffin . . Sinai ilou Soggarth Aroon JBanim Song — “ O’er the clear quiet Waters” .... Mrs. S. C. Sail Song of the Streams Mrs. Downing . . Song, (Thyrsis) Dr. Darnell . . . . Songs of our Land St. Patrick’s Day in my own Parlour J. F. Waller, LL.D. . . St. Patrick was a Gentleman Such was the Eye Sweet Chloe Sweet Seducer Sympathy Terence’s Farewell Thady O’ Brady The Angel’s Whisper The Banks of Banna The Banshee’s Wail Mrs. Downing The Battle of the Boyne . . The Battle of the Boyne . . The Battle of Dundalk . . . The Bay of Biscay, 0 ! . . . . The Bells of Shandon .... The Birth of St. Patrick . . The Bivouac The Blackbird The Blarney S. C. Sail The Blarney The Blush of Morn The Bowld Sojer Boy . . . . The Boyne Water Page 51 351 278 38 15 181 101 214 322 317 192 352 230 97 . 65 185 37 57 5 89 24 73 220 259 261 239 342 169 119 218 267 84 85 62 219 258 XX CONTENTS. The Boys of Kilkenny The Boys of the Irish Brigade Mrs. Gore The Bridal Wake Gerald Griffin The Burial of Sir John Moore Rev. Charles Wolfe . . *Tis a Bit of a Thing that a Body may sing The Chain of Gold Samuel Lover The Convict of Clonmell ( From the Irish ) The Croppy Boy Caroll Malone The Dawning of the Day The Dear Irish Boy The Deserter’s Meditation The Exile of Erin Campbell The Fairy Boy Samuel Lover The Fetch Banim The First Cuckoo in Spring J. F. Waller, LL.L. . . The Flower of Finae Thomas Davis The Forester’s Complaint S. Ferguson, M.R.I.A . . The Forging of the Anchor S. Ferguson, M.R.I.A. . The Four-leaved Shamrock Samuel Lover The Girl I love ( From the Irish') The Girls of the West Charles Lever The Grave of Mac Caura Mrs. Downing The Groves of Blarney R. A. Milliken The Green Spot that blooms Curran The Haunted Spring Samuel Lover The Hero of Ballinacrazy The Irish Dragoon Charles Lever The Irish Duel The Irish Maiden’s Song John Banim The Irishman James Orr The Island of Atlantis Rev. Dr. Croly The Jug of Punch The Lamentation of Hugh Reynolds ( Street Ballad ) The Land of Potatoes, O! , The Land of the West Samuel Lover The Leaves so Green . . ...... The Lost Path Thomas Davis Page 106 217 308 210 124 243 310 292 325 58 326 289 58 331 337 269 307 312 180 52 208 229 79 63 338 140 204 147 223 202 164 105 348 92 205 323 332 CONTENTS. xxi The Love-sick Maid The Low -hacked Car The Maiden City The Maid of Ballyhaunis The Man for Galway The Man who led the Van of the Irish Volunteers The Memory of the Dead The Mid- watch The Monks of the Screw The Mother’s Lament The Mother to her Son The Mountain Dew The Night Cap The Night was still The Patriot Mother The Picquets are fast retreating. Boys .... The Plaint of the Exile The Pope he leads a happy Life The Rakes of Mallow The Reconciliation The Road of Life The Sea The Shan Van Vogh (1796) The Shan Van Vougli Samuel Lover Charlotte Elizabeth . . ( From the Irish ) Charles Lever Edward Lysaght Sheridan Rt. Hon. J. P. Curran. Gerald Griffin Mrs. Downing Samuel Lover Callanan Charles Lever . J. O’ Donoghue Charles Lever . Banim Samuel Lover Mrs. Downing {Street Ballad) The Siege of Carrickfergus The Silvery Lee The Snow The Soldier The Song of the Glass . . . The Sprig of Shillelah . . . The Town of Passage The Triumphs of O’Neill . The Twisting of the Rope . The Wake of the Absent . The White Cockade The Wild Geese Samuel Lover Samuel Lover John F. Waller , LL.D. Edivard Lysaght Father Rrout W. H. Maxivell {From the Irish) Gerald Griffin {From the Irish) Dr. Drennan Page 71 137 250 26 141 274 297 329 102 30 225 15 127 26 296 224 203 126 346 300 183 335 276 278 272 171 160 268 129 138 82 216 319 315 263 265 XXII CONTEXTS. The Wind and the Weathercock Samuel Lover The Woman of Three Cows (From the Irish ) The Woods of Caillino L. N. F. Thou hast sent me a Flowery Band Moore Tom Moody Andrew Cherry To the Battle, Men of Erin Campbell True Love can ne’er forget Samuel Lover Twelve Articles Lean Swift Page 189 193 161 55 340 212 49 196 Up for the Green Virtue Oliver Goldsmith .... Voices of the Past Miss Herbert 280 172 234 Waiting for the May War Song of O’Driscoll We Two What Bard, 0 Time, discover When Erin first rose When fill’d with Thoughts of Life’s young 'k Day ! J When lovely Woman stoops to Folly When Sable Night When this Old Cap was New When your Beauty appears Whiskey, Drink divine ! Why, Liquor of Life ! Widow ma Chree Widow Malone Who’er she be, I love her Willy Beilly Would you choose a Friend Clarence Mangan .... Gerald Griffin Sheridan Sheridan Gerald Griffin Goldsmith Sheridan S. Ferguson, M.F.I.A . . Lr. Parnell Joseph O'Leary Carolan Samuel Lover Charles Lever ( From the Irish) (Provincial Pallad) . . . Gerald Griffin 182 205 53 179 283 156 178 67 221 159 109 90 113 120 332 349 86 Young Kate of Kilcummer Yon never hade me hope . Young Tyrant of the Bow. Gerald Griffin. Per. Lr. Croly 25 52 187 CONTENTS. XX111 ILLUSTRATIONS. Portrait pud Emblematic Border - Designed by Engraved by f F Smith and} FSmi i . Harvey j Page ii Illuminated Introduction, Songs of the'i Affections j • Dalziel . . . . | Dalziel, \ Drothers j 1 Tailpiece to ditto . do do. . . 4 Terence’s Farewell Phiz do. . . 5 Portrait of Thomas Moore , Dalziel do. 9 Portrait of Gerald Griffin . do do. 13 Landscape Illustration to “I love my Love) , „ r (lO in the Morning j do. 16 The Angel’s Whisper do do. 24 Portrait of Eight Hon. Eicliard Brinsley 1 Sheridan J do do. 32 True Love can ne’er forget . Phiz do. 49 Farewell . Dalziel do. 56 Sympathy . do do. 57 Portrait of Rt. lion. John Philpot Curran. . do do. 66 Illuminated Introduction to Convivial and' Comic Songs j- do do. 75 Groves of Blarney . do do. 79 Cromwell and Ireton at Luncheon . Anonymous . . do. 86 My Friend and Pitcher . Phiz do. 96 Reception at the Convent . Dalziel do. 104 Good-fellowship do do. 112 Portrait of Charles Lever . do do. 120 Toll-free . Phiz do. 137 Illuminated Introduction to Moral, Senti-'] mental, and Satirical Songs J [ Dalziel do. 153 Portrait of Oliver Goldsmith . do do. 158 The Woods of Caillino . do do. 161 Gougaune Barra do. 167 Bells of Shandon, Tailpiece . Dalziel do. 170 XXIV CONTEXTS, Four-leaved Shamrock Petrarch’s Inkstand Dance light Woman of Three Cows Illuminated Illustration to Patriotic and 1 Military Songs j Burial of Sir John Moore Portrait of John Banim The Bivouac The Mother to her Son Illuminated Introduction to Historical and - ! Political Songs / The Forest Ambuscade King James at the Gates of Londonderry . . The Soldier Landing the French Troops at Carrickfergus Medallion Head of the Bight Hon. Henry Grattan j Colour-grinding The Exile of Erin The lleconciliation Illuminated Introduction to Miscellaneous 1 Songs J Forging the Anchor . . . . Biding at Anchor The Stream On the Tide Top The Mid Watch A Tipperary Toilet The Whipper-in ... Designed by Engraved by Page Dalziel Dalziel . 18C do do Harrison Weir Dalziel Phiz Dalziel Phiz do Dalziel Phiz do do Dalziel do do do do do do do Harrison Weir Dalziel do W. Harvey . . Harrison Weir do. .. 186 do. .. 188 do. . . 193 do. .. 197 do. .. 210 do. .. 214 do. .. 218 do. .. 225 do. .. 235 do. . . 241 do. .. 250 do. . . 268 do. .. 272 do. . . 274 do. .. 286 do. .. 289 do. .. 300 do. .. 3C5 do. .. 312 do. .. 314 do. .. 317 do. .. 321 do. .. 329 do. . . 334 do. .. 340 oyeiis are given to Poetry.” — So says Shakspeare, with that truthfulness + hat pervades all his representations of human thought or action, and with that pithiness and conciseness that make his sayings so well remembered and so often quoted. Much of what can be said in an intro- duction to songs of the affections is ex- pressed in this one short sentence, “ lovers are given to poetry.” — No wonder then in the abundance of love-songs : — seeing that all mankind must love; — must pass that fever of the heart incidental to their existence, and in 2 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. that fever rave in rhyme. No wonder such songs have had a favour- able acceptance, seeing that all womankind catch the sweet infection ; and, in the fever state, would listen to the wildest ravings of the lover with more delight than to the sublimest sentences of the sage. Nor is it only then that the love-song holds its influence over us ; it partakes of the quality (pardon the comparison, ladies,) of that scourge, the smallpox: — it leaves its mark behind it. That fever infuses a life-long influence into our blood ; — in after years we look back with tender recollection on the time when our hearts first beat to the measure of some amatory rhymes ; and the pulsations of “ sober sixty” under the spell of memory sympathize with those of boyhood. Who ever forgot that indescribable sensation which pervades our whole being when the heart is first conscious of love ? It is as if the ripened bud of existence had but just burst, and the flower of life had opened. As the egg contains a hidden life, to be revealed only by the fond wings that enfold it, so the heart has a dormant exist- ence within it, that we know not of, till the brooding wing of love awakes it. And what a waking ! — “ uli, who would not welcome that moment’s returning, When passion first waked a new life thro’ his frame; And his soul, like the wood, that grows precious in burning, Gave out all its sweets to love’s exquisite flame ?” But other love than that which so potently affects our nature is graciously granted to us — love, which, if less dominant and entranc- ing in its nature, is purer and more enduring : — the love of the parent for the child, and the child for the parent; and such love has not been silent in the region of song. But this love, after all, is but secondary, and depends for its existence on the master-passion first alluded to ; for without that there would be neither parents nor children. Hence, love is not only the agency ordained by Heaven to carry out its creative will, but also the prolific source of poetry. Let the humblest rhymer say, what first moved him to ‘ ‘ lisp in numbers” — or perhaps to stammer ? — we venture to answer for him, “love.” Even the poet, who may, in after life, have achieved high things and won the laurel crown, looks back with a tenderness, that still moves him, to his first address to the “girl of his soul.” — Let Moore speak in eloquent evidence. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 8 “ Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth’s past ; Though he win the wise, who frown’d before, To smile at last ; He’ll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman’s ear His soul-felt flame ; And, at ev’ry close, she blush’d to hear The one lov’d name.” Even among the dullest there is hardly one who has not, some time or other, inscribed “ A woful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow And amongst the greatest there is abundant proof that the con- sciousness of possessing the “ spark divine” never imparts so much pleasure to the gifted possessor as when he pours out the treasure of his thought in passionate profusion at the feet of his mistress ; and enjoys a delight beyond the present in the conviction that he can grasp the future — that his spirit shaU rule over generations yet unborn, and that she who awoke and rewarded his lays shall share in his immortality. • Many of the greatest names might be called in proof of this : — but let the “divine Spenser” answer for all, and with prophetic passion : — “ One day I wrote her name upon the strand ; But came the waves, and washed it away ; Agayne, I wrote it with a second hand ; But came the tyde, and made my paynes his prey. Vayne man, say’d she, that doest in vaine assay A mortall thing so to immortalize ; For I my selve shall like to this decay, And eke my name bee wiped out likewise. Not so, quod I ; let baser things devize To dy in dust, but you shall live by fame : My verse your vertues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens wryte your glorious name. Where, when as death shall all the world subdew, Our love shall live, and later life renew.” I shall not attempt a dissertation upon the peculiar qualities of 4 SONGS OF TILE AFFECTIONS. these Irish love-songs. I have no desire to coax the reader by a pathway of preliminary praise into one of those laudatory labyrinths in which both readers and editors so often lose their way, or, at least, get confused. I believe the following songs are good enough not to need any editorial encomium, and I leave the reader to discover and enjoy their beauties, uninfluenced and undisturbed by any remark of mine. It is only where a note is required in explanation of an Irish word or idiom, in each song, or where some requisite, or inte- resting information, or current remark properly belonging to it is given, that I put myself in the readers way, and then, I hope, not intrusively. Lady Duffebiit. Seldom runs the tide of talent so strongly through successive generations as it has done in the distinguished family of Sheridan. First springing into literary notice in the days of Swift, we see, in the witty Dean’s lively correspondent, the grandfather of the illustrious Richard Brinsley Sheridan, commemorated by Thomas Moore, in his matchless monody as — “ The orator, dramatist, minstrel, who ran Thro’ each mode of the lyre, and was master of all.’* Through him is descended (in the sixth generation) the authoress of the two following jongs. She has written many (though only two are selected here), all of great excellence ; out none can evoke their mirth or their tenderness with such point or pathos as the fair and noble lady herself. One might suppose she was the original Moore had in his eye, when he wrote — Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks. But Love from the lip his true archery wings ; And she, who but feathers the shaft when she speaks, At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.’* So, my Kathleen, you’re going to leave me All alone by myself in this place, But I’m sure you will never deceive me, Oh no, if there’s truth in that face. 6 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Though England’s a beautiful city, Full of illigant hoys, oh what then — You wouldn’t forget your poor Terence, You’ll come hack to ould Ireland again. Och, those English, deceivers hy nature, Though mayhe you’d think them sincere, They’ll say you’re a sweet charming creature, But don’t you helieve them, my dear. No, Kathleen, agra !* don’t he minding The flattering speeches they’ll make, Just tell them a poor hoy in Ireland Is breaking his heart for your sake. It’s a folly to keep you from going, Though, faith, it’s a mighty hard case — For, Kathleen, you know, there’s no knowing When next I shall see your sweet face. And when you come hack to me, Kathleen, None the better will I he off, then — You’ll he spaking such beautiful English, Sure, I won’t know my Kathleen again. Eh, now, where’s the need of this hurry — Don’t flutter me so in this way — I’ve forgot ’twixt the grief and the flurry, Every word I was maning to say ; Now just wait a minute, I hid ye, — Can I talk if ye bother me so ? Oh, Kathleen, my blessing go wid ye, Ev’ry inch of the way that you go. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. Lady Dufferin. I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mormn’ long ago, When first you were my bride ; The corn was springin’ fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high — And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. * My love. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 7 The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark’s loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek, And I still keep list’ning for the words You never more will speak. *Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest — For I’ve laid you, darling 1 down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I’m very lonely now, Mary, F or the poor make no new friends, But, oh ! they love the better still, The few our F ather sends ! And you were all / had, Mary, My blessin’ and my pride : There’s nothin’ left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm’s young strength was gone ; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow — I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was tit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin’ there, And you hid it, for my sake ! I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore — Oh ! I’m thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can’t reach you more I I’m biddin’ you a long farewell, My Mary — kind and true ! But I’ll not forget you , darling ! In the land I’m goin’ to ; 8 SONGS OF TIIE AFFECTIONS. They say there’s bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there — But I’ll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair ! And often in those grand old woods I’ll sit, and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies.; And I’ll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side : And the springin’ corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. LOYE NOT. lion. Mrs. Norton - . Here we find another gifted daughter of the house of Sheridan upholding the hereditary honours of her race in this exquisite lyric. Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay ! Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow’rs — Things that are made to fade and fall away, When they have blossomed but a few short hours. Love not, love not ! Love not, love not ! The thing you love may die — May perish from the gay and gladsome earth ; The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, Beam on its grave as once upon its birth. Love not, love not ! Love not, love not ! The thing you love may change ; The rosy lip may cease to smile on you ; The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange ; The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. Love not, love not ! Love not, love not ! — Oh, warning vainly said In present years, as in the years gone by : Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head, Faultless, immortal — till they change or die. Love not, love not ! FAREWELL, BESSY. Thomas Moohe. Born, 1779. Died, 1852. In making the record in the line above, I have noted a birth and death the most bril- liant and the most lamented of all the lyric poets that have done honour to that land, emphatically called, “ The Land of Song.” I have alluded already, in the preface to this volume, to the want of a selection from Moore’s best songs, in a work like this, which the strict guardianship kept over them by the proprietors of the copyright renders impossible. A few of his early songs, however, young firstlings of fancy, strayed away into the world and were forgotten, or not thought worthy, perhaps, of being gathered into the fold of the “gentle shepherds” of Paternoster-row; and some of them I have caught, and though they will not bear a comparison with those that climbed higher up Parnassus in later years, yet, as of the same stock that became so famous, there is interest in looking at them, however much the breed was afterwards improved. But, imagery apart, we like to see the first attempts of genius ; and the early specimens of the muse of Moore, that follow, will not be unacceptable when looked upon in the light they are presented. The song that follows derives an additional interest from the name that it celebrates, as we may infer it was addressed to that lovely and amiable woman who awaked the rapturous adoration of his youth, and was the solace of his age. Sweetest love, I’ll ne’er forget tlice, Time shall only teach my heart Fonder, warmer, to regret thee, Lovely, gentle, as thon art ! Farewell, Bessy! We may meet again. 2 * 10 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Yes, oh! yes, again ■•.ye’ll meet, love, And repose our hearts at last ; Oh ! sure ’twill then be sweet, love Calm to think on sorrow past. Farewell, Bessy ! We may meet again. Yet I feel my heart is breaking, When I think I stray trom thee, Bound the world that quiet seeking Which I fear is not for me ! Farewell, Bessy ! We may meet again. Calm to peace thy lover’s bosom — Can it, dearest, must it be, Thou within an hour wilt lose him, — He for ever loses thee ? Farewell, Bessy! Yet, oh ! not for ever. MILD M A B L E KELLY.* Carolan. Bom 1G70. Died 1733. Translated by Samuel Ferguson Turlogh O'Carolan, bom at Nobber in the county of Westmeath, may be looked upon as the last of the race of the ancient bards of Ireland. When we consider that he lost his sight at the age of eighteen, from smallpox, which bereft him of the use of books, it is sur- prising what an air of literary accomplishment, and how much refinement pervade his compositions. When we remember the country he lived in had been recently devastated by civil war, it is evident the mingled mirthfulness and tenderness of his effusions sprang from innate inspiration, not from the “ form and pressure” of the time. Though he is more generally known by his music than by his poetry, the latter was of such a high standard, in the opinion of Goldsmith, who, in his boyhood saw Carolan, and in later life wrot e about him, that he said “ his songs may be compared to those of Pindar, they having the same flight of imagination.” The works of Carolan, taken altogether, display a wonderful ferti- lity of invention, and, being the last of the bards, we may well apply to him the often- quoted “Tho’ last not least.” Limited space forbids saying more about one of whom so much might be said; so, without further preface, wp give one of his songs which fully sustains his own reputation and that of his country. * There are three versions of this famous song one by Miss Brooke, in her “ Reliques of Irish Poetry,” and another in “Hardiman’s Minstrelsy;” bpt } as in many other instances, Mr. Ferguson’s translation is far the best? SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 11 Whoever the youth who, by heaven’s decree, Has his happy right hand ’neath that bright head of thine, ’Tis certain that he From all sorrow is free, Till the day of his death : — if a life so divine Should not raise him in bliss above mortal degree. Mild Mable Ni Kelly, bright coolun* of curls ! All stately and pure as the swan on the lake, Her mouth of white teeth is a palace of pearls, And the youth of the land are love-sick for her sake. No strain of the sweetest e’er heard in the land That she knows not to sing in a voice so enchanting, That the cranes on the sand F all asleep where they stand ; Oh, for her blooms the rose, and the lily ne’er wanting To shed its mild lustre on bosom or hand. The dewy blue blossom that hangs on the spray, More blue than her eyes human eye never saw ; Deceit never lurked in its beautiful ray — Dear lady, I drink to you, slainte go bragh .'f To gaze on her beauty the young hunter lies ’Mong the branches that shadow her path in the grove ; But, alas ! if her eyes The rash gazer surprise. All eyesight departs from the victim of love, And the blind youth steals home with his heart full of sighs. Oh, pride of the Gael, of the lily-white palm, Oh, coolun of curls to the grass at your feet ; At the goal of delight and of honor I am, To boast such a theme for a song so unmeet. * Coolun, or cuilln — head of hair. f Pronounced softly, Slawn-tha’ go bra, meaning “ Save you, or health to you for ever.” The lady, thus celebrated, was of the family of Castle Kelly in the Coun'y of Galway. What a charming touch of poetry, is that of the young hunter hiding to get a glance at this radiant beauty — and the consequence that follows — he is dazzled even to the loss of vision, “ And the blind youth steals home with his heart full of sighs.” This is the more touching, when we remember it was a blind poet who wrote it : — how often did he himself steal home with his heart full of sighs ? Carolan thus makes a direct allusion to his blindness in a passage translated by Miss Brooke. “ Ev’n he whose hapless eyes no ray Admit from beauty’s cheering day. Yet, though he cannot see the light. He feels it warm, and knows it bright.” 12 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 0, JUDITH, MY DEAD! From Hardiman’s Minstrelsy. Translated from the Irish by Edward Walshe. 0, Judith, my dear, ’tis thou that hast left me for dead ; 0, Judith, my dear, thou’st stolen all the brain in my head ; 0, Judith, my dear, thou’st cross’d between Heaven and me, And ’twere better be blind than ever thy beauty to see ! Thy person is peerless — a jewel full fashioned with care, Thou art the mild maiden so modest at market and fair ; With cheek like the rose, and kiss like the store o’ the bee, And musical tones that call’d me from death unto thee ! CO! FORGET ME. Eev. Charles Wolfe. Eon 1791. Died 182J, Go, forget me — why should sorrow O’er that brow a shadow ding ? Go, forget me — and to-morrow Brightly smile, and sweetly sing. Smile — though I shall not be near thee : Sing — though I shall never hear thee : May thy soul with pleasure shine, Lasting as the gloom of mine. Like the sun, thy presence glowing, Clothes the meanest things in light, And when thou, like him, art going, Loveliest objects fade in night. All things looked so bright about tlicc, That they nothing seem without thee, By that pure and lucid mind Earthly things were too rebned. Go, thou vision wildly gleaming, Softly on my soul that fell ; Go, for me no longer beaming — Hope and Beauty ! fare ye well ! Go, and all that once delighted Take, and leave me all benighted ; Glory’s burning — generous swell, Fancy and the Poet’s shell. A. PLACE IN THY MEM011Y, DEARE JT. Gerald Griffin. Born 1S03, Died 1810. Though the following song has not such striking marks of nationality as many of Griffin’s, yet we place it first amongst his, in this collection, as an extract from “ The Collegians” — that story of surpassing power which places him, we think, first among the novelists of Ireland, and in the foremost rank of the novelists of the world. Of Gerald Griffin Ireland may well be proud ; for he was not only a great novelist, but a good dramatist. His Gisippus is one of the best plays of modern times, and derives an additional, though saddening interest, from the fact that it was not produced on the stage until after his death : but though he tasted not the triumph of that success, his country must not forget it. His songs, too, are charming ; and the one that follows, though not Irish in phrase, is peculiarly Irish in feeling : there is in it depth and devoted- ness of affection, delicacy, unselfishness— in short, a chivalrous adoration. A place in tliy memory, dearest, Is all that I claim ; To pause, and look back, when th on hearcst The sound of my name. Another may woo thee, nearer, Another may win and wear ; I care not though he he dearer, If I am remembered there. 14 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Remember me — not as a lover Whose hope was cross’d; Whose bosom can never recover The light it hath lost : As the young bride remembers the mother She loves, though she never may see ; As a sister remembers a brother, Oh ! dearest, remember me. Could 1 be thy true lover, dearest, Could’ st thou smile on me, I would be the fondest and nearest, That ever loved thee ! But a cloud on my pathway is glooming, That never must burst upon thine ; And heaven, that made thee all blooming, Ne’er made thee to wither on mine. Remember me then — 0 remember My calm, light love : Though bleak as the blasts of November My life may prove, That life will, though lonely, be sweet, If its brightest enjoyment should be A smile and kind word when we meet, And a place in thy memory. MY MOTHER DEAR. Samuel Loved. There was a place in childhood that I remember well, And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did tell, And gentle words and fond embrace were giv’n with joy to me, When I was in that happy place : — upon my mother’s knee. When fairy tales were ended, “ good night,” she softly said, And kiss’d and laid me down to sleep, within my tiny bed ; And holy words she taught me there — methinks I yet can see Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my mother’s knee. In the sickness of my childhood ; the perils of my prime ; The sorrows of my riper years ; the cares of ev’ry time ; When doubt and danger weigh’d me down — then pleading, all for me, It was a fervent pray’r to Heaven that bent my mother’s knee. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 15 SLEEP ON. Jonir O’Keeffe. Bom 1746. Dublin was the birthplace of O’Keeffe. The O’Keeffes, an ancient and honourable family, lost their estates in the civil wars of James and William. Our author was reared for the priesthood; — objected to go into orders; — became very nearly a professional painter ;— turned actor next, and, finally, dramatist of prolific pen,— he having produced forty-nine pieces. He lost his sight in 1800. Many of his songs are graceful, though never rising to any great excellence : they were never intended, however, to be more than inci- dental to his dramas. The following is from “ The Poor Soldier.” The air to which it was written is a beautiful old Irish melody, entitled, Ulican dulh oh! given in Bunting’s “Ancient Music of Ireland.” To the same air Moore wrote “ Weep on, weep on !” Sleep on, sleep on, my Katlileen dear, May peace possess thy breast ; Yet dost thou dream thy true love’s here. Deprived of peace and rest ? The birds sing sweet, the morning breaks, These joys are none to me ; Though sleep is tied, poor Dermot wakes To none but love and thee. TIIE MOUNTAIN DEW. Samuel Lovee. By yon mountain tipp’d with cloud, By the torrent foaming loud, By the dingle where the purple bells of heather grew, Where the Alpine tlow’rs are hid, And where bounds the nimble kid, There we wandered both together through the mountain dew ! With what delight in summer’s night we trod the twilight gloom, The air so full of fragrance from the flowers so full of bloom, And our hearts so full of joy — for aught else there was no room, As we wandered both together through the mountain dew. Those sparkling gems that rest On the mountain’s flow’ry breast Are like the joys we number — they are bright and few, Eor a while to earth are given, And are called again to heaven, When the spirit of the morning steals the mountain dew : But memory, angelic, makes a heaven on earth for men, Her rosy light recalleth bright the dew-drops back again, The warmth of love exhales them from that well-remembered glen, Where we wandered both together through the mountain dew ! I LOYE MY LOVE IN THE MORNING. Gerale Griffin. I loye my love in the morning For she like morn is fair, — Her blushing cheek, its crimson streak, Its clouds, her golden hair. Her glance, its beam, so soft and kind ; Her tears, its dew y showers ; And her voice, the tender whispering wind That stirs the early bowers. I love my love in the morning, I love my love at noon, For she is bright, as the lord of light, Yet mild as autumn’s moon : Her beauty is my bosom’s sun, Her faith my fostering shade, And I will love my darling one, Till even the sun shall fade. SONGS of the affections. 17 I love my love in the morning, I love my love at even ; Her smile’s soft play is like the ray, That lights the western heaven : I loved her when the sun was high, I loved her when he rose ; But, best of all when evening’s sigh Was murmuring at its close. FORGIVE, BUT DON’T FORGET. From “ Songs and Ballads,” by Samuel Loveb. I’m going, Jessie, far from thee, To distant lands beyond the sea ; I would not, Jessie, leave thee now, With anger’s cloud upon thy brow. Remember that thy mirthful friend Might sometimes teaze — but ne’er offend ; That mirthful friend is sad the while : Oh, Jessie, give a parting smile. Ah ! why should friendship harshly chide Our little faults on either side ? From friends we love, we bear with those, As thorns are pardon’d for the rose. The honey-bee, on busy wing, Producing sweets, yet bears a sting ; The purest gold most needs alloy ; And sorrow is the nurse of joy. Then, oh, forgive me, ere I part, And if some corner in thy heart For absent friend a place might be — Ah, keep that little place for me ! “ Forgive — Forget,” we’re wisely told, Is held a maxim, good and old, But half the maxim’s better yet, — Then, oh, forgive, but don't forget! This song was written as a musical illustration to a portion of a lecture, where a passage occurred setting forth that the heart is particularly open to gentle impressions at the part- ing hour. The lecturer then glanced at the various ways in which the same natural sensa- tions will influence different people, and how different classes of society have their peculiar phases of thought and feeling ; and as the foregoing song represented the sentiment of the drawing-room, I sought, in the following one, the contrast of the cottage. 18 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. MOTHER, HE’S GOING AWAY. Samuel Loveb. Mother. Now, what are you crying for, Nelly? Don’t be blubberin’ there, like a fool — With the weight o’ the grief, ’faith I tell you, You’ll break down the three-legged stool. I suppose, now, you’re crying for Barney, But don’t b’lieve a word that he’d say, He tells nothin’ but big lies and blarney — Sure you know how he sarv’d poor Kate Kearney. Daughter . . But, mother — Mother . Oh, bother ! Daughter. But, mother, he’s going away ; And I dreamt th’ other night, Of his ghost all in white — Oh, mother, he’s going away ! Mother. If he’s goin’ away, all the betther — Blessed hour when he’s out of your sight ! There’s one comfort — you can’t get a letther, — For yiz neither can read or can write. Sure, ’twas only last week you protested, Since he coorted fat Jinny M’Cray, That the sight of the scamp you detested — With abuse, sure, your tongue never rested — Daughter. But, mother — Mother . Oh, bother ! Daughter. But, mother, he’s going away, And I dream of his ghost ; W alking round my bedpost — • Oh, mother, he’s going away! SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 19 HOURS LIKE THOSE. Callanatt. Born, 1795. Died, 1829. James Joseph Callanan was born in the county, if not in the city of Cork. Being des- tined for the priesthood, he was sent to Maynooth College, but feeling little sympathy for the clerical vocation, he quitted that establishment in 1816. He pursued hi3 classical studies, afterwards, in Trinity College, Dublin, and gained there two poetic prizes. One may suppose he was of that dreamy nature which so often unfits the pos- sessor for the active pursuits of life, for Callanan seems never to have settled down to any. He is described, too, as of a procrastinating disposition, acting on the system of that noble lord who would “never do anything to-day he could possibly put off till to-morrow.” He was a great favourite in society, and this helped to idle him also, the call of social pleasure having for him a Siren voice. Only one thing could draw him from that fascina- tion, and that was his deeper love for the beauties of nature ; and it is quite touching to find in his memoirs how he was wont to rush back, time after time, to the mountain region of South Munster, and wander alone through its wild scenery, on which his poetic fancy feasted, and which he has so beautifully described in his ode to “ Gougane Barra,” given in this volume. He left Ireland in 1827 in a bad state of health, and resided in Lisbon for two years ; but his health still declined, and in 1829 he embarked to return to Ireland, wishing to breathe his last in his native land. But the wish was not gratified. Symptoms of dissolution set in before the vessel sailed, and he was put on shore, and died at Lisbon in his thirty-fourth year. Hours like those I spent with yon, So bright, so passing, and so few, May never bless me more — farewell ! My heart can feel, but dare not tell, The rapture of those hours of light Thus snatched from sorrow’s cheerless night. ’Tis not thy cheek’s soft blended hue ; ’Tis not thine eye of heavenly blue ; ’Tis not the radiance of thy brow, That thus would win or charm me now ; It is thy heart’s warm light, that glows Like sunbeams on December snows. It is thy wit, that flashes bright As lightning on a stormy night, Illuming e’en the clouds that roll Along the darkness of my soul, And bidding, with an angel’s voice, The heart, that knew no joy — rejoice.* * I cannot, even at the risk of being considered intrusive, resist noticing the great beauty of this exquisitely musical couplet: — “ And bidding, with an angel's voice. The heart , that knew no joy — rejoice .” 20 SONGS or TILE AFFECTIONS. Too late we met — too soon we part ; Yet dearer to my soul tliou art Than some whose love has grown with years, Smiled with my smile, and wept my tears. F arewell ! hut, absent, thou shalt seem The vision of some heavenly dream, Too bright on child of earth to dwell : It must be so — my friend, farewell ! KATHLEEN O’MORE. George Nugent Keynoeds. My love, still I think that I see her once more, But, alas ! she has left me her loss to deplore — My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, My Kathleen O’More ! Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue, Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new — So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen, My Kathleen O’More! She milk’d the dun cow, that ne’er offered to stir, Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her — ■ So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, My Kathleen O’More ! She sat at the door one cold afternoon, To hear the wind blow, and to gaze on the moon — So pensive was Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, My Kathleen O’More ! Cold was the night-breeze that sigh’d round her bow’r, It chill’d my poor Kathleen, she droop’d from that hour ; And I lost my poor Kathleen, my own little Kathleen, My Kathleen O’More ! The bird of all birds that I love the best Is the robin, that in the church-yard builds his nest — For he seems to watch Kathleen, hops lightly o’er Kathleen, My Kathleen O’More. The air to which this is sung is singularly sweet and plaintive. The song is still popular, I believe, in Ireland. It was once extremely so. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 21 PEGGY BROWNE.* Carolan. Translated by Thomas Furlong. Oh, dark, sweetest girl, are my days doomed to be, While my heart bleeds in silence and sorrow for thee : In the green spring of life, to the grave I go down, Oh ! shield me, and save me, my lov’d Peggy Browne. I dreamt that at evening my footsteps were bound To yon deep spreading wood where the shades fall around, I sought, midst new scenes, all my sorrows to drown, But the cure of my grief rests with thee Peggy Browne. ’Tis soothing, sweet maiden, thy accents to hear, F or, like wild fairy music, they melt on the ear, Thy breast is as fair as the swan’s clothed in down; Oh, peerless, and perfect’s my own Peggy Browne. Dear, dear is the bark to its own cherished tree, But dearer, far dearer, is my lov’d one to me :f In my dreams I draw near her, uncheck’d by a frown, But my arms spread in vain to embrace Peggy Browne. * Daughter of George Browne, of Brownestown, County of Mayo. The noble houses of Sligo and Kilmain, and the families of Castlemagarat and Brownestown, in Mayo, are now among the principal of the name . — Note from Hardiman’s Minstrelsy. f Carolan anticipates Burns in this image, and how forcible the image is for the bark is not only closely attached to, but is essential to the very life of the tree. The image is employed by Bums in his admirable song, “My Tocher’s the jewel,” but not so pleasantly nor so happily as by Carolan. “ Ye’re like the timmer o’ yon rotten wood. Ye’re like the bark o’ yon rotten tree.” The tautology weakens the effect. ’BE N-EIRINN I.t From the Irish. In Druid vale alone I lay, Oppressed with care, to weep the day— My death I ow’d one sylph-like she, Of witchery rare, ’Be n-Eirinn i ! X Meaning “Whoe’er she be in Ireland.” 22 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. The spouse of Naisi,* Erin’s woe — The dame that laid proud Ilium low, Their charms would fade, their fame would lice, Match’d with my fair, ’be n-Eirinn i ! Behold her tresses unconfin’d, In wanton ringlets woo the wind, j Or sweep the sparkling dew-drops free, My heart’s dear maid, ’be n-Eirinn i ! Fierce passion’s slave, from hope exil’d, Weak, wounded, weary, woful, wild — Some magic spell she wove for me, That peerless maid, ’be n-Eirinn i! But 0 ! one noon I clomb a hill, To sigh alone — to weep my fill, And there Heaven’s mercy brought to me My treasure rare, ’be n-Eirinn i ! * Deirdre. f Keminding us of Byron’s couplet in his address to the “Maid of Athens.” “ By those tresses unconfin’d Woo’d by the iEgean wind.” ANNIE DEAll. Thomas Davis. Born 1814. Died 1845. Mr. Davis’s verses are always imbued with the spirit befitting the subject he treats of. Appreciation of beauty, and depth of tenderness, are in his love songs, and a passionate enthusiasm in his patriotic, sometimes bordering on fierceness, which many thought marred their usefulness, and which often precludes their quotation. Oue, mountain brooks were rushing, Annie, dear, The Autumn eve was flushing, Annie, dear; But brighter was your blushing, When first, your murmurs hushing, I told my love outgushing, Annie, dear. Ah ! but our hopes were splendid, Annie, dear, How sadly they have ended, Annie, dear; The ring betwixt us broken, When our vows of love were spoken, Of your poor heart was a token, Annie, dear. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 23 The primrose flowers were shining, Annie, dear, When, on my breast reclining, Annie, dear, Began our mi na media * And many a month did follow Of joy — But life is hollow, Annie, dear. For once, when home returning, Annie, dear, I found our cottage burning, Annie, dear: Around it were the yeomen, f Of every ill an omen — The country’s hitter foemen, Annie, dear. But why arose a morrow, Annie, dear, Upon that night of sorrow, Annie, dear ? Far better, by thee lying, Their bayonets defying, Than live an exile sighing, Annie, dear. * Honeymoon. The rhyme will indicate that the sound of the letter e is nearly lost in the word “ meala .” Be it observed, also, the first letter of the Irish alphabet has a broad sound. t This alludes to the year 1798, when the yeomanry were held in great detestation by the people ; indeed, except for external defence, yeomanry is now considered a bad military enginery. In civil embroilment they carry party passion instead of duty into the office of the soldier, and serve rather to increase than suppress commotion. This is the feeling in England as well as in Ireland. Witness the affair of “Peterloo,” (or St. Peter’s Field) at Manchester, A. I). 1819. CAN I AGAIN THAT LOOK HEGALL. Moore. Can I again tbat look recall Which once could make me die for theo ? No, no, the eye that burns on all Shall never more be prized by me. Can I again that form caress, Or on that lip in joy recline? No, no, the lip that all may press Shall never more be press’d by mine. THE ANGEL’S WHISPER. From “ Songs and Ballads” of Samuel Loves. A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that, when a child smiles in its sleep, it is “talking with the angels.” A baby was sleeping, Its mother was weeping, For her husband was far on the wild raging sea, And the tempest was swelling Round the fisherman’s dwelling, And she cried, “ Dermot, darling, oh ! come hack to me.” Her heads while she numbered, The baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face, as she bended her knee ; Oh ! bless’ d he that warning, My child, thy sleep adorning, For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 25 And while they are keeping Bright watch o’er thy sleeping, Oh, pray to them softly my baby, with me, And say thou would’ st rather They’d watch o’er thy father ! For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. The dawn of the morning Saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe’s father to see, And closely caressing Her child, with a blessing, Said, “ I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.” I have abstained from inserting many of my own songs in this collection, to avoid the suspicion of parental preference. I give only those (with very few exceptions) which, having attained popularity, are thus guaranteed by the highest seal that can substantiate their right to appear in a collection of Irish Songs. The song given above was written to an old Irish air (one of the few Moore left untouched) entitled “Mary do you fancy me? ” Words had been written to it in “ Holden’s Periodical Irish Melodies,” but they were ineffective, and left the air still in oblivion, while mine had better fortune, and made this charming melody widely known j and I think it may be allowed to be pardonably pleasing to an author that it is now known by the name of “ The Angel’s Whisper.” The works of Moore have shown how much the musician may be indebted to the poet, and I have entered more extensively into that question, in a note to “ The Boys of Kilkenny,” to which I beg to refer the reader. YOUNG KATE OF KILCUMMER. Theke are flowers in tbe valley, And fruit on tbe bill, Sweet-scented and smiling, Resort where you will ; But tbe sweetest and brightest In spring time or summer, Is tbe girl of my heart, The young Kate of Kilcummer. Ob ! I’d wander from daybreak Till night’s gloomy fall, Full sure such another I’d ne’er meet at all : — As the rose to the bee, As the sunshine to summer, So welcome to me Is young Kate of Kilcummer, Kilcummer is in the County of Cork, on the east side of the river Awbcg. It has been asserted this song is a translation from the Irish, but I agree with T. C. Croker in doubt- ing it. 3 26 SONGS or THE AFFECTIONS* THE NIGHT WAS STILL. Callanan. The night was still, the air was halm, Soft dews around were weeping ; No whisper rose o’er ocean’s calm, Its waves in light were sleeping ; With Mary on the beach I strayed, The stars beam’d joys above me ; I press’d her hand, and said, “ Sweet maid, Oh ! tell me do you love me?” With modest air she drooped her head, Her cheek of beauty veiling ; Her bosom heav’d — no word she said ; I mark’d her strife of feeling ; “ Oh speak my doom, dear maid,” I cried, “By yon bright heaven above thee She gently raised her eyes, and sighed, “ Too well you know I love thee.” The sentiment reminds us, but without suggesting, in the least, a plagiarism, of those sweet lines of the Scottish muse — “ Dinna ask me gin I luve thee, Deed I darcna tell ; Dinna ask me gin I luve thee. Ask it o’ yoursel’.” . Buchan’s Minstrelsy of the North of Scotland. THE MAID OE BALLYHAUNIS. From the Irish. Mr. Hardiman, in the “ Minstrelsy,” says this song was composed by a friar of the Mo- nastery of Ballyhaunis, who fell in love with a beautiful girl of that place ; but the late Mr. Edward Walshe, the translator, says— “ With every respect for the superior information of Mr, Hardiman, I beg to say that this lyric, so creditable to the poetic genius of Con- naught, and which stands forth among the happiest efforts of the pastoral muse of Ireland, was, in all likelihood, written by a youthful student of the monastery, as the second stanza bears clear proof that the lover is one not arrived at manhood, and who is subject to his father’s control.” My Mary dear ! for thee I die 0 ! place thy hand iu mine, love — My fathers here were chieftains high, Then to my plaints incline, love. 0, Plaited-hair ! that now we were In wedlock’s band united, For, maiden mine, in grief I’ll pine, Until our vows are plighted ! 21 Boston golliqi librabit chestnut hill, mass. SONGS OF THE AFFECTION'S. Thou, Rowan-bloom, since thus I rove, All worn and faint to greet thee, Come to these arms, my constant love, With love as true to meet me ! Alas ! my head — its wits are lied, I’ve failed in filial duty — My sire did say, “ Shun, shun, for aye That Ballyhaunis beauty !” But thy Cuilin ban* I mark’d one day, Where the blooms of the bean-field cluster, Thy bosom white like ocean’s spray, Thy cheek like rowan-fruit’s lustre, Thy tones that shame the wild birds’ fame Which sing in the summer weather — And 0 ! I sigh that thou, love, and I Steal not from this world together ! If with thy lover thou depart To the Land of Ships, f my fair love, Ho weary pain of head or heart, Shall haunt our slumbers there, love — 0 ! haste away, ere cold death’s prey, My soul from thee withdrawn is ; And my hope’s reward, the churchyard sward, In the town of Ballyhaunis ! • Cuilin Ian, fair flowing hair, t Neither Mr. Hardiman nor Mr. Walshe make any observation on the phrase “ Land of Ships,” and it cannot with certainty now be said what place was originally indicated by it. The term would eminently apply to England: but Spain would have been a more likely place of refuge to the Irish Eoman Catholic fugitives ; and Spain of old was a great mari- time power. Besides, there was a constant communication between the West of Ireland and Spain. CEASE, OH, CEASE TO TEMPT. Moobe. Cease, oh, cease to tempt my tender heart to love ; It never, never can, so wild a flame approve ; All its joys and pains To others I resign ; But be the vacant heart, The careless bosom, mine. Then cease, oh, cease, &c. Say, oh ! say no more that lovers’ pains are sweet — I never, never can, believe the fond deceit. Thou lov’st the wounded heart, I love to wander free ; So keep thou Cupid’s dart, And leave his wings for me. 28 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. GILLE MA CHREE. Gerald Griffin'. Gills ma chree* Sit down by me, "We now are joined, and ne’er shall sever, This hearth’s our own, Our hearts are one, And peace is ours for ever ! When I was poor, Your father’s door Was closed against your constant lover. With care and pain, I tried in vain My fortunes to recover. I said, ‘ To other lands I’ll roam, ‘ Where fate may smile on me, love ; ’ I said, ‘ Farewell, my own old home !’ And I said, ‘ Farewell to thee, love ! y Sing Gille ma chree , fyc. I might have said, My mountain maid, Come live with me, your own true lover I know a spot, A silent cot, Your friends can ne’er discover, Where gently flows the waveless tide By one small garden only ; Where the heron waves his wings so wide, And the linnet sings so lonely ! Sing Gille ma chree , fyc, I might have said, My mountain maid, A father’s right was never given True hearts to curse With tyrant force That have been blest in heaven. But then, I said, ‘ In after years, When thoughts of home shall find her ! My love may mourn with secret tears Her friends, thus left behind her.’ Sing Gille ma chree , fyc. * Brightener of my heart. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 29 “ Oh, no,” I said, “ My own dear maid, For me, though all forlorn for ever, That heart of thine Shall ne’er repine O’er slighted duty — never. From home and thee though, wandering far, A dreary fate he mine, love ; I’d rather live in endless war, Than buy my peace with thine, love.” Sing Gille ma chree, fyc. Far, far away, By night and day, I toil’d to win a golden treasure ; And golden gains Repaid my pains In fair and shining measure. I sought again my native land, Thy father welcomed me, love ; I poured my gold into his hand, And my guerdon found in thee, love, Sing Gille ma chree , Sit down by me, We now are joined, and ne’er shall sever, This hearth’s our own, Our hearts are one, And peace is ours for ever ! FROM THE COLD SOD THAT’S O’ER YOU. From the Irish. Translated by Edward Walshe. Feom the cold sod that’s o’er you I never shall sever — Were my hands twin’d in yours, love, I’d hold them for ever — My fondest, my fairest, We may now sleep together, I’ve the cold earth’s damp odour, And I’m worn from the weather ! This heart, fill’d with fondness, Is wounded and weary; A dark gulf beneath it Yawns jet-black and dreary — 30 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. When death conies, a victor, In mercy to greet me, On the wings of the whirlwind, In the wild wastes you’ll meet me ! When the folk of my household Suppose I am sleeping, On your cold grave, till morning, The lone watch I’m keeping ; My grief to the night wind, F or the mild maid to render, Who was my betrothed Since infancy tender ! Remember the lone night I last spent with you, love, Beneath the dark sloe-tree, When the icy wind blew, love — High praise to the Saviour No sin -stain had found you, That your virginal glory Shines brightly around you ! The priests and the friars Are ceaselessly chiding, That I love a young maiden, In life not abiding — 0 ! I’d shelter and shield you, If wild storms were swelling, And 0 ! my wrecked hope, That the cold earth’s your dwelling * Alas, for your father, And also your mother, And all your relations, Your sister and brother, Who gave you to sorrow, And the grave ’neath the willow, While I crav’d as your portion But to share your chaste pillow ! THE MOTHER’S LAMENT. Gerald Griffix. My darling, my darling, while silence is on the mocr, And lone in the sunshine, I sit by our cabin door ; When evening falls quiet and calm over land and sea, My darling, my darling, I think of past times and thee ! SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 31 Here, while on this cold shore, I wear ont my lonely hours, My child in the heavens is spreading my bed with flowers, * All weary my bosom is grown of' this friendless clime, But I long not to leave it ; for that were a shame and crime ; They bear to the church-yard the youth in their health away, I know where a fruit hangs more ripe for the grave than they, But I wish not for death, for my spirit is all resigned, And the hope that stays with me gives peace to my aged mind. My darling, my darling, God gave to my feeble age, A prop for my faint heart, a stay in my pilgrimage ; My darling, my darling, God takes back his gift again — And my heart may be broken, but ne’er shall my will complain. * This is but repeating a beautiful saying common among the Irish peasantry. The expression of parental love and Christian resignation in this song is most touching. How any man who was not a father, and did not experience all that is expressed in the last verse, could so truly describe what many a parent has felt, is only to be accounted for by the presence within him of the poetic spirit that “ o’er-informs the tenement of clay,” and can imagine reality. OH! DON’T YOU REMEMBER P Samuel Lover. Oh! don’t you remember the beautiful glade, Where in childhood together we playfully stray’d, Where wreaths of wild-flowers so often I made, Thy tresses so brightly adorning? Oh! light of foot and heart were then The happy children of the glen : — The cares that shade the brows of men Ne’er darken childhood’s morning. Oh ! who can forget the young innocent hours That were pass’d in the shade of our home’s happy bow’rs, When the wealth that we sought for was only wild flow’rs, And we thought ourselves rich when we found them? Oh! where’s the tie that friends e’er knew, So free from stain, so firm, so true, As links that with the wild-flowers grew, And in sweet fetters bound them p S DRY BE THAT TEAR. Et. Hon. Eichabd Bbinsley Sheridan. Born 1751, Died 1816. The name of Sheridan was distinguished in Ireland before the birth of Eichard Brinsley, first by his grandfather, Doctor Sheridan, the friend and correspondent of Swift; next by his father, Mr. Thomas Sheridan, the competitor of Garrick; but the glory of the name culmi- nated in Eichard Brinsley. A dramatist of the highest order, — a charming lyric writer, — a first-rate orator— his name sheds triple honour on Ireland. Mr. Hazlitt (that astute critic) says, “ Mr. Sheridan has been justly called a dramatic star of the first magnitude ; and, indeed, among the comic writers of the last century, he shines like Hesperus among the lesser lights. He has left four several dramas behind him, all different, or of different kinds, and all excellent in their way.” He proceeds to a minute criticism on the various plays, too long for quotation, in a note, but it may be remarked that he calls “ The Duenna,” “ a per- fect work of art;” afterwards, in noticing other qualifications he possesses, he says, « Sheridan was not only an excellent dramatic writer, but a first-rate parliamentary speaker. His characteristics as an orator were manly unperverted good sense, and keen irony. * * * * No one was equal to him in replying, on the spur of the moment, to pompous absurdity, and unravelling the web of flimsy sophistry. He was the last accomplished debater of the House of Commons .” — Lectures on the Comic Writers, p. 334. Dey be that tear, my gentlest love, Be hushed that struggling sigh ; Nor seasons, day, nor fate shall prove, More fixed, more true, than I : Hushed he that sigh, be dry that tear, Cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear — Dry be that tear. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 33 Ask’st thou how long my love shall stay, When all that’s new is past ? How long, ah ! Delia, can I say, How long my life shall last ? Dry be that tear, be hushed that sigh, At least I’ll love thee till I die — Hushed be that sigh. And does that thought affect thee, too, The thought of Sylvio’s death, That he, who only breathed for you, Must yield that faithful breath ? Hushed be that sigh, be dry that tear, Nor let us lose our heaven here — Dry be that tear. i Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, enters into one of his subtle searches after the source of an idea, and he says, speaking of the lines above, “ There is in the second stanza here a close resemblance to one of the madrigals of Montreuil, a French poet, to whom Sir John Moore was indebted for the point of his well known verses, “ If in that breast so good so pure.” “ The grief that on my quiet preys, That rends my heart and checks my tongue, I fear will last me all my days. And feel it will not last me long.” It is thus in Montreuil — “ C’est un mal quejaurai tout le terns de ma vie ; Maisje ne I'auraipas long-terns'' Moore thus proceeds— “Mr. Sheridan, however, knew nothing of French, and neglected every opportunity of learning it, till, by a very natural process, his ignorance of the language grew into a hatred of it. Besides we have the immediate source from which he derived the thought of this stanza, in one of the essays of Hume, who being a reader of foreign literature, most probably found it in Montreuil— or in an Italian song of Menage, from which Montreuil who was accustomed to such thefts probably stole it.” What an amusing literary “ detective" we have here; what an exposd of picking and stealing. Sir John Moore and Hume suspected of filching from Montreuil; Montreuil from Menage ;— and, finally, Sheridan from Hume— as thus, according to his biographer, the passage in Hume (which Sheridan has done little more than versify) is as follows: — “ Why so often ask me. How long my love shall yet endure ? Alas my Coelia, can I resolve the question ? Do I know how long my life shall yet endure ?” - Moore’s Life of Sheridan, vol. i. p. 52, 2nd Ed. 8vo. 3* 34 SONGS OF TUE AFFECTIONS, AH ! CRUEL MAID. Sheeidan. Ah, cruel maid, how hast thou chang’d The temper of my mind ! My heart, by thee from love estrang’d, Becomes, like thee, unkind. By fortune favoured, clear in fame, I once ambitious was ; And friends I had, who fanned the flame. And gave my youth applause. But now, my weakness all accuse, Yet vain their taunts on me ; Friends, fortune, fame itself, I’d lose, To gain one smile from thee. And only thou should not despise My weakness, or my woe ; If I am mad in others eyes, ’Tis thou hast made me so. But days, like this, with doubting curst, I will not long endure — Am I disdained — I know the worst, And likewise know my cure. If false, her vows she dare renounce, That instant ends my pain ; For, oh ! the heart must break at once, That cannot hate again. Moore, in his life of Sheridan, says, this song, “ for deep impassioned feeling and natural eloquence, has not, perhaps, its rival through the whole range of lyric poetry.” Now, as Moore, in several places notices Sheridan’s plagiarisms, as in the foregoing song, “ Dry be that tear” for example, and as the Muses delight in retributive justice, it is only fair to show that Moore himself was sometimes indebted to Sheridan for an idea, as in the following song for instance. JOYS THAT PASS AWAY, Moose. Joys that pass away like this, Alas ! are purchas’d dear, If every beam of bliss Is followed by a tear ! SONGS OF TIIE AFFECTIONS. 35 Fare thee well, oh ! fare thee well ! Soon, too soon, thon’st broke the spell ; Oh ! I ne’er can love again The girl whose faithless art Could break so dear a chain, And with it break my heart. Once when truth was in those eyes, How beautiful they shone ; But now that lustre flies, For truth alas ! is gone ! F are thee well ! oh ! fare thee well ! H(5w I’ve lov’d, my hate shall tell ; Oh ! how lorn, how lost would prove Thy wretched victim’s fate, If, when deceiv’d in love, He could not fly to hate. The four last lines of this song are clearly a plagiarism from the concluding verse of the song above, “Ah, Cruel Maid — the only difference being that Sheridan’s idea, which overflows with love, Moore has disfigured by bitterness. AILLEEN. John Banim. ’Tis not for love of gold I go, ’Tis not for love of fame ; Tho’ fortune should her smile bestow And I may win a name, Ailleen, And I may win a name. And yet it is for gold I go, And yet it is for fame, That they may deck another brow, And bless another name, Ailleen, And bless another name. For this , — but this, I go ; for this I lose thy love awhile, And all the soft and quiet bliss Of thy young, faithful smile, Ailleen, Of thy young, faithful smile. 36 SONGS OP THE AFFECTIONS. I go to brave a world I hate, And woo it o’er and o’er, And tempt a wave, and try a fate Upon a stranger shore, Ailleen, Upon a stranger shore. Oh ! when the bays are all my own, I know a heart will care ! Oh ! when the gold is wooed and won, I know a brow shall wear, Ailleen, I know a brow shall wear ! And when, with both returned again, My native land to see, I know a smile will meet me there, And a hand will welcome me, Ailleen, And a hand will welcome me. SAY OURNEEN DEELISH. George Colman, the younger. Born 1762, died 1836. An ! the moment was sad when my love and I parted — Savournecn deelish Eileen oge !* As I kissed off her tears, I was nigh broken-hearted ! — Savourneen deelish Eileen oge ! Wan was her cheek which hung on my shoulder — Damp was her hand, no marble was colder, I felt that again I should never behold her. Savourneen deelish Eileen oge ! When the word of command put our men into motion, Savourneen deelish Eileen oge ! I buckled on my knapsack to cross the wide ocean, Savourneen deelish Eileen oge ! Brisk were our troops, all roaring like thunder, Pleased with the voyage, impatient for plunder, My bosom with grief was almost torn asunder, Savourneen deelish Eileen oge ! Long I fought for my country, far, far from my true love, Savourneen deelish Eileen oge / All my pay and my booty I hoarded for you love, Savourneen deelish Eileen oge ! * Darling dear Young Ellen. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 37 Peace was proclaimed, escaped from the slaughter, — Landed at home, my sweet girl I sought her ; But sorrow, alas ! to the cold grave had brought her ; Savourneen deelish Eileen oge ! This very touching song is part of a musical drama entitled “The Surrender of Calais,” and, though written by an Englishman, finds an appropriate place here, as being a song sung by an Irish character (0‘Carrol) to one of the finest of the Irish melodies, entitled “ Savourneen Deelish,” and Colman adopted the title as part of the burden of his song, thus following a practice of some antiquity in England, as I take occasion to show elsewhere in this volume. (See “ Woods of Caillino.”) HOW OFT, LOUISA. From “ The Duenna.” Sheridan - . How oft, Louisa, hast thou said — Nor wilt thou the fond boast disown — Thou wouldst not lose Antonio’s love To reign the partner of a throne ! And by those lips that spoke so kind, And by this hand I press’d to mine, To gain a subject nation’s love I swear I would not part with thine. Then how, my soul, can we he poor, Who own what kingdoms could not buy ? Of this true heart thou shalt he queen, And, serving thee — a monarch I. And thus control’d in mutual bliss, And rich in love’s exhaustless mine — Do thou snatch treasures from my lip, And I’ll take kingdoms back from thine ! SWEET SEDUCER. Moore. Sweet seducer, ever smiling ! Charming still and still beguiling ! Oft I swore to love thee never — But I love thee more than ever. Oh ! be less, be less enchanting, Let some little grace be wanting ; Let my eyes, when I’m expiring, Gaze awhile without admiring ! G8 SO^GS OP THE AFFECTIONS. SINCE C (ELIA’S MY FOE. Thomas Dhffett. 1676. A singular interest attaches to this old song, as it establishes beyond a doubt, that the beautiful air which the Scotch claim under the title of “ Loehaber” is Irish. In the British Museum is a book entitled •* New Poems, Songs, Prologues and Epilogues, never before printed, by Thomas Duffctt, and set by the most Eminent Musicians about the Town, London 1676.” In this volume is the song which follows, but instead of having the name of any of these “ Eminent Musicians about the Town” attached to it, as is the case with other songs in the volume, the lines are headed “ Song to the Irish Tune.” The use of the definite article, in this title, is worthy of remark ; — it is not “ Song to an Irish tune,” — but “ Song to the Irish tune :” — rendering the inference almost inevitable that it was a melody which had lately been introduced from Ireland, of which the name was not known, and it was therefore recognized, for want of a better title, as “ The Irish Tune.” The anonymous quality which prevents the discovery of authorship in other cases, is the very quality which establishes the source of the production in this. Had it been called by any name, the country of its birth might have been dubious, or, at least, open to question, but being called the Irish Tune, is proof positive whence it came. The Scotch claim the air of Loehaber because it is given in “ The Tea-table Miscellany” of Allan Ramsay, who wrote words to it ; (“Farewell to Loehaber, farewell to my Jean,” — to the tune of “ Loehaber no more”) ; but Allan Ramsay was not born until 1696, twenty years after the publication of Duffett’s song to The Irish Tune ; and the first edition of The Tea-table Miscellany was not published until 1724 — half a century after Duffett’s song ; — besides which, The Tea-table Miscellany can never he reckoned an authority for the establishment of Scottish authorship, inasmuch as quantities of English songs are set down in that work without any acknowledgment whatever; and, in the third volume of the later editions, twenty-one songs are given, as from the “Beggar’s Opera” - the only acknowledg- ment made in the book — and as the songs were in the very bloom of their popularity at the time, every one would have known whence they were taken, had there been no acknowledgment. In the “ Book of Scottish Songs,” (an antecedent volume in this series) it is stated that the original name of the melody of Loehaber was “King James’s March to Ireland but as the melody, known as The Irish Tune, was popular in the reign of Charles the Second, before James was king, that very title damages the Scotch claim besides, James did not go to Ireland until 1688, while the tune was already admired in London, as The Irish Tune , twelve years before that, and the popularity of the air, which was afterwards called by the leading line of Duffett’s song, is made evident by the numerous publications ©f it, as well as answers to it.— I give the proofs— they may be seen in Old Balades. Oblong 4to. Rawlinson Collection, Bodleian Library. Amintor’s lamentation for Celia’s Unkindness, to a delicate new tune : or SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 39 Since Celia’s my foe. Printed for Philip Brooksby at the Golden Ball near the Hos- pital gate West Smithfield. (One large Wood Cut and three small) Celias Answer to Amintor’s lamen- tation. To the tune of Celia’s my foe, with allowance, 5 small wood cuts, in Two parts. (it begins “ ’Tis better then so Tho’ you force me to go” Printed by Phillip Brooksby, &c. A. d. 1582. In “ Wit and Drollery,” it is Entitled * The Resolve.’ p. 327. Another copy in the Roxburghe Collection. Vol. 2. p. 9. Printed by Phillip Brooksby, &c. a. n. 1684. The air is used to “ A Song Entitled ‘ The deceived Virgin or the treacherous Young Lover’s Cruelty,’ &c and In 1727, to “A Song on the Confession and dying words of William Stevenson, Merchant, &c,” both of which may be seen in the Cheetham Library, Manchester, in Halliwell’s Collection, pp. 279, 258. Here we find, in 1727, contemporaneously with Allan Ramsay’s publication, the song called “Since Coolia’s my foe,” — but not a word about “Lochaber,” or “King James’s March.” The air was introduced into various entertainments and even into operas, which became so much the vogue after the success of Gay’s “ Beggar’s Opera j” for, three years later than the foregoing date, the air is given in “ The Lover’s Opera, as it is performed at the Theatre Royal by His Majesty’s servants, By Mr. Chetwood, London. Printed for John Watts at the printing office in Wild Court, near Lincoln’s Inn fields. M.DCC.XXX.” And here, in 1730, is the air still called “Since Ccelia’s my foe.” I have been thus elabo- rate in tracing the air from 1676, when Duffett published his song, up to 1730, to show that for half a century the air was known by that name only, and not until half a century after Duffett’s song is there any published notice of “ Lochaber.” Singularly coinciding with this circumstantial evidence is a passage in Bunting’s “ Ancient Music of Ireland.” Dublin, 18-40. “Another eminent harper of this period, was Miles Reilly of Killincarra, in the County of Cavan, born about 1635. He was universally referred to by the harpers at Belfast, as the composer of the original of ‘Lochaber.’ The air is supposed to have been carried into Scotland by Thomas Connallon, born five years later at Cloonmahoon, in the County of Sligo. O’Neill calls him ‘the great harper,’ and states that he attained to city honours (‘ They made him, as I heard, a Baillie, or kind of Burgomaster’) in Edinburgh, where he died.” Here is the name of the composer of the air given, transmitted through a succession of harpers; — he was born in 1635; — the air, composed by him, is popular in London some 40 SOXGS OF TIIE AFFECTIONS. thirty years after— a period probable enough, and its passage into Scotland accounted for by Connallon having gone to that country and died there. Bunting made his assertion in 1840, without any knowledge of the existence of this song of “ Since Coelia’s my foe,” and all that belongs to the history of that song, as detailed in this note, is singularly corrobo- rative of the fact Bunting records. Such a coincidence of evidence establishes, beyond all cavil, the right of Ireland to the beautiful melody in question, which was emphatically called in England, nearly two centuries ago. The Irish Tune. Here is the song strictly copied, with its odd spelling and misuse of capitals, from the original in the British Museum. Song to the Irish Tune.* Since Coclia’s my foe, To a Desart I’ll go, Where some river For ever Shall Echo my woe : The Trees shall appear More relenting than her , In the morning Adorning Each leaf with a tear. When I make my sad mone To the Rocks all alone, From each hollow Will follow Some pitiful grone. But with silent Disdain She requites all my pain, To my mourning Returning No answer again. Ah Ccelia adieu, When I cease to pursue, You’ll discover No Lover Was ever so true. Your sad Shepherd flies From those dear cruel eyes Which not seeing His being Decaies, and he dies. * For the musical notation of the tune, see Appendix. SONGS of the affections. 41 Yet tis better to run To the fate we can’t shun Than for ever To strive, for What cannot be won. What ye Gods have I done That Amyntor alone Is so treated And hated For Loving but one. Moore, in the seventh number of the Irish Melodies, makes a note to his song of “When cold in the earth” written to this beautiful “ Irish Tune,” “ Our right to this fine air (the ‘Lochaber’ of the Scotch) will, I fear, be disputed; but as it has been long connected with Irish words, and is confidently claimed for us by Mr. Bunting and others, I thought I should not be authorized in leaving it out of this collection.”— How pleased Moore would have been, could he have seen the proof, given in the note above, establishing beyond all doubt that the air is Irish. I confess it is a great pleasure to me — not that I ever doubted the air was Irish, for its own internal evidence is quite enough for any musician, con- versant with the character of the music of the two countries; but it is a pleasure to me, I say, to give so conclusive a proof to others, that this exquisite melody is an *• Irish Tone.” In the fly-leaf of the volume whence the above song is taken, there is written, in a firm hand, “Nar Luttrell. His Book. 1679—80.” So that, most likely, it belonged to that Narcissus Luttrell whose copious diary has lately issued from the Oxford University press. COME ALL YOU PALE LOVEPS. Thomas Duffett, 1676. Here is another song by Duffett. He was of sufficient note to have his name recorded in Lempriere’s Universal Biography ; but there is little information given about him except that he “ flourished in the 17th century.” — That he was Irish, his name vouches for, and the rapid recurrence of rhymes in the foregoing song is also characteristic of his country; it may be remarked, also, that the rhyme “hated” is given to answer “treated’’ — which implies an Irish pronunciation ( trated ) on the part of the writer. There is a good deal of vivacity in many of Duffett’s songs ; but they are tainted with the licentious spirit of the age in which he wrote, making them, like many better ones of the same date, unfit for selection. — The following, however, is unexceptionable, and the * take-it-easy’ style in which he satisfies himself with his imaginary fair one is very Irish in its humour. — It has not any head line, for title, but is given as under ; and in this, as in the foregoing song, the typographical peculiarities are copied. 42 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Song set by Mr. Marsh junior. Come all you pale Lovers that sigh and complain, While your beautiful Tyrants hut laugh at your pain, Come practice with me To he happy and free, In spight of Inconstancy, Pride or Disdain. I see and I Love, and the Bliss I enjoy, No Bival can lessen, nor envy destroy. My Mistress so fair is, no Language or Art, Can describe her Perfection in every part, Her meen’s so Gentile, With such ease she can kill : Each look with new passion she captives my heart. I see, &c., No rival, &c. Her smiles, the kind message of Love from her eyes, When she frowns ’tis from others her Elame to disguise, Thus her scorn or her Spight I convert to delight, As the Bee gathers Honey where ever he flies. I see, &c., No rival, &c. My vows she receives from her Lover unknown, And I fancy kind answers although I have none, How Blest should I he If our Hearts did agree Since already I And so much Pleasure alone. I see, and I love, and the Bliss I enjoy, No Bival can lessen nor envy destroy. ODE TO THE MINSTREL O’CONNELL AN. Born, 1G40. Translated from the Irish, by Samuel Ferguson-, M.R.I.A. Having occasion to mention the name of O’Connellan in the leading note to “Since Ccelia’s my foe,” wherein it is stated he was called “ The Great Harper,” I think this is a fitting place to insert the following ode in his honour; for though the ode does not properly come within the range of this section, yet, in connexion with the note alluded to, the place is not inappropriate, and it may be inferred with what a charm his execution invested tho lovely Irish air he introduced into Scotland. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS, 43 Enchanter, who reignest Supreme o’er the North, And hast wiled the coy spirit Of true music forth ; In vain Europe’s minstrels To honour aspire, When thy swift, slender fingers Go forth on the wire. There is no heart’s desire Can he felt by a king That thy hand cannot snatch From the soul of the string, By the sovereign virtue And might of its sway ; Enchanter, who steal from The fairies your lay ! Enchanter, I say, For thy magical skill Can soothe every sorrow, And heal every ill ; Who hear thee, they praise thee, And weep while they praise, For, charmer, thou stealest Thy strain from the fays ! There are three versions of this beautiful ode. MOLLY ASTORE. Rt. Hon. Geobge Ogle. Born 1739. Died 1814. Esteemed both in private and public, Mr. Ogle represented the city of Dublin in 1799, and voted against the Union. And here a little anecdote on the subject of voting for the Union may not be inappropriate. It is well known that bribery to an enormous amount was employed to secure a majority on that occasion. Places and pensions, and “ ready money down,” too, were given so freely, that some greedy jobbers opened their mouths very wide indeed, and, knowing how narrow the majority must be, one gentleman, towards the close of the negociation (not Mr. Ogle), put such an enormous price on his adhesion to the Government that his terms could not be complied with. Consequently, he voted in the minority, with the opposition, though it was well known he had been trafficking with the other side ; and when, the next day, he was seen walking about with a very melancholy expression of countenance, one of the uncompromising Hibernian 44 SONGS OF TELE AFFECTIONS. members said to another: — “What do you think of owe patriotic friend there?” as ho pointed him out. “ I think he’s a sorry patriot,” was the answer. And now, revenons a nos moutons. This charming pastoral was addressed, it is sup- posed, to a certain Miss Moore, whom the author afterwards married. Lucky dog ! Would to heaven all plaintive poets had a similar reward — though it is not quite certain that they’d never complain after. “Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine— A sad, sour, sober beverage— by time Is sharpened from its high celestial flavour Down to a very homely household savour.” But 1 think I hear the ladies say, “Oh, fie!” so I’ll “leave my damnable faces ” (after the vinegar) and let the song begin. As down by Banna’s banks I strayed, One evening in May, The little birds, in blithest notes Made vocal ev’ry spray ; They sung their little notes of love, They sung them o’er and o’er. Ah, gra-ma-chree , ma colleen oge, My Molly astore.* The daisy pied, and all the sweets The dawn of Nature yields — The primrose pale, and vi’let blue, Lay scattered o’er the fields ; Such fragrance in the bosom lies Of her whom I adore. Ah, gra-ma-chree , ma colleen oge f My Molly astore. I laid me down upon a bank, Bewailing my sad fate, That doomed me thus the slave of love, And cruel Molly’s hate ; How can she break the honest heart That wears her in its core P Ah, gra-ma-chree , ma colleen oge , My Molly astore. You said you loved me, Molly dear! Ah ! why did I believe ? Yet who could think such tender words Were meant but to deceive ? • Which may be translated thus “ Love of my heart— my young girl, Molly my treasure !” SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 45 That love was all I asked on earth — Nay, Heaven could give no more. Ah, gra-ma-chree, ma colleen oge. My Molly astore. Oh ! had I all the flocks that graze On yonder yellow hill ; Or lowed for me the numerous herds That yon green pasture fill ; With her I love, I’d gladly share My kine, and fleecy store. Ah, gra-ma-chree , ma colleen oge. My Molly astore. Two turtle doves, above my head Sat courting on a bough, I envied them their happiness, To see them bill and coo, Such fondness once for me was shown, But now, alas ! ’tis o’er. Ah, gra-ma-chree , ma colleen oge. My Molly astore. Then fare thee well, my Molly dear ! Thy loss I e’er shall moan, Whilst life remains in this fond heart, ’Twill beat for thee alone ; Though thou art false, may Heaven on thee Its choicest blessings pour. Ah, gra-ma-chree, ma colleen oge. My Molly astore. This song had a great popularity, a popularity increased by the great beauty of the music— one of the finest of our Irish airs— and it is still popular in Ireland. But a dangerous rival to it appeared, from the pen of Sheridan, a son g in “ The Duenna,’ ’ under the title, “ Had I a heart for falsehood framed,” — and that most charming song divided the sway in Ireland with its predecessor, and seized the crown altogether in England. But a lyrical Alexander afterwards appeared, who deposed all the old kings of song, and the beautiful air of “ Molly Astore,” which already inspired the writing of two admirable lyrics, had a triple glory added in the noble song of “ The harp that once thro’ Tara’s hall,” by Moore, and I will venture on a prediction in a parody — The force of conquest can no further go ! 46 SONGS OF TIIE AFFECTIONS, HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED. She rid ak. Air, “Molly Astore.” After the foregoing song and commentary, Sheridan’s song naturally takes its place here. Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne’er could injure you, For, tho’ your tongue no promise claim’d, Your charms would make me true ; Then, lady, dread not here deceit, Nor fear to suffer wrong, For friends in all the aged you’ll meet, And lovers in the young. But when they find that you have bless’d Another with your heart, They ’ll hid aspiring passion rest, And act a brother’s part. Then, lady, dread not here deceit Nor fear to suffer wrong, For friends in all the aged you’ll meet And brothers in the young. In speaking of the lyrics in the Opera of “The Duenna’’ Moore says— "By far the greater number of the songs are full of beauty, and some of them may rank among the best models of lyric writing. The verses ‘Had I a heart for falsehood framed,’ notwith- standing the stiffness of this word ‘framed,’ and one or two slight blemishes, are not unworthy of living in recollection with the matchless air to which they are adapted.” — Moore s Life of Sheridan, vol. 1. p. 174. (Svo. 2nd Ed.) BRIDGET CRUISE Carolan. Translated by Thomas Furloeg. On ! turn thee to me, my only love, Let not despair confound me ; Turn, and may blessings from above In life and death surround thee. This fond heart throbs for thee alone — Oh ! leave me not to languish, Look on these eyes, whence sleep hath flown, Bethink thee of my anguish : My hopes, my thoughts, my destiny — All dwell, all rest, sweet girl, on thee. SONGS OE THE AFFECTIONS. 47 Young bud of beauty, for ever bright, The proudest must bow before thee ; Source of my sorrow and my delight — Oh ! must I in vain adore thee ? Where, where, through earth’s extended round, Where may such loveliness be found ? Talk not of fair ones known of yore ; Speak not of Deirdre the renowned — She whose gay glance each minstrel hail’d ; Nor she whom the daring Dardan bore From her fond husband’s longing arms ; Name not the dame whose fatal charms, When weighed against a world, prevail’d ; To each might blooming beauty fall, Lovely, thrice lovely, might they be ; But the gifts and graces of each and all Are mingled, sweet maid, in thee ! How the entranc’d ear fondly lingers On the turns of thy thrilling song ; How brightens each eye as thy fair white fingers O’er the chords fly gently along ; The noble, the learn’ d, the ag’d, the vain, Gaze on the songstress, and bless the strain. How winning, dear girl, is thine air, How glossy thy golden hair ; Oh ! lov’d one, come back again, With thy train of adorers about thee — Oh ! come, for in grief and in gloom we remain — Life is not life without thee. My memory wanders — my thoughts have stray d — My gathering sorrows oppress me — Oh ! look on thy victim, bright peerless maid, Say one kind word to bless me. Why, why on thy beauty must I dwell When each tortur’d heart knows its power too well ? Or why need I say that favour’d and bless’ d Must be the proud land that bore thee ? Oh ! dull is the eye and cold the breast That remains unmov’d before thee. The venerable Charles O’Connor records the effects produced by the performance of this ode, by the bard in the presence of the object of its inspiration. But “the course of true love” ran no smoother in Cardan’s days than in the time of Shakspeare; there were family objections to the union, though it is surmised the lady herself was not insensible to the lyre, for “Woman’s heart was made For minstrels’ hands alone. By other fingers play’d It yields not half the tone.” 48 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. But in this instance, the minstrel was obliged to “ keep his hands off there was a father in the way. “Fathers have flinty hearts !” says Jaffier, while Don Jerome cries, “Oh, what a plague is an obstinate daughter!” but Bridget Cruise was not obstinate : and it is believed that the lines which follow are a translation from some stanzas of her own, in which, while she confesses her love, she bids her lover a hopeless farewell. BRIDGET CRUISE TO CAROLAN From the Irish. On ! tempt not my feet from the straight path of duty, Love lights a meteor but to betray ! And soon wouldst thou tire of the odourless beauty, If grew not esteem upon passion’s decay. Then cease thee — ah, cease thee to urge and to plain ! I may not, I cannot, thy suit is in vain ; For filial affections a daughter restrain, And worthless were she who had slighted their sway. Oh, how couldst thou trust for connubial affection The bosom untrue to its earliest ties ? Or where were thy bliss, when, on sad recollection, I’d sink, self- condemn’d, self-abash’d from thine eyes ? Then cease thee — ah, cease thee ! — ’tis fated we part ! Yet, if sympathy soften the pang of thy heart, I will own to this bosom far dearer thou art Than all that earth’s treasure, earth’s pleasure supplies. But where am I urged by impetuous feeling ? Thy tears win the secret long hid in my breast. Farewell ! and may time fling the balsam of healing O’er wounds that have rankled, and robbed thee of rest. Yet lose not, ah, lose not, each lingering thought Of her who in early affection you sought, And whose bosom to cheer thee would sacrifice aught But love to a parent, the kindest and best. But the love of Carolan for Bridget Cruise had sunk too deeply in his heart to be ever banished from it. Twenty years afterwards, when on a pilgrimage at Loch Derg, the blind bard recognized the object of his youthful affection by the touch of her hand, in assisting her out of the ferry boat. The incident, with some slight variation of the circumstances, more conducive to poetic effect, I have recorded in a ballad of my own, which being so apposite to the subject I venture to insert. TRUE LOYE CAN NE’ER FORGET. Samuel Lover. “ It is related of Carolan, the Irish bard, that when deprived of sight, and after the lapse of twenty years, he recognized his first love by the touch of her hand. The lady’s name was Bridget Cruise, and though not a pretty name, it deserves to be recorded, as belonging to the woman who could inspire such a passion .”— Songs and Ballads. “ True love can ne’er forget; F ondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, — My darling one !” Thus sung a minstrel gray His sweet impassion’d lay, Down by the ocean’s spray At set of sun ; Rut wither’d was the minstrel’s sight, Morn to him was dark as night, Yet his heart was full of light ; As he his lay begun. “ True love can ne’er forget ; F ondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, — My darling one ! 4 50 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Long years are past and o’er, Since from this fatal shore, Cold hearts and cold winds bore My love from me.” Scarcely the minstrel spoke, When quick, with flashing stroke, A boat’s light oar the silence broke Over the sea ; Soon upon her native strand Doth a lovely lady land, While the minstrel’s love-taught hand Did o’er his wild harp run — “ True love can ne’er forget ; Fondly as when we met, Dearest, I love thee yet, — My darling one I” Where the minstrel sat alone, There, that lady fair hath gone, Within his hand she placed her own, — The bard dropp’d on his knee ; From his lips soft blessings came, He kiss’d her hand with truest flame, In trembling tones he named — her name, Though her he could not see. But oh ! — the touch the bard could tell Of that dear hand, remember’d well, — Ah ! — by many a secret spell Can true love find his own ! For true love can ne’er forget ; Fondly as when they met ; He loved his lady yet, — His darling one ! CUSHLA MA CHEEE.* From the Irish. Befoee the sun rose at yester-dawn, I met a fair maid adown the lawn : The berry and snow To her cheek gave its glow, And her bosom was fair as the sailing swan — Then, pulse of my heart ! what gloom is thine ? Vein, or pulse my heart. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 51 Her beautiful voice more hearts hath won Than Orpheus’ lyre of old had done ; Her ripe eyes of blue W ere crystals of dew, On the grass of the lawn before the sun — And, pulse of my heart ! what gloom is thine ? I think it will be admitted that there is much grace and tenderness in this little fragment ; I wish more had been preserved of the song, which is evidently from a superior hand, and if not ancient, is at all events after the manner of ancient Irish songs. Using the berry as a comparison instead of the rose, for example. The “sailing swan,” besides, is a favourite image with the old Irish writers. The lyre of Orpheus is a classical allusion, too, which may remind those acquainted with Mr. Hardiman’s “ Irish Minstrelsy,” of a remark he makes in that most interesting work — “ Our bards appear not only to have been well acquainted with the works of Anacreon, but to have admired, and in many instances imitated their beauties.” He then gives a fragment, very elegantly translated by Mr. D’ Alton, which he says is like Anacreon’s twenty-second Ode, and refers to Mr. Moore’s translation. He says, further, that “ it bears great resemblance to the Epigram of Dyonisius.” On making reference to Mr. Moore’s work I find the likeness much stronger in the latter than in the former, so close indeed as to make the translations from the Irish and the Greek interesting. FRAGMENT. From the Irish. Translated by John D’ Alton. See tbe ripe fruit; oh! were I such, That mellow hangs from yonder spray, To win your eyes, to woo your touch, And on your lips to melt away ! Were I a rose, in some fair bower, By thee selected from the rest ; To triumph in thy choice, an hour, And die — upon thy snowy breast. FRAGMENT. From the Greek of Dyonisius. Translated by Thomas Moore. I wish I might a rose-bud grow, And thou wouldst cull me from the bower, To place me on that breast of snow, Where I should bloom, a wintry flower. 52 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. THE GIRL I LOYE. Translated from the Irish. Callanan. The girl I love is comely, straight and tall ; Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall : Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free — Here’s a health to that charming maid whoe’er she be ! The rose’s blush but fades beside her cheek ; Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and meek ; Her lips like cherries on a summer tree — Here’s a health to the charming maid whoe’er she be ! When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound, And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes round, The barrel is full : but its heart we soon shall see — Come, here’s to that charming maid whoe’er she be ! Had I the wealth that props the Saxon’s reign ; Or the diamond crown that decks the King of Spain, I’d yield them all if she kindly smiled on me — Here’s a health to the maid I love whoe’er she be ! Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I’d pay, And five times five, for my love one hour each day ; Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree — ■ Oh ! dear one, I drink a fond deep health to thee ! YOU NEVER BADE ME HOPE. GBIFFiSr. You never bade me hope, ’tis true, I asked you not to swear ; But I looked in those eyes of blue, And read a promise there. The vow should bind, with maiden sighs That maiden lips have spoken — But that which looks from maiden’s eyes Should last of all be broken ! SOXGS OF TnE AFFECTIONS. 53 OH YIELD, FAIR LIDS. From an unfinished MS. Drama. Sheridan. On yield, fair lids, tlie treasures of my heart, Release those beams, that make this mansion bright ; From her sweet sense, Slumber! though sweet thou art, Begone, and give the air she breathes in light. Or while, oh, Sleep, thou dost those glances hide, Let rosy slumbers still around her play, Sweet as the cherub Innocence enjoy’d, When in thy lap, new-horn, in smiles he lay. And thou, oh Dream, that com’st her sleep to cheer, Oh take my shape, and play a lover’s part ; Kiss her from me, and whisper in her ear, Till her eyes shine, ’tis night within my heart. It may be inferred from a passage in Moore’s “ Life of Sheridan,” that he intended the unfinished drama whence these lines are taken to be called “The Foresters;” and that he was very hopeful of it, for he was wont to exclaim occasionally, to confidential friends, “Ah ! wait till my Foresters comes out ! ” WE TWO. Sheridan. “We two, each other’s only pride, Each other’s bliss, each other’s guide, Far from the world’s unhallow’ d. noise, Its coarse delights and tainted joys, Through wilds will roam and deserts rude — - For, Love, thy home is solitude.” “ There shall no vain pretender he, To court thy smile and torture me, No proud superior there he seen, But nature’s voice shall hail thee, queen.” u With fond respect and tender awe, I will obey thy gentle law, Obey thy looks, and serve thee still, Prevent thy wish, foresee thy will, And added to a lover’s care, Be all that friends and parents are.” These are also from the same MS. drama noticed in the foregoing song of “ Oh, yield fair lids.” 54 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS, BY CCELIA’S AllBOUR. Sheridan - . By Ccelia’s arbour, all tbe night, Hang, humid wreath, — the lover’s vow ; And haply, at the morning’s light, My love will twine thee round her brow. And if upon her bosom bright Some drops of dew should fall from thee ; Tell her they are not drops of night, But tears of sorrow shed by me. In these charming lines Sheridan has wrought to a higher degree of finish an idea to be found in an early poem of his addressed to Miss Linley, beginning “ Uncouth is this moss- covered grotto of stone.” The poem is too long for quotation at length, and in truth not worth it, the choice bit Sheridan remembered, however, and reconstructed as above. The original idea stood thus: “ And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may’st preserve Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew ; And just let them fall at her feet and they’ll serve As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you. “ Or, lest they unheeded should fall at her feet. Let them fall on her bosom of snow ; and I swear The next time I visit thy moss-cover’d seat, I’ll pay thee each drop with a genuine tear.” Moore, in his life of Sheridan, quotes these lines ; but does not quote them quite correctly, lie gives them as follows : — “ And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may’st preserve Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew; Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and they’ll serve As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you.” Moore gives the quotation for the purpose of hinting that Sheridan borrowed the thought; he says, “ The conceit in the stanza resembles a thought in some verses of Angerianus : — “At quum per niveam cervicem injluxerit humor Dicite non roris sed pluvia hcec lacrimce.” Whether Sheridan was likely to have been a reader of Angerianus is, 1 think, doubtful — at all events the coincidence is curious.” — Moore’s Life of Sheridan, vol. 1. p. 50. Now, what is still more “curious,” is, that Moore who accusers Sheridan of borrowing, is again (as in his foregoing songs) a borrower himself, from Sheridan; — let us refer to the following verses. SONGS OF TIIE AFFECTIONS. 55 THOU HAST SENT ME A FLOWERY BAND. Mooke. Thou hast sent me a flowery band, And told me ’twas fresh from the field ; That the leaves were untouched by a hand, And the sweetest of odours would yield. And indeed it is fragrant and fair, But if it were breath’d on by thee, It would bloom with a livelier air, And would surely be sweeter to me. Let the odorous gale of thy breath Embalm it with many a sigh ; Nay, let it be wither’d to death, Beneath the warm noon of thine eye. And instead of the dew that it bears, The dew dropping fresh from the tree, On its leaves let me number the tears That affection hath stolen from thee ! These last four lines are but another form of the idea in Sheridan’s quatrain: — “ And if upon her bosom bright. Some drops of dew should fall from thee ; Tell her they are not drops of night, But tears of sorrow shed by me.” Moore, however, on the subject of plagiarism, declares “ the descendants of Prometheus all steal the spark wherever they find it.” MOLLY BAWN. Samuel Loveh. On, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining, All lonely, waiting here for you ? While the stars above are brightly shining, Because they’ve nothing else to do. The flowers late were open keeping, To try a rival blush with you ; But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping, With their rosy faces wash’d with dew. Oh, Molly Bawn, &c. Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear, And the pretty stars were made to shine ; And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear, And may be you were made for mine ; The wicked watch-dog here is snarling, He takes me for a thief you see ; For he knows I’d steal you, Molly, darling, And then transported I should be. Oh, Molly Bawn, &c. FAREWELL. CaLLANAjN". Though dark fate hath ’reft me Of all that was sweet, And widely we sever, Too widely to meet, Oh ! yet, while one life- pulse Remains in this heart, ’Twill remember thee, Mary, Wherever thou art. How sad were the glances, At parting, we threw ; Ho word was there spoken, But the stifled adieu ; My lips o’er thy cold cheek All raptureless pass’d, ’Twas the first time I prest it, It must be the last. But why should I dwell thus On scenes that but pain, Or think on thee, Mary, When thinking is vain ; Thy name to this bosom, How sounds, like a knell ; My fond one — my dear one, For ever — farewell ! SYMPATHY. Mrs. Tighf.. Born, 1773. Died, 1810. Wert thou sad, I would beguile Thy sadness, by my tender lay : Wert thou in a mood to smile, With thee, laugh the hours away. Didst thou feel inclined to sleep, I would watch, and hover near ; Did misfortune hid thee weep, I would give thee tear for tear. Not a sigh, that heaved thy breast, But I’d echo from my own ; — Did one care disturb thy rest, Mine, alas ! were also flown. When the hour of death should come, I’d receive thy latest sigh ; Only ask to share thy tomb, Then, contented, with thee die. The accomplished authoress of “ Psyche” exhibits woman’s nature in its most beautiful form in these verses— only a woman could have written them : a man never cpuld ’nave thought of them. 4 * 58 SONGS OF TIIE AFFECTIONS. THE FAIllY BOY. Samuel Lover. When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place. A mother came when stars were paling, AV ailing round a lonely spring ; Thus she cried while tears were falling, Calling on the Fairy King : “ Why with spells my child caressing, Courting him with fairy joy ; Why destroy a mother’s blessing, AVherefore steal my hahy hoy ? “ O’ei the mountain, through the wild wood, AYhere his childhood loved to play ; AVhere the flowers are freshly springing, There I wander day by day. There I wander, growing fonder Of the child that made my joy ; On the echoes wildly calling, To restore my fairy boy. “ But in vain my plaintive calling, Tears are falling all in vain ; He now sports with fairy pleasure, He’s the treasure of their train. F are thee well, my child, for ever, In this world I’ve lost my joy ; But, in the next, we ne’er shall sever, There I’ll lind my angel hoy !” THE DEAR IRISH BOY. My Connor, his cheeks are as ruddy as morning, The brightest of pearls do hut mimic his teeth ; While nature with ringlets his mild brows adorning, His hair Cupid’s how-strings, and roses his breath. Smiling, beguiling, Cheering, endearing, Together how oft o’er the mountains we stray’d ; By each other delighted, And fondly united, I have listened aU day to my dear Irish boy. SONGS OF TIIE AFFECTIONS. 59 No roebuck more swift could fly over the mountain, No veteran bolder meet danger or scars, He’s sightly, he’s sprightly, he’s clear as the fountain, His eyes beaming love, oh ! he’s gone to the wars. Smiling, beguiling, &c. The soft tuneful lark, his notes changed to mourning, The dark- screaming owl impedes my night’s sleep, While lonely I walk in the shade of the evening, Till my Connor’s return I will ne’er cease to weep. Smiling, beguiling, &e. The war being over, and he not returned, I fear that some dark envious plot has been laid ; Or that some cruel goddess has him captivated, And left here to mourn his dear Irish maid. Smiling, beguiling, &c. I often heard this song, in my boyhood, sung to a very sweet and plaintive melody. Its ambitious style of imagery, as “Cupid’s bow-strings” — and absurdities, as “ dark scream- ing owl,” &c., stamp it at once as the work of the hedge schoolmaster. If any doubt remained as to the source of its authorship, after these remarks, the “ cruel goddess” that “has him captivated,” would settle the matter. Nevertheless, with all its faults, there is something pleasing in this song. The note of the lark “changed to mourning” is good, and the words are, generally, well suited to vocalization — a great merit ; the successive ringing of rhymes, too, in the refrain— “ Smiling, beguiling, Cheering, endearing,” falls pleasantly on the ear, and is a grace (as I think) peculiarly Irish. A more modem song, founded on the above and sung to the same air, follows. MY CONNOH. On ! weary’s on money, — and weary’s on wealth, And sure we don’t want them while we have our health : ’Twas they tempted Connor far over the sea, And I lost my lover — my cushla ma cliree.* Smiling — beguiling, Cheering — endearing, Oh ! dearly I lov’d him, and he loved me. By each other delighted — And fondly united — My heart’s in the grave with my cushla ma chree . Vein, or pulse of my heart. 60 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. My Connor was handsome, good-humoured, and tall ; At hurling and dancing the best of them all. But when he came courting beneath our old tree, His voice was like music — my cushla ma cliree . Smiling, &c. So true was his heart and so artless his mind, He could not think ill of the worst of mankind. He went bail for his cousin who ran beyond sea, And all his debts fell on my cushla ma chree. Smiling, &c. Yet still I told Connor that I’d be his bride — In sorrow or death not to stir from his side. He said he could ne’er bring misfortune on me ; — But sure I’d be rich with my cushla ma chree . Smiling, &c. The morning he left us I ne’er will forget ; Hot an eye in our village with tears but was wet, Don’t cry any more, oh ma vourneen* said he, For I will return to my cushla ma chree. Smiling, &c. Sad as I felt then, hope was mixed with my care, — Alas ! I have nothing left now but despair. His ship it went down in the midst of the sea, And its wild waves roll over my cushla ma chree . Smiling — beguiling, Cheering — endearing, Oh ! dearly I loved him and he loved me. By each other delighted — And fondly united — My heart’s in the grave with my cushla ma chree . * My darling. In this song there is more simplicity and greater truth of feeling, than in the foregoing. The leading couplet of the third verse — So true was his heart and so artless his mind. He could not think ill of the worst of mankind.” is deserving of mark, and the going “bail for his cousin,” however homely the illustration, is a truthful characteristic of a confiding nature. SONGS OF TIIE AFFECTIONS. 61 EILEEN AROON.* Gerald Griffin. "When, like the early rose, Eileen aroon ! Beauty in cliildlioocl blows ; Eileen aroon ! When, like a diadem, Buds blush around the stem, Which is the fairest gem ? Eileen aroon ! Is it the laughing eye, Eileen aroon ! Is it the timid sigh, Eileen aroon ! Is it the tender tone, Soft as the string’d harp’s moan? Oh, it is truth alone. Eileen aroon ! When, like the rising day, Eileen aroon ! Love sends his early ray, Eileen aroon ! What makes his dawning glow Changeless through joy or woe? Only the constant know — Eileen aroon ! I know a valley fair, Eileen aroon ! I knew a cottage there, Eileen aroon ! Ear in that valley’s shade, I knew a gentle maid, Flower of a hazel glade, Eileen aroon ! Who in the song so sweet ? Eileen aroon ! Who in the dance so fleet ? Eileen aroon ! • For the convenience of the English reader the sound, of the Irish title is given, in this spelling of it. In its native form it is spelt Eibhlin a ruin — meaning “ Ellen my secret love.” A closer approximation to the pronunciation would be obtained by the spelling Ile-yeen ; but that is too far removed from the native orthography. 02 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Dear were her charms to me, Dearer her laughter free, Dearest her constancy, Eileen aroon ! Were she no longer true, Eileen aroon ! What should her lover do ? Eileen aroon ! Fly with his broken chain F ar o’er the sounding main, Never to love again, Eileen aroon ! Youth must with time decay, Eileen aroon ! Beauty must fade away, Eileen aroon ! Castles are sacked in war, Chieftains are scattered far, Truth is a fixed star, Eileen aroon ! The old Irish air to which this is written is called “ Eileen Aroon j” is very ancient and of great beauty. The Scotch claim it under the title of “ Eobin Adair j” but it is altered, much for the worse, a lilting character, or what Dr. Burney calls the Scotch snap, being given to the third and seventh bars of the first part of the air, and the seventh bar of the second part. Burns, whose ear was so finely attuned to sweet measures, objects to it, on this very account ; here are his words : — “ I have tried my hand on ‘ Robin Adair,’ and you will probably think with little success : but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that I despair of doing anything better to it .” — Burns to Mr. Thomson, August, 1793. Now, the Irish air, in its original purity, is as smooth as an unbroken ascending and descending scale can make it j it is anything but the “ cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure," of which Burns’ sensitive ear was so painfully conscious in the Scottish form. THE BLUSH OF MORN. Translated from the Irish by Miss Balfotjb. The blush of morn -at length appears ; The hawthorn weeps in dewy tears ; Emerging from the shades of night, The distant hills are tipped with light ; SCXN’GS OF TI1E AFFECTION’S. C3 The swelling breeze, with balmy breath, Wafts fragrance from the purple heath ; And warbling woodlarks seem to say, Sweet Anna ! ’tis the dawn of day ! Ah ! didst thou Love’s soft anguish feel, No sleep thy weary eye would seal ; But to the hank thou wouldst repair, Secure to meet thy lover there. In pity to my pangs awake ! Unwilling I thy slumbers break; But longer absence would betray I met thee at the dawn of day. Yet though our parents now may frown, Some pitying power our vows shall crown ; Be constancy and truth but thine, While youth, and health, and love are mine ; Then shall our hearts united glow With all that fondness can 'bestow, And love extend his gentle sway O’er close of eve and dawn of day. These words are adapted to a graceful air in “A General Collection of the Ancient Music of Ireland,” by Edward Bunting; the melody is entitled “The Dawning of the Day;” but there is another and liner Irish melody of the same name. I NE’ER COULD ANY LUSTRE SEE. Sheridan. I ne’er could any lustre see, In eyes, that would not look on me ; I ne’er saw nectar on a lip, But where my own did hope to sip. Has the maid, who seeks my heart, Cheeks of rose, untouched by art ? I will own the colour true, When yielding blushes aid their hue. Is her hand so soft and pure ? I must press it, to be sure ; Nor can I be certain then, ’Till it grateful press again . 64 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Must I, with, attentive eye, Watch her heaving "bosom sigh? I will do so, when I see That heaving bosom sigh for me. These are graceful lines, but they cannot fail to remind us of “ Shall I like a hermit dwell?” attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh, the concluding couplet of the first verse of which is as follows : — “ If she undervalue me, What care I how fair she be ? ” And this burden running, with slight variety, through Raleigh’s song, is the germ of the idea in Sheridan. Sheridan, however, is not the only one open to the charge of plagiarism, for the happy idea had sufficient fascination to induce George Wither to take it up ; but he certainly wrought it out still more beautifully in his exquisite song “ Shall I, wasting in despair?” — so exquisite as to tempt me to the insertion of the first verse, even at the expense of throwing Sheridan, so far, into the shade. The author of “ The School for Scandal,” however, can afford it. “ Shall I, wasting in despair. Die because a woman’s fair ? Or make pale my cheeks with care, ’Cause another’s rosy are ? Be she fairer than the day. Or the flowery meads in May ; If she be not so to me. What care I how fair she be ?” MOLLY ASTOKE.* From the Irish. Translated by S. Ferguson, M.R.I.A, Oh, Mary dear — ob, Mary fair, Oh, branch of generous stem, White blossom of the banks of Nair, Though lilies grow on them ; You’ve left me sick at heart for love, So faint I cannot see ; The candle swims the board above, I’m drunk for love of thee ! Oh, stately stem of maiden pride, My woe it is and pain, That I, thus severed from thy side, The long night must remain. * Molly my treasure. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Go Through all the towns of Innisfail I’ve wandered far and wide, But, from Downpatrick to Kinsale, From Carlow to Kilbride, ’Mong lords and dames of high degree, Where’er my feet have gone, My Mary, one to equal thee I never looked upon : I live in darkness and in doubt Whene’er my love’s away — But were the gracious sun put out, Her shadow would make day. ’Tis she, indeed, young hud of bliss, And gentle as she’s fair — Though lily-white her bosom is, And sunny bright her hair, And dewy azure her blue eye, And rosy red her cheek, Yet brighter she in modesty, More beautifully meek ! The world’s wise men, from north to south Can never ease my pain — But one kiss from her honey mouth Would make me well again. SUCH WAS THE EYE. From the Irish. Such was the eye, that won my love, And thrilled me with its brilliant glance ; And such the form that once could move — • The voice could charm, the smile entrance. I view thee, fairest, and I sigh, Thou look’st so like what once was mine ; Her red, red, lip, and sparkling eye, And voice, and smile, were just like thine. She’s gone — inconstant as the wind, That wantons with the summer flower ; She’s gone — but madness stays behind ; And heartless home, and joyless bower. A fading eye, a powerless hand, When, o’er the strings, it fain would stray ; Deserted steed, and idle brand, All tell me that my love’s away. THE GREEN SPOT THAT BLOOMS ON THE DESERT OF LIFE. Rt. Hon. John Philpot Curran, Master of the Rolls in Ireland. John Philpot Curran was born at Newmarket, in the county of Cork, in 1750, and died in 1817. Though the following song is remarkably sweet, and expressive of an affectionate nature, yet it is not by such a trifle that Curran is to be judged. Indeed, he wrote but few verses, and those must be considered as mere vers de Societe, thrown off to amuse, rather than to command admiration. But though Curran did not write poetry (commonly so called) his speeches abound in the highest poetic qualities : — vividness of imagery— felicity of diction — intensity of expression— force and suddeimess of contrast. As a potent orator and an undaunted patriot in the most dangerous times, John Philpot Curran must be classed among the highest in the annals of Ireland. On the desert of life, where you vainly pursued Those phantoms of hope, which their promise disown, Have you e’er met some spirit, divinely endued, That so kindly could say, you don’t suffer alone ? And, however your fate may have smiled, or have frowned, Will she deign, still, to share as the friend or the wife ? Then make her the pulse of your heart ; for you’ve found The green spot that blooms on the desert of life. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 67 Does slie love to recall tlie past moments, so dear, When the sweet pledge of faith was confidingly ghtii, When the lip spoke the voice of affection sincere, And the vow was exchanged, and recorded in heaven Does she wish to re-hind, what already was bound, And draw closer the claims of the friend and the wife r Then make her the pulse of your heart ; for you’ve found The green spot that blooms on the desert of life. WHEN SABLE NIGHT. Shehidan. When sable night, each drooping plant restoring, Wept o’er her flowers, her breath did cheer, As some sad widow o’er her babe deploring, Wakes its beauty with a tear — When all did sleep whose weary hearts could borrow One hour of love from care to rest ; Lo ! as I press’d my couch in silent sorrow My lover caught me to his breast. He vow’d he came to save me From those that would enslave me ; Then kneeling, Kisses stealing, Endless faith he swore ! But soon I chid him thence, For, had his fond pretence Obtain’d one favour then, And he had press’d again, I fear’d my treach’rous heart might grant him more. Burns, in his correspondence with Mr. George Thomson the publisher, writes thus : — “There is a pretty English song by Sheridan, in ‘The Duenna,’ to this air, which is out of sight superior to D’Urfey’s. It begins — * When sable night each drooping plant restoring.’ “The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is the very native language of simplicity, tenderness, and love. I have again gone over my song to the tune, as follows: — * Sleep’st thou or wak’st thou, fairest creature ? Eosy morn now lifts his eye. Numbering ilka bud which Nature Waters with the tears of joy' ” The idea conveyed in the words I have given in Italics, is but the repetition of Sheridan’s idea of Sable Night weeping over her flowers 68 SONGS Of THE AFFECTIONS. Oil TELL ME, SWEET KATE. Lady Morgan. The following stanzas are taken from “ Irish Melodies, by Miss S. Owenson” (the maiden name of Lady Morgan). She, as well as the Hon. Geo. Ogle, G. N. Reynolds, and Edward Lysaght, was before Moore in the worthy work of introducing to the notice of the world the melodies of her native land by means of suitable verse adapted to them, and thus may be honourably noted among the precursors ofthe illustrious bard who crowned the patriotic work by giving world-wide celebrity to the Irish melodies, and who so often mingled with the charm of his song a plea for his country. Lady Morgan’s verses did not aim so high ; — but her novels did: — the authoress of “O’Donnell” and “Florence McCarthy” is among the most freedom-loving and sparkling of the Irish novelists. On tell me, sweet Kate, by what magical art, You seduced ev’ry thought, ev’ry wish of my soul ? Oh tell how my credulous fond doating heart, By thy wiles and thy charms from my bosom was stole. Oil whence, dangerous girl, was thy sorcery, tell, By which you awaken’d love’s tear and love’s sigh ; — In tliy voice, in thy song, lurks the dangerous spell P In the blush of thy cheek, or the beam of thine eye ? MY LOVE’S THE EAIREST CREATURE. Lady Morgan. My love’s the fairest creature, And round her Rutters many a charm, Her starry eyes, blue-beaming, Can e’en the coldest bosom warm ; Her lip is like a cherry Ripely sueing to be cuR’d ; Her cheek is like a May rose In dewy freshness newly pull’d. Her sigh is like the sweet gale, That dies upon the violet’s breast, Her hair is like the dark mist, On which the evening sunbeams rest ; Her smile is like the false light Which lures the traveller by its beam ; Her voice is like the soft strain, Which steals its soul from passion’s dream. songs of the affections. 63 CATE* OF ABAGLEN. Air, “An Cailin Ruadh.” These sweet stanzas appeared in “The Spirit of the Nation” under the signature of Domhnall Gleannach, and the rhythm of the beautiful air to which they are adapted has been preserved with a fidelity that proves praiseworthy care and a nice ear on the part of the writer. The rhythm is so peculiar, that, without knowing the air, a reader is liable to miss the proper accentuation of the lines, and therefore, to insure his pleasure in enjoying their harmony, I venture to point it out.— Let the accent be laid on the fourth syllable of every line. When first I saw thee, Cate, That summer evening late, Down at the orchard gate Of Araglen, I felt I ne’er before Saw one so fair, a-stor ,f I fear’d I’d never more See thee agen. I stopp’d and gazed at thee, My footfall, luckily lleach’d not thy ear, tho’ we Stood there so near ; While from thy lips, a strain, Soft as the summer rain, Sad as a lover’s pain, Fell on my ear. I’ve heard the lark in June, The harp’s wild plaintive tune, The thrush, that aye too soon Gives o’er his strain ; I’ve heard, in hush’d deli ght The mellow horn at night Waking the echoes light Of wild Loch Lein ; J But neither echoing horn, Nor thrush upon the thorn, Nor lark at early morn Hymning in air, Nor harper’s lay divine, E’er witch’d this heart of mine Like that sweet voice of thine, That evening there. * Thus spelt in the original. Caitlin is the true spelling of the name which more fre- quently appears in Anglo-Irish songs as “Kathleen.” t Oh, treasure. X Killarney. 70 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. And when some rustling, dear, Fell on thy list’ning ear, You thought your brother near, And nam’d his name, I could not answer — though, As luck would have it so, His name and mine, you know, Were both the same — Hearing no answ’ring sound, You glanced in doubt around, With timid look, and found It was not he ; Turning away your head And, blushing rosy red, Like a wild fawn you tied Far, far from me. The swan upon the lake, The wild rose in the brake, The golden clouds that make The west their throne, The wild ash by the stream, The full moon’s silver beam, The evening star’s soft gleam, Shining alone ; The lily rob’d in white — All — all are fair and bright: — » But ne’er on earth was sight So bright, so fair, As that one glimpse of thee That I caught then, ma cliree* It stole my heart from me That evening there. And now you’re mine alone, That heart is all my own — That heart, that ne’er hath known A tlame before, That form, of mould divine, That snowy hand of thine, Those locks of gold are mine For evermore. Was lover ever seen As blest as thine, Caitlin ? Hath ever lover been More fond, more true ? My heart. soxgs op the affections. 71 Tliine is my ev’ry vow ! For ever dear, as now ! Queen of my heart he thou ! My Colleen r/m.f t In the original mo cailinruadh ; — that is to say, “my red girl,” meaning red-haired girl. De gustibus, &, c. But let us suppose the lady’s locks were auburn. Those, however, who look on a beloved object with eyes of admiration care little for form or tint Desdemona “ Saw Othello’s visage in his mind.” The Scotch lady who so profoundly admired the late eloquent Doctor Irving, reconciled herself to his squint by declaring, “ he gleyed na mair than a mon o’ genius suld.” THE LOYE SICK MAID. The winter it is past, And the summer’s come at last, And the small birds sing on every tree ; The hearts of those are glad, Whilst mine is very sad ; Whilst my true love is absent from me. I’ll put on my cap of black, And fringe about my neck, And rings on my lingers I’ll wear ; All this I’ll undertake, For true lover’s sake, For he rides at the Curragh of Kildare. A livery I’ll wear, And I’ll comb down my hair, And I’ll dress in the velvet so green; Straightways I will repair To the Curragh of Kildare. And ’tis there I will get ty dings of him. With patience she did wait, Till they ran for the plate, In thinking young Johnston to see ; But Fortune prov’d unkind, To that sweetheart of mine For he’s gone to Lurgan for me. I should not think it strange, The wide world for to range, If I could obtain my heart’s delight : But here in Cupid’s chains I’m obliged to remain, Whilst in tears do I spend the whole night. 72 SONGS OF TIIF. AFFECTIONS. My love is like the sun, That in the firmament doth run, Which. is always constant and true : But your’s is like the moon, That doth wander up and down And in every month it’s new. All you that are in love, And cannot it remove, F or you pittied are by me : Experience makes me know That your heart is full of woe, Since my true love is absent from me. Farewell my joy and heart, Since you and 1 must part, You are the fairest that I e’er did see; And I never do design, For to alter my mind Although you are below my degree. The foregoing is taken from the “ Roxburg Collection” (Vol. iii, No. 680,) in the British Museum. The celebrated race-course the Curragh of Kildare and also the town of Lurgan being named in the ballad, prove it to be Irish. It has appeared, however, in collections of Scotch Songs, the verses that prove its Irish origin being omitted; the second being written by Burns (as given below), and the fourth slightly altered from the seventh of the original. Its latest Scottish appearance was made in Wood’s “Songs of Scotland,” 1851— a collection wherein many songs and airs are given which are decidedly not Scotch. Here is the Scottish version with the title altered, which the reader can compare with the Irish original, and may remark that there is not a single Scotticism in the composition. THE WINTER IT IS PAST. The winter it is past, and the summer’s come at last. And the small birds sing on ev’ry tree ; Now ev’ry thing is glad, when I am very sad ; For my true love is parted from me. The rose upon the briar, by the waters running clear. May have charms for the linnet or the bee ; Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest; But my true love is parted from me. My love is like the sun, that in the sky doth run For ever so constant and true ; But his is like the moon, that wanders up and down. And every month it is new. All you that are in love, and cannot it remove, I pity the pains you endure ; For experience makes me know, that your hearts are full of woe, A woe that no mortal can cure. A still more remarkable appropriation of an Irish song may be noticed in “ The Banks of Banna,” which follows. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 73 THE BAXES OF BAHRA. Et. Hon. Geobge Ogee. Shepheeds, I have lost my love, Have you seen my Anna ? Pride of every shady grove Upon the hanks of Banna. I for her my home forsook, Hear yon misty mountain, Left my flocks, my pipe, my crook, Greenwood shade, and fountain. Never shall I see them more Until her returning ; All the joys of life are o’er — From gladness chang’d to mourning. Whither is my charmer flown ? Shepherds, tell me whither ? Ah ! woe for me, perhaps she’s gone, For ever and for ever ! It is very little short of a century since this song was written by Hr. Ogle, to the beau- tiful melody generally known as “ The Banks of Banna,” hut whose ancient title is “ Down beside me.” It is, one may say, notoriously Irish, yet it has been published in W ood’s “Songs of Scotland,” 1851, with the note, that “the air has been sometimes claimed as Irish.” It would be little less ridiculous if the editor had said that “ St. Patrick’s Day” had been sometimes claimed as Irish. The air has been long coveted by the Scotch publishers and editors, for, as far back as 1793, Bums thus writes to Hr. George Thomson: “You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though they are certainly Irish. ‘Shepherds, I have lost my love, 5 (Banks of Banna), is, to me, a heavenly air. What would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it?****** Set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow .” — Burns to Thomson, April 7, 1793. Here Bums honestly confesses the air (as well as four others Hr. Thomson set down for appropriation) to he Irish. The beauty of the air inspires him with the desire to adapt words to it; but, he adds, “let the Irish verses follow.” Burns did not want to defraud Ireland of any honour to which she was entitled, hut he was not successful in the lines he wrote to the melody, and they were rejected by Mr. Thomson, and no wonder : for what could be hoped of a song beginning thus ? “Yestreen I got a pint of wine, A place where body saw na : Yestreen lay on this breast of mine The gowden locks of Anna.” It is surprising how Bums could have written such trash. So much for the attempt to appropriate “ The Banks of Banna” in 1793. But Mr. George O 74 SONUS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Thomson was too keen a poacher to let his game escape him, so, in 1824, he took a shot at the Irish melody himself, but missed it, decidedly. Here are his lines “ Dearest Anna grieve not so, Tho’ we’re doom’d this hour to part; Fortune long hath prov’d my foe, But never can subdue my heart. Forced to distant climes, I fly,— Climes where gold and diamonds grow; For thee to toil, for thee to sigh, ’Till that blest day which seals my vow. “No ship shall leave those sunny seas Without some token kind and true ; And I will hail the fav’ring breeze That brings sweet tidings back from you. Thus lingering years their course will roll, And absence only more endear Those ties which bind us soul to soul — ’Till Fate again shall waft me here.” Such mere jingle, might, under any circumstances, have been thrown into the fire without the world being a loser ; but when we remember that Moore, in 1S10, had written his charming lines “On Music” to this melody of “The Banks of Banna,” the attempt of Mr. Thomson savours of presumption. Moore’s song begins thus : — “When thro’ life unblest we rove, Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes we used to love In days of boyhood, meet our ear, Oh ! how welcome breathes the strain ! Wakening thoughts that long have slept; Kindling former smiles again ■ In faded eyes that long have wept.” Comparing, then, the “ breath of song” to the breeze that “ sighs along beds of oriental flowers,” he says, that after the flowers die, the gale still partakes of their sweetness — and “ So when pleasure’s dream is gone Its memory lives in Music’s breath.” Thus he concludes, “ Music, oh how faint, how weak Language fades before thy spell ! Why should Feeling ever speak. When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? Friendship’s balmy words may feign, Love’s are ev’n more false than they ; Oh ! ’tis only Music’s strain Can sweetly soothe and not betray.” Though we have thus traced the air and song of “ The Banks of Banna,” up to 1821— we have something more to add. It has been shown that the Scotch publisher was foiled in his attempt to get Scottish words to an Irish melody in 1793; and that the attempt at adapting words in 1824 was a failure ; but the publisher of 1851, gets over the difficulty by appropriating the Irish song altogether, both words and music. This is Scottish song-making-made-easy, with a vengeance. if a country that has a reputation for hospitality and good-fellowship in a high degree, and where fun is sup- posed to have always abounded, what- ever scarcity might prevail in other matters, one would expect to find songs under the title which heads this sec- tion, in abundance ; yet, considering that these two classes of song have been clubbed together to make one section, the number is less than might have been anticipated ; but ‘ ‘ the reason why” can readily be given. Songs ad- vocating drinking — mere incentives to swilling — are so repugnant to modern taste, that only few, and those of high merit, have been selected, as illustrating a particular period of society, and as specimens necessary 76 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. to illustrate a certain class of lyric literature. That period of society has happily gone by, when a man was scarcely considered to be a man until he had learned how to become a beast; when exces- sive drinking was looked upon as a sort of social virtue — a thing to be proud of. Addison well remarks in the “The Spectator,” (No. 569,) “Novices are so incurable as those which men are apt to glory in ; one would wonder how drunkenness should have the good luck to be of the number.” Yet Addison himself increased the wonder by yielding, in his latter days, to the very vice against which he wrote an eloquent essay. But drinking was not only “ gloried in;” it was considered, by some, a sort of duty independent of sociality ; for even if you could not get a companion for your drinking-bout (a rare case of default), still you must drink; and, in such a case, a certain Galway gentleman’s ingenuity was displayed by “ his drink- ing his right hand against his left.” With this vicious habit of society passed away the vicious style of song ; but I am pleased to notice, that, even before hard drinking had quite gone out, it was an Irishman who first divested the convivial song of much that was coarse, and invested it with much of witty allusion — I mean Richard Brinsley Sheridan ; and, after him, Thomas Moore in a still greater degree redeemed the bacchanalian lyric from what was censurable, not only excluding all that was offensive, but wreathing the wine-cup with some of the brightest flowers of poesy. What an admirable image is this in the third verse of ‘ ‘ One bumper at parting,” — “ IIow brilliant the sun look’d in sinking! The waters beneath him how bright ! Oh ! trust me, the farewell of drinking Should be like the farewell of light. You saw how he finished by darting His beam o’er a bright billow’s brim — So, fill up, let’s shine at our parting In full liquid glory, like him.” And what tenderness and fancy in these concluding lines of a verse in “Doth not a meeting like this :” — “ Though haply o’er some of your brows, as o’er mine, The snow-fall of time may be stealing — what then ? Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine, We’ll wear the gay tinge of youth’s roses again.” But his crowning bacchanalian song is “Fill the bumper fair.” How elegantly it begins : — CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. 77 11 Fill the bumper fair ! Every drop we sprinkle O’er the brow of care Smooths away a wrinkle.” This is followed up with the brightest invention and most sparkling wit throughout. Among other witty things, asking why we inherit “ the ennobling thirst from wine’s celestial spirit/’ he says, it chanced upon a day “ When, as bards inform us, Prometheus stole away The living fires that warm us : ” Prometheus having forgotten to bring anything with him to steal the lire in, looks about, and “ Among the stars he found A bowl of Bacchus lying.” Then comes the fanciful conclusion : — “ Some sparks were in the bowl, Eemains of last night’s pleasure, With which the sparks of soul Mix’d their burning treasure. Hence the goblet’s shower Hath such spells to win us ; Hence its mighty power O’er that flame within us.” This, I venture to say, is the wittiest bacchanalian song overwritten. With respect to the comic, the choice has also been limited by considerations of truth and propriety. Allusions having already been made, in the preface, to this portion of editorial duty, the same ground must not be gone over again further than to say, that, with respect to truth, it would be a violation of it to admit numerous songs, that have been hitherto considered Irish comic songs, as representative of Ireland in any way, as regards either national habits or national wit. And with respect to propriety, it would be a violation of that also, to present to the reader a heap of course vulgarity unredeemed by either wit or humour. Therefore much has been excluded that has been considered the regular stock-in-trade of Irish comic songs, but no one who respects either Ireland or good taste will regret it ; and while those who will tolerate a certain licence of expression foi fun’s sake, will find some songs here to gratify them, yet those specimens have been so guardedly admitted, that I trust they could not be objected to by the most fastidious. 78 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. LET THE TOAST PASS. Sheridait. Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen, Here’s to the widow of fifty; Here’s to the flaunting extravagant quean, And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty: Chorus. Let the toast pass, Diink to the lass, I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass. Here’s to the charmer, whose dimples we prize, Yow the maid who has none sir, Here’s to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And here’s to the nymph with but one, sir : Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. Here’s to the maid with a bosom of snow, And to her that’s as brown as a berry ; Here’s to the wife, with a face full of woe, And now to the girl that is merry : Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. For let’em be clumsy, or let’em be slim, Young, or ancient, I care not a feather ; So fill the pint bumper,* quite up to the brim, And let e’en us toast them together : Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. * Those were the days of hard drinking (let us be thankful they are passed away), when they not only filled a “pint bumper,” but swallowed it at a draught, if they meant to be thought “ pretty fellows.” I remember hearing of a witty reply which was made (as it was reported) by Sir H s L e, an Irish bon vivant of the last century, to his doctor, who had cut him down to a pint of wine daily, when he was on the sick list. Now the convivial baronet was what was called, in those days, a “ six bottle man,”— and, we may suppose, felt very miserable on a pint of wine per diem. The doctor called the day after he had issued his merciless decree, and hoped his patient was better. “ I hope you only took a pint of wine yesterday,” said he. The baronet nodded a melancholy assent. “ Now, don’t think so badly of this injunction of mine, my dear friend,” continued the doctor, “you may rely upon it, it will lengthen your days.” “That I believe,” returned Sir Hercules, “for yesterday seemed to me the longest day I ever spent in my life.” THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. R. A. Milliken. Born, 1767 ; Died, 1815. R. A. Milliken was bom in tbe county of Cork. The late Thomas Cro/ton Croker supposes the following song, which attained such wide-spread popularity, to have been written about 1798 or 1799, and this version of it is after that given in Mr. Croker’s volume, wherein he states that he prints from a MS. of the author. It is written in imitation, or rather ridicule, of the rambling rhapsodies so frequently heard amongst the Irish peasantry, who were much given, of old, to the fustian flights of hedge schoolmasters, who delighted in dealing with gods and goddesses and high historic personages, and revelled in the ‘Cambyses vein.” “ Dick,” as Milliken was familiarly called by his friends in Cork, was a most convivial sou', and kept late hours. On one occasion, as a sedate citizen of Cork called upon him one morning about some business, Dick was still in bed. He hurried on his clothes and came forth. “ Ah, Dick,” said his Quaker visitor, “ thou wilt never be rich if thou dost not get up earlier ; it is ‘the early bird that gets the worm.’” Dick, who did not like to be schooled, replied, ‘‘The d — 1 mend the worm for being up so early.” The groves of Blarney They look so charming, Down by the purling Of sweet silent streams ; 80 CONVIVIAL AXD COMIC SOXGS. Being banked with posies That spontaneous grow there, Planted in order By the sweet rock close. ’Tis there’s the daisy And the sweet carnation, The blooming pink, And the rose so fair ; The daffodowndilly — Likewise the lily, All flowers that scent The sweet fragrant air. ’Tis Lady Jeffers* That owns this station ; Like Alexander, Or Queen Helen fair ; There’s no commander . In all the nation, For emulation, Can with her compare. Such walls surround her, That no nine-pounder Could dare to plunder Her place of strength ; . But Oliver Cromwell,! Her he did pommell, And made a breach In her battlement. There’s gravel walks there, For speculation, And conversation In sweet solitude. ’Tis there the lover May hear the dove, or The gentle plover In the afternoon ; And if a lady Would be so engaging As to walk alone in Those shady bowers, * The address with which much local and historic truth are smothered in burlesque is not the least of the specialities of this singular rhapsody. Blarney was forfeited in 1689 by Lord Clancarty, and really did pass into the hands of the Jeffery family. t That Blarney Castle was battered is true ; but not by Cromwell, though Cromwell, as the grand buggaboo of the Irish songster, is most properly made the assailant of the ill-used Lady Jeffers. Lord Broghill in reality took the castle in 1646, and a published letl er of his exists, dated “ Blairney" CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS, 81 ’Tis there the courtier He may transport her Into some fort, or All under ground. For ’tis there’s a cave where No daylight enters, But cats and badgers Are for ever bred ; Being mossed by nature, That makes it sweeter Than a coach-and six, Or a feather bed. ’Tis there the lake is, Well stored with perches, And comely eels in The verdant mud ; Besides the leeches, And groves of beeches, Standing in order For to guard the flood. There ’s statues gracing This noble place in — All heathen gods And nymphs so fair : Bold Neptune, Plutarch, And Nieodemus, All standing naked In the open air ! So now to flnish This brave narration, Which my poor geni Could not entwine ; But were I Homer, Or Nebuchadnezzar, ’Tis in every feature I would make it shine. In the “ Reliques of Father Prout,” — that most diverting divine — an additional verse to this song is given, which no editor could omit without deserving to be hung up to dry on his own lines. Besides, a chief feature of “The Groves” — the “ Blarney Stone,”— which it is strange Milliken left unsung, is eulogized, with a force of illustration that must strike every M.P., and to which no lover could be insensible. There is a stone there. That whoever kisses, Oh ! he never misses To grow eloquent 3 82 CO^YIYIAL AXD COMIC S0NC3. ’Tis he may clamber. To a lady’s chamber. Or become a member Of parliament : t A clever spouter He’ll soon turn out, or An out-and-outer, “ To be let alone.” Don’t hope to binder him, Or to bewilder him, Sure he’s a pilgrim From the Blarney stone !* * An English friend of mine was much amused by an answer he received from a peasant at Blarney, when he enquired what was the particular virtue of the Blarney Stone. “ Sure, it taiches you policy,” says Pat. “ What do you mean by policy ?” asked my friend. “ Why, saying one thing, an l mayning another,” This definition of policy I offer as a tribute to the shade of Talleyrand, and make a present of to diplomatists in general. TIIE TOWN OF PASSAGE. “ Fatheb Peout.” Air, “ Groves of Blarney.” So great was the popularity of the " Groves of Blarney” (the foregoing), that several songs have since appeared, written after the same fashion, of different degrees of merit, indicating what a “ floating capital” of ability must exist in a country when such things appear anonymously, “hit off” for an occasion, or to enliven the social circle, or merely as a safety-valve to the boiling mirth of the Irish temperament. Hamlet prays that he may not “burst in ignorance ,” — these merry Irish dogs would certainly burst in silence. But amongst all such songs the following stands supreme. The town of Passage f Is both large and spacious, And situated Upon the say ; ’Tis nate and dacent, And quite adjacent, To come from Cork On a summer’s day. There you may slip in, To take a dippin’ Forenent the shippin’ That at anchor ride ; Or in a wherry Cross o’er the ferry To Carrigaloe On the other side. f Novf called Queeqsto\yn, in commemoration of her Majesty’s visit to the noble harbour of Cork. CONVIVIAL AXD COMIC SOXGS. 83 Mud cabins swarm in This place so charmin’ With sailors’ garments Hung out to dry ; And each abode is Snug and commodious, With pigs melodious, In their straw-built sty, ’Tis there the turf is, And lots of murphies* Head sprats and herrings, And oyster -shells ; Nor any lack, oh ! Of good tobacco, Though what is smuggled By far excels. There are ships from Cadiz, And from Barbadoes, But the leading trade is In whiskey-punch ; And you may go in Where one Molly Bowen Keeps a nate hotel For a quiet lunch. But land or deck on, You may safely reckon, Whatsoever country You come hither from, On an invitation To a jollification With a parish priest, That’s called “Father Tom.” Of ships there’s one fixt For lodging convicts A floating “stone jug” Of amazing bulk ; The hake and salmon, Playing at bagammon, Swim for divarsion All round this hulk ; There “ Saxon” jailors Keep brave repailers, Who soon with sailors Must anchor weigh * Potatoes. 84 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. From tli’ em’rald island, Ne’er to see dry land Until they spy land In sweet Bot’ny Bay.* ♦ To the present generation it may not be unnecessary to state, that Botany Bay is the old name for the place of “transportation beyond the seas.” “Australia” is a name coined since the early days of repeal. In Cook’s Voyages of Discovery it is stated, that the name Botany Bay was given to the place in consequence of the number of strange plants and flowers found there by Dr. Solander, (if I remember -rightly). To give an instance of the playful spirit in which the Irish treat the most serious matters I am tempted to trespass on the space usually allowed to a note; but redundancy is better than baldness. A gentleman issuing from the court where the Judge was delivering a somewhat lengthy address to some prisoners he was sentencing to transportation, was accosted by a friend, who asked what was going on inside— “ Oh,” says he, “ Lord became so scientific that I got tired and came away.” “How, scientific?” said the other. “Oh,” answered he, “ he is delivering a lecture on Botany .” I remember, too, when a new pile of building was added to Trinity College, Dublin, for additional chambers for the students, that they, in consequence of its being in a somewhat out-of-the-way place, called it “ Botany Bay.” Oh ! merry Ireland ! Fun presides in all your temples — those of the Muses and Justice included. TIIE BLARNEY. S. C. Hall. In a dramatic piece entitled “ The Groves of Blarney,” written for the lamented Tyrone Power (that admirable actor) by Mrs. S. C. Hall, the following song was sung. It was written by her husband, the descendant of an English gentleman, who, having visited Ireland, settled there, won by the attractions of the country (like many a one before and since), and that attachment to Ireland has increased in the son— and with good reason — for he won to wife one of the most gifted of Ireland’s daughters, whose touching tales of her country, and sunny and shadowy sketches of its peasantry, have made her name celebrated and admired abroad, and beloved at home. Oh, when a young bachelor woos a young maid Who’s eager to go and yet willing to stay, She sighs and she blushes, and looks half afraid, Yet loses no word that her lover can say, Whatjs it she hears but the blarney? Oh, a perilous thing is this blarney ! To all that he tells her she gives no reply, Or murmurs and whispers so gentle and low ; And though he has asked her when nobody’s by, She dare not say “ yes,” and she cannot say “no.” She knows what she hears is the blarney, Oh, a perilous thing is the blarney ! CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. 85 But people get used to a perilous thing, And fancy the sweet words of lovers are true ; So, let all their blarney be passed through a ring, The charm will prevent all the ill it can do, And maids have no fear of the blarne}^, Nor the peril that lies in the blarney I Truly the gift of language, to which tradition holds the “Blarney Stone” entitled, seems not to he given for nothing, if we may judge from all the words that have been spent upon it. Here is another lyric in celebration of its powers. To those conversant with Irish songs it will be seen that it is almost a parody on that old favourite, written by Lady Morgan, commencing — “Oh, did you ne’er hear of Kate Kearney, Who lived on the banks of Killarney ? ” Oh, did you ne’er hear of the Blarney, That’s found near the banks of Killarney? Believe it from me, No girl’s heart is free, Once she hears the sweet sound of the Blarney. For the Blarney’s so great a desaiver, That ' 1,1 ' ’ e there — tho’ you leave her, All the thricks you’re about, Till she’s quite gone herself, with your Blarney. Oh, say, would you find this same Blarney, There’s a castle, not far from Killarney, On the top of the wall — - But take care you don’t fall, There’s a stone that contains all this Blarney. Like a magnet, it’s influence such is, That attraction it gives all it touches, If you kiss it, they say, That from that blessed day, You may kiss whom you plaze, with your Blarney. Blarney Castle has been a fertile theme for poets of all degrees. I have seen a queer anonymous song lamenting its destruction by Oliver Cromwell, on whom the national poets always pour out their vials of wrath; and, indeed, no wonder, notwithstanding all Lord THE BLARNEY. Samuel Lover. Air, “ Kate Kearney.” 86 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. Macaulay says in praise of his rule in Ireland. The song' is too long for, and not worth quotation at length, but I will give as much of it as I think may be amusing and not inappropriate here. The bard opens with a burst of lament — “ O ! Blarney Castle, my darling, you’re nothin at all but could stone ! With a wee little taste of ivy that up your side has grown. Och ! it’s you that was once strong and ancient, and you kept the Sassenaehs down ! And you sheltered the Lord of Clancarly who then lived in Dublin town.” He then describes “ that robber, Ould Cromwell!” loading a battering-ram with gun- powder and attacking the Castle. Cromwell and Ireton indulging in an extraordinary sort of luncheon, or pic nic, at the same time, if we may believe the bard — “ It was now the poor boys of the Castle looked over the - battlement wall, And there they saw that ruffian, Ould Cromwell, a feeding on powder and ball , And the fellow that married his daughter, a chawing grape-shot in his jaw; ’Twas bowld I-rat-ton they called him, and he was his brother-in-law.” Further space must not be trespassed upon herein quotation from this wonderful ballad, but if Loid Macaulay should happen, in the course of his researches, to alight upon it, I hope he will use it more tenderly than he does CLARENDON. WOULD YOU CHOOSE A FEIEKD P Griffin. Would you choose a friend ? Attend ! attend ! I ’ll teach you how to attain your end. He on whose lean and bloodless cheek The red grape leaves no laughing streak, On whose dull white brow and clouded eye Cold thought and care sit heavily, Him you must flee: — ’Tween you and me, That man is very had company. CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. 87 And he around whose jewelled nose The blood of the red grape freely flows ; Whose pursy frame as he fronts the board Shakes like a wine-sack newly stored, In whose half-shut, moist, and sparkling eye, The wine-god revels cloudily, Him you must flee : — ’Tween you and me, That man is very bad company. But he who takes his -wine in measure, Mingling wit and sense with pleasure. Who likes good wine for the joy it brings, And merrily laughs and gaily sings, W ith heart and bumper always full, Never maudlin, never dull, Your friend let him be: — ’Tween you and me, That man is excellent company. This song, though of a bacchanalian character, has all the merit of Griffin’s refined nature within it. He takes his wine — as he did everything else— like a gentleman. PUItTY MOLLY BEALLAGHAN. This very clever song was written by an Irish lady, but as she permitted her merry muse to rove “fancy free” into a phraseology rather outside the pale permitted to the gentler sex, she would never allow her name to be divulged to the public, and the few who were in her secret were faithful to her desire for incognito. Added to the thoroughly Irish cha- racter of the verses, the song has an exquisite Irish melody as its vehicle of being imparted, and this has increased the popularity to which it is so well entitled on its own account. Ah tben, Mam dear, did you never bear of purty Molly Brallaghan ? Troth, dear, I’ve lost her, and I’ll never be a man again, Not a spot on my hide will another summer tan again, Since Molly she has left me all alone for to die. The place where my heart was, you might easy rowl a turnip in, It’s the size of all Dublin, and from Dublin to the Devil’s glin,* If she chose to take another, sure she might have sent mine back agin, And not to leave me here all alone for to die. * The Devil’s Glen is a romantic valley in the county of Wicklow, where wood and water make one of those wildernesses of beauty for which that picturesque county is famous. It is about thirty miles from Dublin ; so this line of the song gives a tolerably good notion of the size of an Irishman’s heart. 88 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. Mam, dear, I remember when tlie milking time was past and gone, W e went into the meadows where she swore I was the only man That ever she could love — yet oh, the base, the cruel one, After all that to leave me here alone for to die ! Mam, dear, I remember as we came home the rain began, I rowl’d her in my frize coat, tho’ the divil a waistcoat I had on, And my shirt was rather line-drawn ; yet oh, the base and cruel one, After all that she’s left me here alone for to die. I went and towld my tale to Father M ‘Donnell, Mam, And thin I went and ax’d advice of Counsellor O’Connell, Mam, He towld me promise-breaches had been ever since the world began. Now, I have only one pair, Mam, and they are corduroy! Arrah, what could he mean, Mam ? or what would you advise me to ? Must my corduroys to Molly go ? in troth, I’m bother’d what to do. I can’t afford to lose both my heart and my breeches too, Yet what need I care, when I’ve only to die ! Oh ! the left side of my carcass is as weak as water gruel, Mam — The divil a bit upon my bones, since Molly’s proved so cruel, Mam, I wish I had a carabine, I’d go and fight a duel, Mam, Sure, it’s better far to kill myself than stay here to die. I’m hot and detarmined as a live Salamander, Mam ! Won’t you come to my wake, when I go my long meander, Mam?* Oh ! I’ll feel myself as valiant as the famous Alexander, Mam, When I hear yiz crying round me “Arrah, why did you die ?” * The “long meander” means a funeral; and a very expressive term it is to any one who ever saw the thing in the west or south of Ireland,— a long straggling line of people winding along a road, and uttering the wild wail for the departed, as described in the final line. This wail is called ulican in Ireland, pronounced uli cawn, often falsely written and pronounced “hullagone.” A BUMPER OF GOOD LIQUOR. Sheridan. From the “ Duenna.” A dumped of good liquor Will end a contest quicker Than justice, judge, or vicar; So fill a cheerful glass, And let good humour pass : But if more deep the quarrel, Why, sooner drain the barrel Than be the hateful fellow That’s crabbed when lie’s mellow. A bumper, &e. CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. 89 THADY O’ BIIADY. Ye lasses and bucks, leave off your sly looks, While I sing of one Thady O’ Brady, Who courted Miss Beilly so snug and so slyly, Determined to make her his lady. But before he’d begin to commit that great sin Which the clargy they call matrimony, His furniture all he would tell at one call That he’d give to his own darling honey. First a nate feather bed, and a four-posted stead, A bolster, quilt, blankets and sheets too, A straw curtain, one side to the rafters well tied, And a purty dale board at our feet too ; In one corner some meal, in another a pail Of sweet milk, and roll’d butter hard by it, Some salt in a barrel, and for fear we should quarrel, Some whisky to keep us both quiet. Four knives and four forks, four bottles and corks, Six plates, spoons, and two pewter dishes, Salt butter a store, and salt herrings galore * With good praties as much as she wishes ; Two pots and a griddle, a sieve and a riddle, A slate for a tongs to bring lire on, A pair of pot hooks, and two little crooks To hang up the salt box and gridiron. Three noggins, three mugs, a bowl and two jugs, A crock and a pan something lesser, A nate looking glass, to dress at for mass, Nailed up to a clean little dresser ; Some starch and some blue, in two papers for you, An iron and holder to hold it, A beetlej* to whack, and a stick horse’s back To dry your cap on ’fore you fold it. Some onions and eggs in two little kegs, A kish wherein plenty of turf is, A spade and grifaun, to dig up the lawn, And some manure to cover the murphies ; * Plenty. t A heavy wooden mall, used in Ireland for beating clothes in the process of washing. — The word is found in Shakspeare : — “ If I do, fillip me with a three-man beetle.” Many old English words survive in Ireland the term of their vitality in England. — This fact might open an interesting course of enquiry to the philologist. 90 CONVIVIAL ANT) COMIC SONGS, A dog and two cats to run after the rats, A cock for a clock, to give warning, A plough and a sow, and a nate Kerry cow, To give milk for your tea in the morning, A churn and a dash, to make the cream splash, Some boiling hot water to fill it, Two saucepans with handles, and to make the rush candles Some grease in a small metal skillet ; For a lump of fat bacon you’ll not be short taken, With some cabbage to put where the meat is, A pair of new brogues, and two osier skillogues* To draw water from off the boiled praties. Some flax and a wheel, some wool and a reel, And a besom to keep the house snug, A few bundles of frieze to cover my thighs, And for you, a neat piece of brown rug ; But then for young Thady we must have clothes ready, With pineady to keep him a feeding, A cradle see- saw and a red lobster’s claw, To give to the brat when he’s teething. Some soap to wash all, shirts, stockings, and caul, A table, three stools and a forum, All this I will give, and I think we may live, As well as the justice of quorum. But Biddy, astore, should you want any more, Boar out without any more bother, For an Irishman’s pride ’tis, whatever betide, To keep his poor wife in good order. * A shallow oval-shaped basket, the use of which the following line in the s;ngindi* cates. A sort of rustic colander. • <> WIIY, LiaUOB OF LIFE! Caeolan. Translated by John Dalton, M. It. I. A, This Ode to Whiskey, in its way, is amongst the finest things ever written. How elo- quent— how inventive— how graphic and suggestive in illustration !— and let me add, in deserved tribute to my esteemed friend, Mr. Dalton— how admirably translated ! The Bard addresses Whiskey ; — W hy, liquor of life ! do I love you so ; When in all our encounters you lay me low ? More stupid and senseless I every day grow, What a hint — if I’d mend by the warning I CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. 91 Tatter’d and tom you’ve left my coat, I’ve not a cravat — to save my throat, Yet I pardon you all, my sparkling doat ! If you’d cheer me again in the morning. Whiskey replies : — When you’ve heard prayers on Sunday next, With a sermon beside, or at least — the text, Come down to the alehouse — however you’re vexed, And though thousands of cares assault you : You’ll find tippling there — till morals mend, A cock shall be placed in the barrel’s end, The jar shall be near you, and I’ll be your friend, And give you a “ Kead mille faults. ”* The Sard resumes his address : — You’re my soul and my treasure, without and within, My sister and cousin and all my kin ; ’Tis unlucky to wed such a prodigal sin, — But all other enjoyment is vain, love ! My barley ricks all turn to you — - My tillage — my plough — and my horses too — My cows and my sheep they have — bid me adieu, I care not while you remain, love ! Come, vein of my heart ! then come in haste, You’re like Ambrosia, my liquor and feast, My forefathers all had the very same taste — * For the genuine dew of the mountain. Oh ! Usquebaugh ! I love its kiss ! — My guardian spirit, I think it is, Had my christening bowl been filled with this, I’d have swallowed it — were it a fountain. Many’s the quarrel and fight we’ve had, And many a time you made me mad, But while I’ve a heart — it can never be sad, When you smile at me full on the table ; Surely you are my wife and brother My only child — my father and mother — My outside coat — I have no other ! Oh ! I’ll stand by you — while I am able. If family pride can aught avail, I’ve the sprightliest kin of all the Gaelf — Brandy and Usquebaugh, and ale ! But claret untasted may pass us ; To clash with the clergy were sore amiss, So, for righteousness sake, I leave them this, For claret the gownsman’s comfort is, When they’ve saved us with matins and masses. * Kead mille faulte . — A hundred thousand welcomes. f Gael, —The ancient Irish. 02 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS, THE LAND OF POTATOES, 0! Air, “ Morgan Rattler.” If I had on the clear But five hundred a year, ’Tis myself would not fear Without adding a farthing to ’t ; Faith if such was my lot, Little Ireland’s the spot Where I’d build a snug cot, With a bit of garden to ’t. As for Italy’s dales, With their Alps and high vales, Where with fine squalling gales, Their signoras so treat us, 0 I I’d ne’er to them come, Nor abroad ever roam, But enjoy a sweet home In the land of potatoes, 0 ! Hospitality, All reality, No formality, There you ever see ; But free and easy ’Twould so amaze ye, You’d think us all crazy, F or dull we never be 1 If my friend honest Jack, Would hut take a small hack, And just get on his hack, And with joy gallop full to us ; He, throughout the whole year, Then should have the best cheer, For faith none so dear As our brother John Bull to us! And we’d teach him, when there, Both to blunder and swear, And our brogue with him share, Which both genteel and neat is, 0 1 And we’d make him so drink, By St. Patrick, I think, That he never would shrink From the land of potatoes, 0 ! Hospitality, THE PICQUETS ABE EAST BETBEATING, BOYS. Charles Lever. Prom “Charles O’Malley.” Air, “The Young May Moon.” The picquets are fast retreating, hoys, The last tattoo is heating, hoys ; So let every man Finish, his can, And drink to our next merry meeting, hoys ! The colonel so gaily prancing, hoys, Jlas a wonderful trick of advancing, hoys ; When he sings out §o large, “Fix bayonets and charge ! ” He sets all the Frenchmen a-dancing, hoys ! Let Mounseer look ever so hig, my hoys, Who cares for fighting a fig, my boys P When we play “ Garryowen ” He’d rather go home, For j§Qmphow he’s no taste for a jig, my hoys. THE MOTHER TO HER SOX. Mrs. DowuiifG. Speed thee hoy ! the battle cry Already echoes through the glen ; And freemen’s swords are flashing high In Erin’s sacred cause again ; From rocky dale, from sunny vale, From rugged mountain’s craggy brow, Her warrior sons, in gleaming mail, Are rushing at the signal now. Speed thee boy ! thy hand is weak, ’Twas never yet in battle tried ; The down of youth is on thy cheek, But think on how thy father died. Away — the clans are rushing by ; The Saxon thunders on the plains ; O’Nial’s Are is in thine eye : McCaura’s blood is in thy veins. Hay, check not, boy, those manly tears ! The heart that often flercest proves — That braves the death-field without fears — May weep to part from those it loves. 11 * 226 PATRIOTIC A YD MILITARY SOYGS. And heed not mine, they’ve fall’n before, When from my side thy father lied ; Remember ’mid the battle’s roar The sacred cause for which he bled. Away, hoy ! he thy bosom strong ; Again is pealed the signal word, And, now, the foeman pours along — And, now, the clash of war is heard I Away ! — amid the battle wild, O’Nial’s glittering steel will tell, When brandished by McCaura’s* child — Speed thee, my boy ! — farewell ! — farewell ! * Mrs. Downing loves the theme of MacCarthy, MeCaura being MaeCarthy. A SOLDIER TO-NIGHT IS OUR GUEST. GEBALD G BIFFIN’. At a time like the present, when our heroes of the Crimea have been received with such affectionate welcome, and banquetted in the principal cities of the kingdom, on their return, these lines have an additional value in the temporary interest which thus attaches to them. How our Irish bard would have rejoiced had he been a living witness of that Crimean banquet given in Dublin to the returned conquerors, that banquet upon which I cannot resist congratulating my native city, as being the largest, the most complete, handsomely provided, and most complimentary in all respects to the army, of all the similar testimonials throughout the kingdom. There the highest in the land sat down to the same feast with the private soldier. The Lord Lieutenant of Ireland* proposed the toast to their honour, and that address was so surpassingly fine as to put all others of the kind into the shade. Fay, fan the gay hearth, and fling back the barr’d door, Strew, strew the fresh rushes around on the floor, And blithe be the welcome in every breast For a soldier — a soldier to-night is our guest. All honour to him who, when danger afar Had lighted for ruin his ominous star, Left pleasure, and country, and kindred behind, And sped to the shock on the wings of the wind. If you value the blessings that shine at our hearth — The wife’s smiling welcome, the infant’s sweet mirth — "While they charm us at eve, let us think upon those Who have bought with their blood our domestic repose. • The Right Honourable the Earl of Carlisle. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 227 Then share with the soldier your hearth and your home, And warm be your greeting whene’er he shall come ; Let love light a welcome in every breast For a soldier — a soldier to-night is our guest. O’ BYRNE’S BARD TO THE CLANS OF WICKLOW. Translated from tlie Irish, by Samuel Feegusox, M.R.I.A. God he with the Irish host ! Never he their battle lost ! For, in battle, never yet Have they basely earned defeat. Host of armour, red and bright, May ye fight a valiant fight ! For the green spot of the earth, For the land that gave you birth. Who in Erin’s cause would stand Brother of avenging hand, He must wed immortal quarrel, Pain and sweat, and bloody peril. On the mountain bare and steep, Snatching short but pleasant sleep, Then, ere sunrise, from his eyrie, Swooping on the Saxon quarry. * What although you’ve failed to keep Liifey’s plain or Tara’s steep, Cashel’s pleasant streams to save, Or the meads of Cruachan Maev. * The Clans of Wicklow were very troublesome neighbours to the English Pale. Their impending power and hardy mountaineer resistance are noticed by Spencer. He says, “ They are so far emboldened that they threaten peril even to Dublin, over whose neck they continually hang.” He then alludes to “ the great strength and fastness ol Glen Malor” (Glenmalure, county Wicklow), and further on he commemorates one Feagh Mac-Hugh as having drawn unto him “many thieves and outlaws, which fled to the succour of that Glynn as to a sanctuary,” and laments that Feagh Mac-Hugh, by the assistance of his brave mountaineers, whom Spencer would degrade by the title of thieves and outlaws, “ has got unto himself a great name among the Irish, and hath through many unhappy occasions increased his said name and the opinion of his greatness, insomuch, that now he is become a dangerous enemy to deal withal.” — Spenser’ sView of the State oj Ireland . One of the “unhappy occasions,” as the courtly Spencer calls them, by which Glenmaluro was celebrated, was the signal defeat of the gallant and unfortunate Essex. 228 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. Want of conduct lost the town, Broke the white-walled castle down, Moira lost, and old Taltin, And let the conquering stranger in. ’Twas the want of right command, Not the lack of heart or hand, Left your hills and plains to-day ’Neath the strong Clan Saxon’s sway. Ah, had Heaven never sent Discord for our punishment, Triumphs few o’er Erin’s host Had Clan London now to boast. Woe is me, ’tis God’s decree Strangers have the victory : Irishmen may now be found Outlaws upon Irish ground. Like a wild beast in his den Lies the chief by hill and glen, While the strangers, proud and savage, Creevan’s richest valleys ravage. Woe is me, the foul offence, Treachery and violence, Done against my people’s rights — Well may mine be restless nights! When old Leinster’s sons of fame, Heads of many a warlike name, Bedden their victorious hilts On the Gaul, my soul exults. When the grim Gaul, who have como Hither o’er the ocean foam, From the fight victorious go, Then my heart sinks deadly low. Bless the blades our warriors draw, God be with Clan Danelagh !f But my soul is weak for fear, Thinking of their danger here. f Clan Ranelagh. — One of the southern outlets of Dublin, leading towards Wicklow, still retains the name of the gallant clan. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 229 Have them in thy holy keeping, God he with them lying sleeping, God he with them standing lighting, J Erin’s foes in battle smiting ! t One cannot help remembering that famous prayer of the old Scotchwoman — “God be wi’ Hamilton’s regiment — right or wranglU ” THE GEAYE OF MAC CAUEA. Mrs. Downing. At Callan, a pass on an unfrequented road leading from Glanerought (the vale of the Rough ty) to Bantry, the country people point out a flat stone by the pathway, which they name as the burial-place of Daniel Mac Carthy, who fell there in an engagement with the Fitzgeralds in 1261. The stone still preserves the traces of characters, which are, however, illegible. From the scanty records of the period, it would appear that this battle was no inconsiderable one. The Geraldines were defeated, and their leader, Thomas Fitzgerald, and his son, eighteen barons, fifteen knights, and many others of his adherents, slain. But the honour and advantage of victory were dearly purchased by the exulting natives, owing to the death of their brave and noble chieftain. And this is thy grave, Mac Caura, Here hy the pathway lone, Where the thorn blossoms are bending Over thy mouldered stone. Alas ! for the sons of glory ; Oh ! thou of the darkened brow, And the eagle pluipe, and the belted clans, Is it here thou art sleeping now ? Oh ! wild is the spot, Mac Caura, In which they have laid thee low — The held where thy people triumphed Over a slaughtered foe ; And loud was the Banshee’s wailing, And deep was the clansmen’s sorrow, When, with bloody hands and burning tears, They buried thee here, Mac Caura. And now thy dwelling is lonely — King of the rushing horde ; And now thy battles are over — Chief of the shining sword ; And the rolling thunder echoes O’er torrent and mountain free, But, alas ! and alas ! Mac Caura, It will not awaken thee. 230 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. Farewell to thy grave, Mac Caura, Where the slanting sunbeams shine, And the briar and waving fern Over thy slumbers twine ; Thou, whose gathering summons Could waken the sleeping glen ; Mac Caura ! alas for thee and thine, ’Twill never be heard again. Here, for a third time in this volume, Mrs. Downing makes the Clan Carthy the theme of her song, and always with effect. The name Mac Carthy, as spelt in Irish, would be (represented in Roman characters) Mac Cartha. But it would be pronounced Mac Caura the th, or dotted t, having, in the Irish tongue, the soft sound of h. ST. PATRICK’S DAY IX MY OWX PARLOUR. J. F. Waller. Air, “St. Patrick’s Day.” Tiie white and the orange, the blue and the green, boys, We’ll blend them together in concord to-night; The orange most sweet amid green leaves is seen, boys — The loveliest pansy is blue and white. The light of the day As it glides away, Paints with orange the white clouds that float in the west, And the billows that roar Round our own island shore Lay their green heads to rest on the blue heaven’s bosom, Where sky and sea meet in the distance away. As Nature thus shows us how well she can fuse ’em, We’ll blend them in love on St. Patrick’s Day. The hues of the prism, philosophers say, boys, Are nought but the sunlight resolved into parts ; They’re beauteous, no doubt, but I think that the ray, boys, Unbroken, more lights up and warms our hearts. Each musical tone, Struck one by one, Makes melody sweet, it is true, on the ear — But let the hand ring All at once every string — And, oh ! there is harmony now that is glorious, In unison pealing to heaven away ; For union is beauty, and strength, and victorious, Of hues, tones, or hearts, on St. Patrick’s Day. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 231 Those hues in one bosom be sure to unite, boys ; Let each Irish heart wear those emblems so true ; Be fresh as the green, and he pure as the white, boys, — Be bright as the orange, sincere as the blue. I care not a jot Be your scarf white or not, If you loye as a brother each child of the soil ; I ask not your creed, If you’ll stand in her need To the land of your birth in the hour of her dolours, The foe of her foes, let them be who they may ; Then, “fusion of hearts, and confusion of colours l” Be the Irishman’s toast on St. Patrick’s Day. AY ONDHU, Callanan. The following lines are but an extract from a larger poem, in which the poet gives expres- sion to a sentiment common to us all— a tender recollection of our native land, more par- ticularly of the places wherein the joyous days of youth were spent. But Callanan gives that sentiment with a graphic detail for which his writings are remarkable, and the fond- ness with which he particularizes the “whereabouts” shows how deeply-rooted were his local attachments. Not only are hill and glen, rill and river, distinctly noted, but their varied aspects under different circumstances— whether they are shrouded in mist, or bathed in the glow of sunset or pale gleam of moonlight. Even the voice of the wind, or, to use his own words, the “Wild minstrel of the dying trees,” had a loving echo in the heart of Callanan : — all are endeared to the poet who bids them — and her who, possibly, made “ each scene of enchantment more dear” — his passionate farewell. It is evident he thought Avondhu worthy of special remark, by the following note being appended to his poem : — “Avondhu means the Black water (Avunduff of Spenser). There are several rivers of this name in the counties of Cork and Kerry, but the one here mentioned is by far the most considerable. It rises in a boggy mountain called Meenganine, in the latter county, and discharges itself into the sea at Youghal. For the length of its course and the beauty and variety of scenery through which it flows, it is superior, I believe, to any river in Munster.” Oh, Avondhu, I wish I were, As once, upon that mountain bare, Where thy young waters laugh and shine On the wild breast of Meenganine. I wish I were by Cleada’s* hill, Or by Glenruachra’s rushy rill ; But no ! I never more shall view Those scenes I loved by Avondhu. * Cleada and Cahirbearna (the hill of the four gaps) form part of the chain of mountains which stretches westward from Mill-street to Killarney. 232 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SOIsGS. Farewell, ye soft and purple streaks Of evening on tlie beauteous Keeks ; * Farewell, ye mists, that loved to ride On Cabirbearna’s stormy side. Farewell, November’s moaning breeze, Wild minstrel of the dying trees : Clara ! a fond farewell to you, No more we meet by Avondhu. No more — but thou, 0 glorious hill, Lift to the moon thy forehead still ; Flow on, flow on, thou dark swift river, Upon thy free wild course for ever. Exult, young hearts, in lifetime’s spring, And taste the joys pure love can bring ; But, wanderer, go, they’re not for you — Farewell, farewell, sweet Avondhu. * Maegillicuddy’s Reeks, in tlie neighbourhood of Killamey. So much for the love of the living; but it would seem that this love of native land is so superlative in the Irish, that it survives this life; and Moore, in the “Irish Melodies,” avails himself of the following strange note from Paul Zealand, stating that there is a mountain in Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands, walk about and con- verse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to mount Hecla, and disappear immediately. This strange legend is beautifully wrought by Moore in his song “Oh, ye Dead!” where the ghosts, after being accosted, thus answer : — “ It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan, And the fair and the brave whom we lov’d on earth are gone ; But still thus, e’en in death. So sweet the living breath Of the fields and the flow’rs in our youth we wander’d o’er. That ere, condemn’d, we go To freeze ’mid Hecla’s snow, We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more!” A SIGH FOR KNOCKMANY. William Cakleton. Here is another of the great names in Irish literature, and here, as in the “Avondhu” of Callanan, we see strong love of the native sod; we find the man who has achieved celebrity, and, to use his own words, “given his name to future time,” tenderly looking back on the past, yearning for the jtnambitious boyhood— the echoes of his native mountains, rather than those of fame. Of the latter he has had enough, but not more than he PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 233 deserves; and though sometimes he may.be accused of carelessness, or exaggeration, or coarseness, into which hurry, and party spirit, and excessive vigour have betrayed him, nevertheless, his works, considered in general, are among the highest of their class; his descriptions of Irish life, and delineation of Irish character, being full of truth, and power, and tenderness. It is needless to enumerate them— they are tolerably well known to the world; but for exhibiting the qualities particularized, the tales of “The Black Prophet,” “Fardarougha the Miser,” and “The Poor Scholar,” are good examples. William Carleton has dealt less with verse than prose, wherein his great power lies ; but the following lines are full of feeling. Take, proud ambition, take thy fill Of pleasures won through toil or crime Go, learning, climb thy rugged hill, And give thy name to future time : Philosophy, be keen to see Whate’er is just, or false, or vain, Take each thy meed, bu.t, oh ! give me To range my mountain glens again. Pure was the breeze that f aim’d my cheek, As o’er Knockmany’s brow I went ; When every lonely dell could speak In airy music, vision sent : False woild, I hate thy cares and thee, I hate the treacherous haunts of men ; Give back my early heart to me, Give back to me my mountain glen. How light my youthful visions shone, When spann’d by Fancy’s radiant form ; But now her glittering bow is gone, And leaves me but the cloud and storm. With wasted form, and cheek all pale — With heart long seared by grief and pain ; Dunroe, I’ll seek thy native gale, I’ll tread my mountain glens again. Thy breeze once more may fan my blood, Thy valleys all are lovely still ; And I may stand, where oft I stood, In lonely musings on thy hill. But, ah! the spell is gone ; — no art In crowded town, or native plain, Can teach a crush’d and breaking heart To pipe the song of youth again. 234 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. VOICES OF THE PAST. Miss Herbert There’s a weary voice of sighing In the murmurs of the breeze — There’s a dream of grief undying In the foaming of the seas ! There’s a whispering from our mountains, From our valleys, and our streams ! And a moaning from our fountains Like the grief of troubled dreams. Oh ! that voice — it is the sighing Of the spirits of the dead, Down by vale and dingle lying, Where the free-born fought and bled ; In the forest breezes stealing, And the murmurs of the sea, From their lonely graves appealing To the spirits of the free. Isle of mist, and bardic story, Isle of many a hero lay, Where is all thine ancient glory ? Have thine honours passed away? Oh ! that sigh, it is for freedom, Freedom to thy fathers’ graves : Has the voice of Heaven decreed them, E’en in ashes, to be slaves ? These lines remind us of Moore’s more vigorous song, “Where shall we bury our shameP” —that passionate outburst of indignation supposed to be made by a Neapolitan patriot. The concluding quatrain has great similarity of idea. “ Thus to live cowards and slaves ! — Oh, ye free hearts that lie dead. Do you not, e’en in your graves, ' Shudder as o’er you we tread?” “Alas ! poor ghosts !”— King Bomba still reigns. olittcal and historical songs, those interesting and highly illustrative commentaries on the course of events, are to be found in the literature of most, if not of every country, and when they can he read dispassionately — with total absence of all partisan sensibility, they are not only conducive to instruction, hut to high intellectual pleasure. But when this condition cannot he fulfilled, the path of an editor is beset with difficulty. In that case he treads on ground which may still be considered “debate- able” — where some war-cry or w r atch-word may unexpectedly arouse 236 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. the borderers ; or while he seeks * but some ilower characteristic of the soil, he may wake some serpent under it he would rather should lie sleeping : — and these are the difficulties that pre-eminently exist in dealing with the political songs of Ireland, as political strife has existed there, in an aggravated form, longer and later than in any other part of the United Kingdom. Hence it is that this section is more barren than I could wish; more barren than it might have been under more favourable circumstances ; but, however incomplete, it was felt that in a volume where specimens of all other classes of lyric poetry of Ireland were given, this class of composition must not be totally overlooked, however limited in its range, however guarded a circumspection might be required in its execution. With respect to the historical songs of Ireland, few exist, that I know of, written in English, and most of the translations that I have seen from the Irish, are somewhat tedious, and often rather a special lament for, or glorification of, some chieftain, than a general treat- ment of the subject. Moore, it is true, sometimes made historic allusions in his Irish Melodies, but it is equally true that, though such of his songs were worthy of his fame, they never became popu- lar, with the exception of “The Harp that once through Tara’s Hall” and “ Rich and rare were the gems she wore.” All of his historical and political pieces would be welcome and valuable additions in the following section, but their proprietors forbid their use. Even the historical songs that are treated in the following selection are mostly by modern hands ; and, it may be observed, that, when the authorship of such belongs to the time of the event recorded, the execution is very rough indeed; as in “The Boyne Water” and “Siege of Car- rickfergus,” which are only interesting as cotemporaneous verifica- tions of salient points of history, with occasional touches of local precision and record of names, which impart that sort of interest to them which documentary papers, with all their dryness, often possess. Exception to this remark may be made, however, regarding one of the historical songs that follow, and that a translation from the Irish — “John O’Dwyer of the Glen,” which, I think, will be acknowledged to possess much poetic merit. Respecting the political pieces, the specimens given, while suf- ficiently characteristic of their time, have no present sting : — for, as more than half a century has passed away since most of them had temporary interest or significance, it is hoped they cannot be offen- sive to any, but may be looked upon, merely, as literary remnants of eventful times. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 237 To treat of any Irish political subject, without offence, was always difficult enough any time for the last five-and-twenty years, but the difficulty has been much increased by the somewhat recent doings of a small party whose fatal self-esteem too often hurried them into acts of presumption — whether it was to instruct the veteran O’Con- nell, as a politician, or criticise the accomplished Thomas Moore, as a bard. Of their doings, as politicians, it is not my desire, nor is this the place to enlarge, but one significant remark may be made, that their total — it may be said ludicrous failure, was the most convincing proof of their incapacity. But respecting their conduct to Moore, I will not be silent ; and no fitter place than this could be found to expose the injustice and ingratitude with which he was treated. Moore undoubtedly did more for Ireland than all her other bards put together. His winning lay insinuated a sympathy for Ireland into bosoms impervious to open assault. The cold circle of prejudice that had hitherto guarded many a heart in high places was opened to the magic of his song, and, for the first time, the harp of Ireland became more than an emblem of her fame : — it was turned to an instrument for her good. And what was the return Moore had at the hands of the Young Ireland party, for this? — They “cautioned” the people of Ireland that Moore had “ corrupted” their melodies; — that was the word — corrupted ; — Careful patriots ! ! — But they also begged to assure the world they had no desire to “ run down Mr. Moore.” The phrase might move indignation, were it not more provocative of laughter. As to the corruption of melodies, a word may be said on that sub- ject, en passant. It is well known by those conversant with the subject, that different sets (or varieties) of the same melody are to be found in different counties — or even in the same county from dif- ferent singers or players. Which is the genuine ? Who is to pro- nounce judgment ? Who is entitled to fling in any one’s teeth that ugly word “ corruption ? ” Judging from their works, the aggressors in this case are not entitled to arbitrate. Their own volume of songs, with musical set- tings, under the modest name of “The Spirit of the Nation,” gives sufficient proof of this. There they may sometimes be seen incapable of accomplishing that which they were so rashly-ready to criticise. As a special example of this, one song may be named from that col- lection adapted to the exquisite air of “The Wheelwright” — an air soaring and musical as a lark ; — and yet to this brilliant air a woful 238 HISTORICAL AXD POLITICAL SOXGS. ditty is -written, beginning, “Oil! weep those days, those penal days.” A more signal failure in literary and musical combination could scarcely be made ; yet the very author of this poor attempt had the presumption to caution Ireland against Moore. At last they attempted to usurp the rights of Omnipotence — to supersede Nature herself in one of her divinest offices — by issuing general instructions for the making of poets-proper for Ireland, for- getting the Latin adage, that poets are born — not made. But their proposed manufactory of poets proved as barren a speculation as the rest of their schemes ; no child of song was ground out of their mill ; Nature would not be hurried in her process of poet-birth; and, having given Moore to the present century, she thinks, perhaps, Ireland may be content for a while, and wait. One of the self-elected law-givers in this new temple of The Muses goes so far as to “fix arbitrarily” the number of lines of which a song shall consist ; he even goes the length of limiting the number of syllables that should constitute a certain composition he calls by the affected name of “ Songlet.” This gentleman may be called the bed- maker of The Young Ireland College of Criticism ; but he makes his bed after the fashion of Procrustes, and cuts to the proper measure all that he would consign to eternal sleep under his wet blanket. I have only to observe, in conclusion, that the following pieces are arranged in chronological order, where it could be observed, and throughout the whole section the audi alteram partem , that golden rule, has been kept in view. Each party speaks for itself — sometimes with sufficient spirit — sometimes with sufficient bitterness. If it be noticed that one of these parties has been allowed a larger space than the other — the greater share of speech, — let me not be accused of unfairness ; but be it remembered, that those who struggle against power have been always more prolific in bardic effusion than its supporters ; that the generous spirit of minstrelsy has always shown a chivalrous preference for the weaker side. While the Jacobite songs of Scotland furnished brilliant proof of the heroic spirit and poetic power of the partisans of James, the Georges had few to sing their praises. If the pen had been the only instrument of warfare, the result of the battle had been different ; but experience has not been flattering to the poet ; the course of events establishes the fact, that the “paper pellets of the brain” are fearfully counterbalanced by those of lead, and that nimble Pegasus is overmatched by heavy dragoons. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 239 TIIE BATTLE OF DUNDALK. Mr. Henry R. Montgomery, in his interesting volume entitled “ Specimens of the Early Native Poetry of Ireland,” thus speaks of this battle : — “A naval engagement is recorded as having taken place at Dundalgin, the present Dundalk, in the tenth century, with the Danes and Northmen, under the command of Magnus, Sitric, and Tor, in which the invaders were completely routed. The following translation of an Irish song written in commemoration of this naval victory appeared anonymously in the Belfast Chronicle — Now sheathed is the sword, and the battle is o’er, The shouts of the victors have ceased on the shore, — With blood, 0 Dundalgin, thy billows are dyed, O’er the mighty of Lochlin thy deep waters glide. 0 fierce was the conflict our warriors maintain’d, But bright is the triumph their valour has gain’d ; Long Erin her tears and her praises shall give, For life they resign’d that her glory might live. Though no cairns do the bones of the valiant enclose, On the sands of the ocean though deep they repose, The patriot shall turn from the high-trophied grave, And seek, 0 Dundalgin, thy sanctified wave. There, in grateful remembrance, their fame shall recall, Exult in tlieir glory, and envy their fall, Who each in his death-grasp encircled a foe, And plung’d with his prize in the billows below.* * Reminding us of the two Mexicans who attempted to make Coetez share their fate in the famous death-plunge from the Great Tower. C 0 U L I N. Caeole Malone. In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an act was made respecting the habits and dress in general of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing glibbes, or Coulins (long locks) on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks), to all strangers (by which the Engiish were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired.— Walker, as quoted in Moore's Melodies. It so happens, however, on turning to the above statute, that no mention is to be found therein of the Coulin. But in the year 1295, a Parliament was held in Dublin; and then an act was passed which more than expressly names the Coulin, and minutely describes it for 240 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. ts more effectual prohibition . This, the only statute made in Ireland that names the Coulin, was passed two hundred and forty-two years before the act cited by Mr. Moore ; and, in consequence of it, some of the Irish Chieftains who lived near the seat of English government, or wished to keep up intercourse with the English districts, did, in or soon after that year, 1295, cut off their Coulins, and a distinct memorial of the event was made in writing by the officers of the Crown. It was on this occasion that the bard, ever adhesive to national habits, endeavoured to fire the patriotism of a conforming chieftain ; and, in the character of some favourite virgin, declares her preference for her lover with the Coulin, before him who complaisantly assumed the adornments of foreign fashion. — Dublin Penny Journal. The last time slie looked in the face of her dear, She breathed not a sigh, and she shed not a tear ; But she took up his harp, and she kissed his cold check — “ ’Tis the first and the last for thy Norah to seek.” For beauty and bravery Cathan was known, And the long flowing coulin he wore in Tyrone ; The sweetest of singers and harpers was he, All over the North, from the Bann to the sea. O’er the marshes of Dublin he often would rove, To the glens of O’Toole, where he met with his love ; And at parting they pledged that, next Midsummer’s day, He would come for the last time, and bear her away. The king had forbidden the men of O’Neal, With the coulin adorned, to come o’er the pale ; But Norah was Irish, and said, in her pride, “If he wear not his coulin, I’ll ne’er be his bride.” The bride has grown pale as the robe that she wears, For the Lammas is come, and no bridegroom appears ; And she hearkens and gazes, when all are at rest, For the sound of his harp and the sheen of his vest. Her palfrey is pillioned, and she has gone forth On the long rugged road that leads down to the North Where Eblana’s* strong castle frowns darkly and drear, Is the head of her Cathan upraised on a spear. The Lords of the Castle had murdered him there, And all for the wearing that poor lock of hair : For the word she had spoken in mirth or in pride, Her lover, too fond and too faithful, had died. ’Twas then that she looked in the face of her dear, She breathed not a sigh, and she dropped not a tear ; She took up his harp, and she kissed his cold cheek : “ Farewell ! ’tis the first for thy Norah to seek.” * Eblana, Dublin. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 241 And afterward, oft would the wilderness ring, As, at night, in sad strains, to that harp she would sing Her heart-breaking tones — we remember them well — But the words of her wailing no mortal can tell. Mr. Malone has caught the true spirit of the ballad in these lines, so touchingly com- memorative of an historic epoch, and the two leading notes given above are rather curious. We may further notice, here, the singularity in the changes of fashion. We see, from the above, that short hair was enjoined in those days as a mark of loyalty, whereas short hair in 1798 was the mark of a rebel. See “ The Croppy Boy,” and “A Prospect,” in this volume. JOHN O’DWYER OF THE GLEN. Translated from the Irish, by Thomas Furlong. Blithe the bright dawn found me, Best with strength had crown’d me, Sweet the birds sang round me, Sport was all their toil. 12 242 HISTORICAL A XD POLITICAL SONGS. The horn its clang was keeping, Forth the fox was creeping, Round each dame stood weeping, O’er the prowler’s spoil. Hark ! the foe is calling, F ast the woods are falling, Scenes and sights appalling Mark the wasted soil. War and confiscation Curse the fallen nation ; Gloom and desolation Shade the lost land o’er. Chill the winds are blowing, Death aloft is going, Peace or hope seems growing For our race no more. Hark ! the foe is calling, Fast the woods are falling, Scenes and sights appalling Throng the blood-stained shore. Nobles, once high-hearted, From their homes have parted, Scattered, scared, and started By a base-born band. * * * # Spots that once were cheering, Girls beloved, endearing, Friends from whom I’m steering, Take this parting tear. Hark ! the foe is calling, Fast the woods are falling, Scenes and sights appalling Plague and haunt me hero. There is an antique character in this song, and the refrain “ Hark, the foe is calling, Fast the woods are falling,” strengthens the idea of its being of an early date ; for in the early days of the invasion of Ireland, the woods, which then abounded, were used for shelter and concealment ; hence they were objects of wholesale destruction to the invaders, and this often proved a source of national lament. One of the very old Irish airs, full of plaintive melody and a certain antique quaintuess, is called “The Woods are cutting.” HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 243 Here are two remarks on the subject, even as late as Elizabeth’s time : “ A flying enemy, hiding himself in woods and bogs, from whence he will not draw forth but into some strait passage, or perilous ford, where he knows the army must needs pass ; there will he lie in wait, and, if he find advantage fit, will dangerously hazard the troubled soldier.” “ I wish that order were taken for cutting and opening all places through woods : so that a wide way, of the space of one hundred yards, might be laid open in every of them.” — Spensers View of the State of Ireland. THE CHAD* OF GOLD. Samuel Loveb. From “ Songs and Ballads.” The Earl of Kildare, Lord-Deputy of Ireland, ruled justly, and was hated by the small oppressors whose practices he discountenanced. They accused him of favouring the Irish, to the detriment of the king’s interest ; but he, in the presence of the king (Henry VII.), rebutted their calumnies. They said, at last, “ Please your Highness, all Ireland cannot rule this Earl.” “ Then,” said Henry, “ he is the man to rule all Ireland.” And he took the golden chain from his neck, and threw it over the shoulders of the Earl, who returned with honour to his government. Oh, Moina, Eve a tale to tell, Will glad thy soul, my girl ; The King hath giv’n a chain of gold To our noble-hearted Earl. His foes they rail’d, the Earl ne’er quail’d, But with a front so hold, Before the King did backward fling The slanderous lie they told ; And the King gave him no iron chain, Ko — he gave him a chain of gold ! Oh, ’tis a noble sight to see, The cause of truth prevail ; An honest cause is always proof Against a treach’rous tale. Let fawning false ones court the great, The heart in virtue hold, Will hold the right in pow’rs despite Until that heart he cold: For falsehood’s the bond of slavery; But truth is the chain of gold ! F alse Connal wed the rich one, With her gold and jewels rare, But Dermid wed the maid he lov’d, And she clear’d his brow from care. 244 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. And thus, in our own hearts love, We may read this lesson plain — Let outward joys depart love, So peace within remain : For falsehood is an iron bond, But love is the golden chain ! In a later day there was another Earl of Kildare went over on a similar piece of business, but the affair did not turn out so well. A false report was spread, by the enemies of the Geraldines, that the Earl had been committed to the Tower of London and be- headed. Whereupon his son. Lord Thomas, known as “ Silken Thomas,” broke out into rebellion, which ended as his enemies wished. ROISIN DUBH.* Translated from the Irish, by Thomas Furlong. Roisin Dubh, ( Little BlacTc Bose,) is an allegorical ballad, in which strong political feelings are conveyed, as a personal address from a lover to his fair one. The allegorical meaning has been long since forgotten, and the verses are now remembered and sung as a plaintive love ditty. It was composed in the reign of Elizabeth of England, to celebrate our Irish hero, Hugh Buadh O' Donnell, of Tyrconnell. By Boisin Dubh, supposed to be a beloved female, is meant Ireland. The toils and sufferings of the patriot soldier are throughout described as the cares and feelings of an anxious lover addressing the object of his affection. The song concludes with a bold declaration of the dreadful struggle which would be made before the country should be surrendered to the embraces of our hero’s hated and implacable rival. The air is a good specimen of the characteristic melancholy which pervades Irish music.” — Mar diman’s Irish Minstrelsy, vol. i., p. 254. Oh ! my sweet little rose, cease to pine for the past, For tbe friends that come eastward shall see thee at last; They bring blessings and favours the past never knew, To pour forth in gladness on my Roseen Dhu. Long, long, with my dearest, thro’ strange scenes I ’ve gone, O’er mountains and broad valleys I still have toil’d on ; O’er the Erne I have sailed as the rough gales blew, While the harp pour’d its music for my Roseen Dhu. Tho’ wearied, oh ! my fair one ! do not slight my song, For my heart dearly loves thee, and hath loved thee long ; In sadness and in sorrow I shall still be true,' And cling with wild fondness round my Roseen Dhu. * Pronounced Boseen Dhu, in which form of spelling I think it preferable to leave it, for the sake of those who are not Irish scholars. IIISTOKICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 245 There ’s no flower that e’er bloomed can my rose excel, There’s no tongue that e’er moved half my love can tell ; Had I strength, had I skill, the wide world to subdue, Oh ! the queen of that wide world should be Roseen Dhu. Had I power, oh! my lov’d one! but to plead thy right, I should speak out in boldness for my heart’s delight ; I would tell to all round me how my fondness grew, And bid them bless the beauty of my Roseen Dhu. The mountains, high and misty, thro’ the moors must go, The rivers shall run backward, and the lakes overflow ; And the wild waves of old ocean wear a crimson hue, Ere the world sees the ruin of my Roseen Dhu. i The translation given above would very nearly sing to the ancient melody entitled the JRoisin Dulh, in Bunting’s “Ancient Music of Ireland;” but there is a quaint wildness in the air which makes adaption difficult to the poet. In fact, to suit the measure of the music perfectly, unequal and very unusual metre should he adopted. There is a second setting of the air, in Bunting, entitled Roisin bheag dulh ( little black rose-bud), which perfectly agrees in rhythm with the stanzas above. DARK ROSALEEH. Translated from tffe Irish, by James Clabence Maitgait. Here is another version of this celebrated ballad; sufficient points of resemblance will be found in them to show they were taken from the same original, but there is much more richness in Mr. Mangan’s translation, and the reverberation of certain words smacks of orientalism, and hence is more Irish : this is particularly apparent in the second verse. In the first stanza the allusion to “ Boman wine” and “Spanish ale” are sufficiently intelligible without a note. 0 my dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep ! The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the deep. There’s wine . . . .from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green ; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My -dark Rosaleen ! My own Rosaleen ! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My dark Rosaleen ! 246 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. Over hills, and through dales. Have I roamed for your sake ; All yesterday I sailed with sails On river and on lake. The Erne, .... at its highest flood, I dashed across unseen, Eor there was lightning in my blood, My dark Eosaleen ! My own Eosaleen ! Oh ! there was lightning in my blood, Eed lightning lightened through my blood. My dark Eosaleen ! All day long, in unrest, To and fro, do I move, The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love ! The heart .... in my bosom faints To think of you, my queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My dark Eosaleen ! My own Eosaleen ! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My dark Eosaleen ! Vo and pain, pain and wo, Are my lot, night and noon, To see your bright face clouded so, Like to the mournful moon. But yet will I rear your throne Again in golden sheen ; ’Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone. My dark Eosaleen ! My own Eosaleen ! ’Tis you shall have the golden throne, ’Tis you shall reign, and reign alone. My dark Eosaleen ! Over dews, over sands, Will I fly, for your weal : Your holy delicate white hands Shall girdle me with steel. At home in your emerald bowers, From morning’s dawn till e’en, You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers. My dark Eosaleen ! My fond Eosaleen ! You’ll think of me through daylight’s hours. My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, My dark Eosaleen ! HISTORICAL AKD POLITICAL SOHGS. 247 I could scale the blue air, I could plough the high hills, Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer, To heal your many ills ! And one beamy smile from you. Would float like light between My toils and me, my own, my true, My dark Rosaleen ! My fond Rosaleen ! Would give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew, My dark Rosaleen ! 0 ! the Erne shall run red With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood, And gun-peal, and slogan-cry, Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen ! The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, Ere you can fade, ere you can die, My dark Rosaleen ! GRAINNE MAOL AND QUEEN ELIZABETH. A.D. 1575. From the Irish. Hardiman’s Minstrelsy. The following epitomized narrative of some of the most remarkable passages in the life of our romantic Sea Queen is taken from Owen Connellan’s translation of that most interesting work, the “Annals of the Four Masters.’* The note is a closely-condensed compilation from articles in Authologia Hibernica (for the year 1793), Lodge’s Peerage of Ireland, and other authorities. I had already made extracts from the Authologia, when I chanced to find Mr. Connellan’s note, and found it so much preferable that I did not hesitate to adopt it. “ Grace O’Malley, called in Irish Grainne Maol, commonly pronounced Granu Wail, is celebrated in Irish history. She was first married to O’Flaherty, Chief of West Connaught ; and secondly to Sir Richard Burke, by whom she had a son Theobald, who was a com- mander of note on the side of the English, in Connaught, in the reign of Elizabeth ; he was called Sir Theobald Burke, and was created Viscount of Mayo by Charles I. Her father, Owen O’Malley, was a noted chief, and had a small fleet with which he made many expeditions, partly for commercial purposes, but chiefly in piracy. Grace, in her youth, frequently ac- 248 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. companied her father on these expeditions, and after his death, her brother being a minor, she took upon herself the command of her galleys, and made with her crews many bold expe- ditions ; her chief rendezvous was at Clare Island, off the coast of Mayo, where she kept her large vessels moored, and had a fortress ; but she had her small craft at Carrigahooly * Castle, (in the bay of Newport, county Mayo), which was her chief residence and stronghold; and there was a hole to be seen in the ruined walls through which a cable was run from one of her ships, for the purpose of communicating an alarm to her apartment on any sudden danger. It is said that her piracies became so frequent that she was proclaimed, and £500 offered as a reward for her apprehension, and troops were sent from Galway to take the Castle of Car- rigahooly ; but after a siege of more than a fortnight, they were forced to retire, being de- feated by the valour of Grace and her men. These exploits were performed by her before and after her marriage with O’ Flaherty, but after his death, and her marriage with Sir Richard Burke, she became reconciled to the Government, and, with her followers, assisted the English forces in Connaught, and for her services it is said that Queen Elizabeth wrote her a letter of invitation to the Court, in consequence of which Grace, with some of her galleys, set sail for London, about the year 1575, and she was received at Court with great honour by the Queen, who offered to create her a Countess, which honour Grace declined, answering, that both of them being Princesses, they were equal in rank, and they could therefore confer no honours on each other; but Grace said that her Majesty might confer any title she pleased on her young son, a child which was born on ship-board during her voyage to England ; and it is said that the Queen knighted the child, who was called by the Irish Tioboid-na-Lung, signifying Theobald of the Ships, from the circumstance of his being born on ship-board ; and this Sir Theobald Burke was created Viscount of Mayo by Charles I. “ The well-known circumstance of her carrying off the young heir of St. Laurence from Howth, as a punishment for his father’s want of hospitality in having the Castle gates 'Tosed during dinner-time, occurred on her return from England. “ Grace endowed a monastery on Clare Island, off the coast of Mayo, where she was buried, and it is said some remains of her monument are still to be seen there. “ Grace O’Malley has been long famous as an Irish heroine in the traditions of the people, and her name is still remembered in song ; in various poetical compositions, both in English and Irish, her name is celebrated; and in these songs Ireland is generally personified under the designation of Granu Wail. One of these, which was very popular, was composed by the celebrated Jacobite Munster Bard, Shane Clarach Mac Donnell.” Mild as the rose its sweets will breathe, Tho’ gems all bright its bloom enwreath; Undeck’d by gold or diamond rare, Near Albion’s throne stood Grana fair.f * Carrigahooly — in Irish, Carrick-a-Uile — signifying, The rock in the Elbow. t The Queen, surrounded by her ladies, received her in great state. Grana was intro- duced in the dress of her country : a long uncouth mantle covered her head and body ; her hair was gathered on her crown, and fastened with a bodkin; her breast was bare, and she had a yellow bodice and petticoat. The Court stared with surprise at so strange a figure.” — Autfyologiq Hibernicp. HISTOSICAL AND POLITICAL SOXGS. 249 The vestal Queen in 'wonder view’d The hand that grasp’d the falchion rude — The azure eye, whose light could prove The equal power in war or love. “ Some boon,” she cried, “ thou lady brave, From Albion’s Queen in pity crave ; E’en name the rank of Countess high, Nor fear the suit I’ll e’er deny.” “Nay, sister-Queen,” tbe fair replied, “ A Sov’reign, and an bero’s bride ; No fate shall e’er of pride bereave — I’ll honours give, but none receive. “ But grant to him — whose infant sleep Is lull’d by rocking o’er the deep — Those gifts, which now for Erin’s sake Thro’ pride of soul I dare nor take.” The Queen on Grana gazed and smil’d, And honour’d soon the stranger child With titles brave, to grace a name Of Erin’s isle in herald fame. “Grana Uile ” was one of the many names typical of Ireland, and continued to be so to a late period. The mere playing of the tune, which is an old pipe march, had always a political significance. 12 * THE MAIDEN CITY. By Charlotte Elizabeth, authoress of “The Siege of Derry,” &c. Here is a political song by a lady, and — 'place aux dames — it holds the leading place among the poems of the time. It is by “Charlotte Elizabeth.” — And who is she ? We know not: — but as the lady rejoices in a nom de guerre , it is quite natural she should choose a siege for her subject; and “A Maiden City” is a fit theme for rejoicing at a lady’s hands. Thus our fair authoress has a double right to be the spirited chronicler of the spirited defence of that famous old maid, Derry : — I hope one may say old maid , without offence, to a city. TV here Foyle his swelling waters Rolls northward to the main, Here, Queen of Erin’s daughters, Fair Derry fixed her reign : A holy temple crowned her, And commerce graced her street, HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 251 A rampart wall was round her, The river at her feet ; And here she sate alone, boys, And, looking from the hill, Vow’d the Maiden on her throne, boys, Would be a Maiden still. From Antrim crossing over, In famous eighty- eight, A plumed and belted lover Came to the Ferry Grate : She summon’d to defend her Our sires — a beardless race — * They shouted No Surrender ! And slamm’d it in his face. Then, in a quiet tone, boys, They told him ’twas their will That the Maiden on her throne, boys, Should be a Maiden still. Next, crushing all before him, A kingly wooer came, (The royal banner o’er him, Blushed crimson deep for shame ;) He show’d the Pope’s commission, Nor dream’d to be refused, She pitied his condition, But begg’d to stand excused. In short, the fact is known, boys, She chased him from the hill, For the Maiden on the throne, boys, Would be a Maiden still. On our brave sires descending, ’Twas then the tempest broke, Their peaceful dwellings rending, ’Mid blood, and flame, and smoke. That hallow’d grave-yard yonder, Swells with the slaughter’d dead — Oh, brothers ! pause and ponder, It was foi us they bled ; And while their gifts we own, boys — The fane that tops our hill, Oh, the Maiden on her throne, boys, Shall be a Maiden still. * The famous “’Prentice Boys . 5 252 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. Nor wily tongue shall move us, Nor tyrant arm affright, We’ll look to One above us Who ne’er forsook the right ; Who will, may crouch and tender The birthright of the free, But, brothers, No Surrender ! No compromise for me! We want no harrier stone, hoys, No gates to guard the hill, Yet the Maiden on her throne, hoys, Shall he a Maiden still. The gallant defence of Derry is too prominent a point in history to need any editorial assistance to the memory of the reader. This general observation may be made, however, that the courage of both parties in that civil war was equally displayed on many a hard- fought field, and the Derry of the North had a counterpart of obstinate defence in the Limerick of the South. O’Driscoll, in his History of Ireland, says, “ The defence of Derry has been much celebrated, but never beyond, hardly ever as much as it merited.” This seems to be the opinion of the writer of some spirited lines, which cannot be quoted at length in a note, beginning, — “Derriana! lovely dame, By many suitors courted thus treating the subject in the commencement as the fair authoress above has done, but afterwards indulging in a classic vein, he concludes with these four admirable verses:— “ What was proud Troy compared to thee, Though Hector did command her ? How great thy Foyle would seem to be Near Homer’s old Scamander ! Like thee, two sieges sharp she stood, By timid friends forsaken ; But, unlike thee, twice drenched in blood, She fainted and was taken. What was her cause compared to thine? A harlot she protected; But thou for liberty divine All compromise rejected. But Troy a bard of brilliant mind Found out to sing her glory, Whilst thou canst only dunces find To mar thy greater story.” The modest writer of these lines himself, and the fair authoress of w The Maiden City,” are exceptions to the censure expressed in the last verse. HISTOllICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 253 KING JAMES’S WELCOME TO IRELAND. 1690. The king entered Dublin on the 24th March. It is said he “rid on a pad-nag in a plain cinnamon-coloured cloth suit, and black slouching hat, and a George hung over his shoulder with a blue ribbon.” Now, whether it was the king or the pad-nag that wore the cinnamon-coloured suit and the slouched hat, we are left in doubt. As far as the gram- matical construction goes the pad-nag has the best of it, by far, as to the coat and hat ; but we incline to believe, nevertheless, that it was the king who was the wearer of the aforesaid ; besides, putting other probabilities aside, what pad-nag would dare to wear his hat under the king’s nose in that manner ? Well, leaving that matter, there was a line of soldiers, and the streets were gravelled; and it would have been well for poor King James if that was the only path of his, so bestrewed, in Ireland. There was a platform erected at a certain part, covered with tapestry, whereon were two harpers playing and persons singing ; and forty girls, dressed in white, danced along by the side of the king, here and there strewing flowers. Those who wished to make light of this ceremonial declared these dancing-girls, so arrayed, were but “ oyster- wenches,”— they who strewed the flowers, “herb-women.” Here, however, follows the song, supposed to be sung upon the occasion : — Play, piper — play, Come, lasses, dance and sing, And old harpers strike up To harp for the King. He is come — he is come, Let us make Ireland ring With a loud shout of welcome, May God save the King. Bring ye flowers — bring ye flowers, The fresh flowers of spring, To strew in the pathway Of James, our true King. And better than flowers, May our good wishes bring A long life of glory To James, our true King, Huzza, then — huzza, then, The news on the wing, Triumphant he comes Amid shouts for the King, All blessings attend him, May every good thing Be showered on the brave head Of James, our true King. 254 HISTORICAL AN if POLITICAL SONGS. LILLI BURLERO. In a section devoted to the historical and political songs of Ireland, it is impossible to omit Lilli Burlero ; but it is only as a matter of curiosity it is entitled to a place, for such wretched rubbish has no literary claim to be recorded. Pages of notes might be made upon it ; but for the general reader they would have no interest, and those who are curious on such matters either know its history already, or can refer to the proper quarters to find it. Bishop Percy, in his “ Eeliques of Ancient English Poetry,” speaks of it. It is noticed in “Bishop Burnet’s History of his Own Times.” The former goes so far as to say it con- tributed not a little to the great revolution of 1688. Can we believe it ? The latter very properly calls it “ a foolish ballad,” but adds, “ it made an impression on the army that cannot be imagined by those who saw it not.’’ That it was wonderfully popular there can be no doubt, for it is alluded to in many publications of the period. And that the tune continued to hold the public ear, is evident, by Sterne, in his “ Tristram Shandy,” (eighty years after Lilli Burlero was written,) making Uncle Toby whistle it on various occasions. Indeed, for that matter, the tune has reached our own times, and has created discussion as to its authorship. By some it is attributed to the celebrated Henry Purcell ; others say it is derived from an old air printed in 1661, in a collection entitled “ An Antidote to Melancholy ,” to which verses were attached, beginning — “There was an old fellow at Walton-cross, Who merrily sang when he liv’d by the loss.’* As political songs, however, are generally adapted to some air already popular, (thus suiting the thing it is desired should fly abroad, with ready-made wings,) I think it more likely the rhymes were written to some then-existing air, than that an air was composed for them ; and this seems to be the opinion, also, of my friend, Mr. William Chappell, as may be inferred from a passage in his admirable and most interesting work, “ Popular Music of the Olden Time,” where the music and words of the old song are given (p. 262) with the fol- lowing note : — “ The four last bars of the air are the prototype of Lilli burlero, and still often sung to the chorus — ‘A very good song, and very well sung, Jolly companions every one.’” That so much discussion should have taken place about a matter which is not of the slightest importance, is collateral proof of the hold which this strange stuff took of the public mind. The authorship of the words was attributed to Lord Wharton. Ho ! brother Teague, dost hear de decree, Lilli burlero bullen a la ; Dat we shall have a new debittie ( deputy J, Lilli burlero bullen a la, Lero, lero, lero, lero, lilli burlero bullen a la, Lero, lero, lero, lero, lilli burlero bullen a la. Ho ! by my shoul it is a T 1 ( Talbot ), Lilli, &c. And he will cut all the English t 1 (throat ), Lilli, &c. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 255 Though by my shoul de English do prat, Lilli, See.. De law’s on dare side, and Chreist knows what, Lilli, &c. But if dispense do come from de Pope, Lilli, &c. We’ll hang Magno Carto and demselves in a rope, Lilli, &c. And the good T 1 (Talbot) is made a lord, Lilli, &c. And he with brave lads is coming aboard, Lilli, &c. Who all in France have taken a swear, Lilli, &c. Dat dey will have no Protestant h — r (heir) y Lilli, &c. 0 ! but why does he* stay behind ? Lilli, &c. Ho ! by my shoul ’tis a Protestant wind,f Lilli, &c. How T 1 ( Tyrconnel) is come ashore, Lilli, &c. And we shall have commissions gillore, Lilli, &c. And he dat will not go to m — ss ( mass ) } Lilli, &c. Shall turn out and look like an ass, Lilli, &c. How, now de heretics all go down, Lilli, &c. By Chreist and St. Patrick de nation’s our own, Lilli, &c. There was an old prophecy found in a bog, Lilli, &c. That Ireland should be rul’d bj’ an ass and a dog : Lilli, &c. * King James. t At the time the Prince of Orange was expected to sail from Holland, the direction of the wind was regarded with much anxiety ; if it blew in the direction of England, it was called a Protestant wind ; if in the contrary, a Catholic wind. 256 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. And now this prophecy is come to pass, Lilli, &e. For T — hut’s (Talbot's) the dog, and Tyr — nel’sj (TyrconneV s) the ass, Lilli, &c. % In some versions it has been given “ and James is de Ass.” DRIMMIN DHU. • An Irish Jacobite relic. Translated by Samuel Ferguson, M.R.I.A, “Drimmin Dhu” was apolitical pass-word among the Irish Jacobites, and it is rather amusing here to find the Jacobite bard wrapping himself up in his cloak of mystery for the first three lines, and then coming out plump with “Expecting King James with the crown on his brow.” It reminds one of that intelligent sentinel who, being given the pass-word, and desired to let no one enter within his guard who did not repeat it, told the first person who asked for admission, that he couldn’t come in, unless he said so-and-so — naming the very pass-word. Ah, Drimmin Dhu deelish, a pride of the flow,* Ah, where are your folks ? Are they living or no ? They’re down in the ground, ’neath the sod lying low, Expecting King James with the crown on his brow. But if I could get sight of the crown on his brow, By night and day travelling to London I’d go ; Over mountains of mist and soft mosses below, Till I’d heat on the kettle-drums, Drimmin Dliu, 0 ! Welcome home, welcome home, Drimmin Dhu, 0 ! Good was your sweet milk, for drinking, I trow ; With your face like a rose, and your dew-lap of snow, I’ll part from you never, ah, Drimmin Dhu, 0 ! * The soft grassy part of a bog. There is a very sweet and plaintive air called “Drimmin Dhub,” to which is sung an old Irish song called “ The Poor Irishman’s Lament for the Loss of his Cow,” “ Drimmin Dhub” signifying black-back, a pet name for the cow. In “Bunting’s Ancient Music of Ireland,” (Dublin, 1840,) the following translation is given — “ As I went out on a Sunday morning, I found my Drimmin Dhu drown’d in a moss-hole ; I clapped my hands, and gave a great shout, In hopes this would bring my Drimmin to life agairfe* I have heard other versions of this ditty, more modern, but equally absurd. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 257 0! SAY, MY BROWN DRIMMIN. An Irish Jacobite relic. Translated by J. J. Callanan. Here is another form of the foregoing ballad. Points of resemblance are sufficiently apparent between them, but even in their original state they must have existed “with a difference,” as Ophelia says, the latter version being more copious, and including proper names that could not have been introduced at the option of the translator. It seems to me this latter version comes from a better original than the preceding, as saying the people will arise “as leaves on the trees;” — and the mention of the “five ends of Erin,” gives an air of old Irish idiom and old Irish lore to the production. 0 ! say, my brown Drimmin, thou silk* of the kine, Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of thy line ? Too deep and too long is the slumber they take ; At the loud call of freedom why don’t they awake ? My strong ones have fallen — from the bright eye of day All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay, The cold turf' is o’er them — they hear not my cries, And since Lewisf no aid gives, I cannot arise. 0 ! where art thou, Lewis ? our eyes are on thee — Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o’er the sea? In freedom’s last strife if you linger or quail, No morn e’er shall break on the night of the Gael. But should the king’s son, now bereft of his right, Come proud in his strength for his country to tight ; Like leaves on the trees, will new people arise, And deep from their mountains shout back to my cries. When the prince, new an exile, shall come for his own, The isles of his father, his rights, and his throne, My people in battle the Saxons will meet, And kick them before, like old shoes from their feet. O’er mountains and valleys they’ll press on their rout, The five ends of ErinJ shall ring to their shout ; My sons, all united, shall bless the glad day When the fiint-hearted Saxon they’ve chased far away. * Silk of the kine is an idiomatic expression in the Irish language to express superior cattle. f The king of France. % Ireland, now divided into four provinces, was anciently divided into five sections, or rather kingdoms. 253 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. THE BOYNE WATER. Here are some fragments of what is supposed to be the original song whence the succeed- ing one of “ The Battle of the Boyne” was taken. They possess more of the ballad charac- ter, in simplicity of expression and accuracy of detail, than the later composition. J uly the first, of a morning clear, one thousand six hundred and ninety, King William did his men prepare, of thousands he had thirty ; To fight King James and all his foes, encamped near the Boyne Water, He little feared, though two to one, their multitudes to scatter. King William called his officers ; saying, “ gentlemen, mind your station, And let your valour here be shown, before this Irish nation ; My brazen walls let no man break, and your subtle foes you’ll scatter, Be sure you show them good English play, as you go over the water.” ****** Both foot and horse they marched on, intending them to batter, But the brave Duke Schomberg he was shot, as he crossed over the water. When that King William he observ’d the brave Duke Schomberg falling, He rein’d his horse, with a heavy heart, on the Enniskilleners* calling; “ What will you do for me, brave boys, see yonder men retreating, Our enemies encouraged are — and English drums are beating He says, “ My boys, feel no dismay at the losing of one commander, For God shall be our King this day, and I’ll be general under. ”f ****** Within four yards of our fore-front, before a shot was fired, A sudden snuff they got that day, which little they desired ; For horse and man fell to the ground, and some hung in their saddles, Others turn’d up their forked ends, which we call coup de ladle. Prince Eugene’s regiment was the next, on our right hand advanced, Into a field of standing wheat, where Irish horses pranced — But the brand}' - ran so in their heads, their senses all did scatter, They little thought to leave their bones that day at the Boyne Water. * It is interesting to find this early mention of a regiment that has since been so distinguished on many a battle-field. They fought triumphantly throughout the last Peninsular war, and against the Cuirassiers of Napoleon the First, at Waterloo ; and their last achievement was at Balaklava, where, (to use the words of our eloquent countryman, AVilliam Russell, the correspondent of the Times,) in company with the Scots Greys and the Dragoon Guards of England, they swept through the solid masses of the Russian cavalry, like a flash of lightning. f This fine line is preserved hi the later song. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 259 Both men and horse lay on the ground, and many there lay bleeding, I saw no sickles there that day — but sure, there was sharp shearing. ****** Now, praise God, all true Protestants, and heaven’s and earth’s Creator, For the deliverance that he sent our enemies to scatter. The church’s foes will pine away, like churlish-hearted Nabal, For our deliverer came this day like the great Zorobabel. So praise God, all true Protestants, and I will say no further, But had the Papists gain’d the day, there would have been open murder. J Although King James and many more was ne’er that way inclined, It was not in their power to stop what the rabble they designed. § t This also is imitated in the same. § This clearing' of King James and the leaders of the opposite party from all intention of such barbarous doings as are imputed to the “ rabble,” is a stroke of generosity seldom seen in a party effusion, and much to be admired. How often have great names been stained by the misdeeds of their followers, which it was out of their power to prevent. THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE. This is the version of the Battle of the Boyne which superseded the former, and is tlifi one that is always sung. July the first, in Oldbridge-town There was a grievous battle, Where many a man lay on the ground By cannons that did rattle. King James he pitched his tents between The lines for to retire ; But King William threw his bomb-balls in, And set them all on fire. Thereat enraged, they vowed revenge Upon King William’s forces, And oft did vehemently cry That they would stop their courses. A bullet from the Irish came, And grazed King William’s arm, They thought his Majesty was slain, Yet it did him little harm. 260 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. Duke Schomberg then, in friendly care, His King would often caution To slum the spot where bullets hot Detained their rapid motion ; But William said, “ He don’t deserve The name of Faith’s Defender, Who would not venture life and limb To make a foe surrender.” When we the Boyne began to cross, The enemy they descended ; But few of our brave men were lost, So stoutly we defended ; The horse was the first that marched o’er, The foot soon followed' after ; But brave Duke Schomberg was no more, By venturing over the water. When valiant Schomberg he was slain, King William he accosted His warlike men for to march on, And he would be the foremost ; “Brave boys,” he said, “be not dismayed For the loss of one commander, For God will be our King this day, And I’ll be General under.” Then stoutly we the Boyne did cross, To give the enemies battle ; Our cannon, to our foes great cost, Like thund’ring claps did rattle. In majestic mein our prince rode o’er ; His men soon followed after, With blows and shout put our foes to the rout The day we crossed the water. The Protestants of Drogheda Have reason to be thankful, That they were not to bondage brought, They being but a handful. First to the Tholsel they were brought, And tied at Millmount after ; * But brave King William set them free, By venturing over the water. * To elucidate this line, it is necessary to refer to an assertion, which it is only fair to say was made by an anonymous writer, to the effect, that the Protestant prisoners in the hands of the garrison of Drogheda were tied together on the Mount, in Drogheda, that, in case of William bombarding the town, they must have been exposed to the fire . — Memoirs qf Ireland, by the author of the Secret History of Europe, 1716; p. 221. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL* SONGS. 261 The cunning French near to Duleek Had taken up their quarters, And fenced themselves on every side, Still waiting for new orders ; But in the dead time of the night They set the fields on fire, And long before the morning light To Dublin they did retire. Then said King William to his men, After the French departed, “ I’m glad,” said he, “that none of ye Seem to be faint-hearted ; So sheathe your swords and rest awhile, In time we’ll follow after.” Those words he uttered with a smile The day he crossed the water. Come, let us all with heart and voice Applaud our lives’ defender, Who at the Boyne his valour showed, And made his foe surrender. To God above the praise we’ll give Both now and ever after ; And bless the glorious memory Of King William that crossed the water. THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE. Colonel Blackeb. It cannot be wondered at, that, from the great importance of the Battle of the Boyne, it should have been so celebrated in song by the party which triumphed. Having given the more modern song on the occasion, and the fragments of the ancient one, a third ballad on the subject may seem excessive ; but it seems to me so well done as to have an undeniable claim to appear; and the soldier-minstrel, in a true soldier-spirit, has done justice to the gallantry of his countrymen on both sides of the fight, with a liberality as 1 are as it is honourable in party chroniclers. It was upon a summer’s morn, unclouded rose the sun, And lightly o’er the waving corn their way the breezes won ; Sparkling beneath that orient beam, ’mid banks of verdure gay, Its eastward course a silver stream held smilingly away. A kingly host upon its side a monarch camp’d around, Its southern upland far and wide their white pavilions crowned ; Not long that sky unclouded show’d, nor long beneath the ray That gentle stream in silver flowed, to meet the new-born day. 262 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. Through yonder fairy-haunted glen, from out that dark ravine,* Is heard the tread of marching men, the gleam of arms is seen ; And plashing forth in bright array along yon verdant banks, All eager for the coming fray, are rang’d the martial ranks. Peals the loud gun — its thunders boom the echoing vales along, While curtain’d in its sulph’rous gloom moves on the gallant throng ; And foot and horse in mingled mass, regardless all of life, With furious ardour onward pass to join the deadly strife. Nor strange that with such ardent flame each glowing heart beats high, Their battle-word was William’s name, and “ Death or Liberty !” Then, Oldbridge, then thy peaceful bowers with sounds unwonted rang, And Tredagh, ’mid thy distant towers, was heard the mighty clang ; The silver stream is crimson’d wide, and clogg’d with many a corse, As floating down its gentle tide come mingled man and horse. Now fiercer grows the battle’s rage, the guarded stream is cross’d, And furious, hand to hand engage each bold contending host ; He falls — the veteran hero falls, f renowned along the Rhine — And he , whose name, while Derry’s walls endure, shall brightly shine. | Oh ! would to heav’n that churchman bold, his arms with triumph blest, The soldier spirit had controll’d that fir’d his pious breast. And he, the chief of yonder brave and persecuted band,§ Who foremost rush’d amid the wave, and gain’d the hostile strand ; — He bleeds, brave Caillemote — he bleeds — ’tis clos'd, his bright career ; Yet still that band to glorious deeds his dying accents cheer. And now that well- contested strand successive columns gain, While backward James’s yielding band are borne across the plain. In vain the sword green Erin draws, and life away doth fling — 1| Oh ! worthy of a better cause and of a bolder king. In vain thy bearing bold is shown upon that blood-stain’d ground ; Thy tow’ring hopes are overthrown, thy choicest fall around. Nor, sham’d, abandon thou the fray, nor blush, though conquer’d there, A power against thee fights to-day no mortal arm may dare. Nay, look not to that distant height in hope of coming aid — The dastard thence has ta’en his flight, and left thee all betray’d. Hurrah ! hurrah ! the victor shout is heard on high Donore ; Down Platten’s vale, in hurried rout, thy shatter’d masses pour. * King William’s Glen, near Townley Hall. f Duke Schomberg. $ Walker, the gallant defender of Derry. § Caillemote, who commanded a regiment of French Protestants. || This is fair and handsome testimony to the gallantry of the Jacobite Irish that day. It might be more truly said that James’s courage forsook him that day, for he was not constitutionally a coward. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 2G3 But many a gallant spirit there retreats across the plain, Who. change but kings, would gladly dare that battle-field again.* Enough ! enough ! the victor cries ; your fierce pursuit forbear, Let grateful prayer to heaven arise, and vanquished freeman spare! Hurrah ! hurrah ! for liberty, for her the sword we drew, And dar’d the battle, while on high our Orange banners flew ; Woe worth the hour — woe worth the state, when men shall cease to join With grateful hearts to celebrate the glories of the Boyne ! * This alludes to the expression attributed to Sarsfield — “ Only change kings, and we will fight the battle over again.” A braver soldier than Sarsfield never drew sword. His regiment, after repeatedly repulsing the enemy, was obliged to leave the field as body-guard to the king. Sarsfield was very indignant at this, and as his regiment was the first to retire, he insisted afterwards, on the retrograde movement southward, that it should be the last, to cover the retreat. Sarsfield afterwards fell in battle in Flanders, and as his life- blood flowed from him, he exclaimed — “ Would that it were shed for Ireland 1” THE WHITE COCKADE. Translated from the Irish, by J. J. Callanaic. Ireland is not strong in Jacobite songs; she could not be expected to compete in this particular with Scotland, where the very heart of the Jacobite cause lay, and whose Jacobite relicks are some of the finest things in lyric poetry. But Ireland always fought, for the “ white cockade,” and it may be that love for the white rose, which dated much further back than the cause of the Stuarts, had something to do with it. One of the Dukes of the house of York had been Lord Deputy in Ireland, and about the best Ireland ever had, and Ireland never forgot that to the white rose. King Charles lie is King James’s son, And from a royal line is sprung ; Then up with shout, and out with blade, And we ’ll raise once more the white cockade. 0 ! my dear, my fair-hair’ d youth, Thou yet hast hearts of fire and truth ; Then up with shout, and out with blade — We’ll raise once more the white cockade. My young men’s hearts are dark with woe ; On my virgins’ cheeks the grief-drops flow ; The sun scarce lights the sorrowing day, Since our rightful prince went far away ; He’s gone, the stranger holds his throne ; The royal bird far oil' is flown : But up with shout, and out with blade — We’ll stand or fall with the white cockade. 264 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. No more the cuckoo hails the spring, The woods no more with the stancli-hounds ring ; The song from the glen, so sweet before, Is hush’d since Charles has left our shore. The prince is gone : but he soon will come, W ith trumpet sound, and with heat of drum : Then up with shout, and out with blade — Huzza for the right and the white cockade. To show, however, that Ireland was not deficient in wit on the subject of the white rose, the following anecdote may serve : The celebrated Lord Chesterfield, who governed Ire- land “with rare ability and a most rare liberality”* in 1744, when told by an alarmist that the “ Papists were dangerous,” replied he had never seen but one dangerous Papist, and that was Miss , a particularly lovely woman. This lady, sharing in the admiration and gratitude of the Roman Catholics, wished to show the Earl how thoroughly she could overcome political prejudice, and on a public occasion at Dublin Castle wore a breast-knot of orange ribbon : the Earl, pleased at the incident, requested St. Leger (afterwards Lord Doner aile), celebrated for his wit, to say something handsome to her on the occasion. The request occasioned the following impromptu : — “ Say, little Tory, why this jest Of wearing orange on thy breast, Since the same breast, uncover’d, shows The whiteness of the rebel rose ? “ * Piet. Hist. Eng. OYER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. Jacobite Song, 1715. From the Irish. Translated by E. Walsh. Once I bloom’d a maiden young ; A widow’s woe now moves my tongue ; My true-love’s barque ploughs ocean’s spray, Over the hills and far away. Chorus — Oh ! had I worlds, I’d yield them now, To place me on his tall barque’s prow, Who was my choice through childhood’s day, Over the hills and far away ! Oh ! may we yet our lov’d one meet, With joy-bells’ chime, and wild drums’ beat; While summoning war-trump sounds dismay, Over the hills and far away ! Oh ! had I worlds, &c. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 265 Oh. ! that my hero had his throne, That Erin’s cloud of care were flown. That proudest prince would own his sway, Over the hills and far away ! Oh ! had I worlds, &c. My bosom’s love, that prince afar, Our king, our joy, our orient star ; More sweet his voice than wild bird’s lay, Over the hills and far away ! Oh ! had I worlds, &c. A high green hill I’ll quickly climb, And tune my harp to song sublime, And chant his praise the live-long day, Over the hills and far away ! Oh ! had I worlds, &c. TIIE WILD GEESE.* Dr. Deennan. How solemn sad by Shannon’s flood The blush of morning sun appears ! To men who gave for us their blood, Ah ! what can woman give but tears ? How still the field of battle lies ! Ho shout upon the breeze has blown ! We heard our dying country’s cries, We sit deserted and alone. Ogh hone, ogh hone, ogli hone, ogh hone, Ah ! what can woman give but tears ? Why thus collected on the strand Whom yet the God of mercy saves ? Will ye forsake your native land ? W ill you desert your brothers’ graves ? * This song of Dr. Drennan’s celebrates the occasion alluded to in the note (f) to the “ Flower of Finac,” (p. 270,) when the garrison of Limerick, in a body, left their native land. The Shannon being named in the song, signally marks the occasion to which the action of the song refers; added to which, the wailing of the women coincides with what is said to have happened on that melancholy occasion, when the moment of embarkation arrived. 13 2G6 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. Their graves give forth a fearful groan — Oh ! guard your orphans and your wives ; Like us, make Erin’s cause your own, Like us, for her yield up your lives. Ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone, ogh hone, Like us, for her yield up your lives. KATHALEEN NY-HOULAHAN.* A Jacobite relic— translated from the Irish. By James Clarence Mangas'. Long they pine in weary woe, the nobles of our land, Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas ! and banned ; Feastless, houseless, altarless ; they bear the exile’s brand ; But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan! Think her not a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen, Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen ; Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned a queen, Were the king’s son at home here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan! Sweet and mild would look her face, 0 none so sweet and mild, Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled ; Woollen plaids would grace herself and robes of silk her child, If the king’s son were living here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! Sore disgrace it is to see the arbitress of thrones, V assal to a Saxoneen of cold and sapless bones ! Bitter anguish wrings our souls — w r ith heavy sighs and groans We wait the Young Deliverer of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! Let us pray to Him who holds life’s issues in His hands — Him who formed the mighty globe, with all its thousand lands ; Girdling them with seas and mountains, rivers deep, and strands, To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! He who over sands and waves led Israel along — He w r ho fed, with heavenly bread, that chosen tribe and throng — He w T ho stood by Moses when his foes were fierce and strong — May He show forth His might in saving Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan! * One of tbe many names by which Ireland was typified. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 267 THE BLACKBIRD. This queer old bit is undoubtedly Irish, although it has appeared in a Scottish collection. Its Hibernian origin could not be Questioned, for a moment, by any one familiar with the phraseology and peculiar structure of Anglo-Irish songs ; besides which, there are no Scotticisms in the verses ; and the air, moreover, to which it is sung, is Irish, and given in Bunting’s last collection (Ancient Music of Ireland : Dub. 1840), under the title of “ The Blackbird” (an londubh), and a noble air it is. In Ireland “ The Blackbird” was well understood to mean Prince Charles Edward, and the flight or song of a bird was a poetic • pretence for lamenting the exiled Stuart, common to Ireland and Scotland. In the “Jacobite Belies” of the latter, there is that most pathetic song, “Wae’s me for Prince Charlie,” with the peculiarities of Scottish dialect throughout : “A wee bird cam’ to our ha’ door, He warbled sweet and clearly, An’ aye the o’ercome o’ his sang Was “Wae’s me for Prince Charlie.” I have noticed, elsewhere, that Ireland has nothing to be proud of in Jacobite songs, while the “Jacobite Belies” of Scotland are among the very treasures of her minstrelsy. Once on a morning of sweet recreation, I heard a fair lady a-making her moan, With sighing and sobbing, and sad lamentation, Aye singing, “ My Blackbird for ever is flown ! He’s all my heart’s treasure, my joy, and my pleasure, So justly, my love, my heart follows thee ; And I am resolved, in foul or fair weather, To seek out my Blackbird, wherever he he. “I will go, a stranger to peril and danger, My heart is so loyal in every degree ; For he’s constant and kind, and courageous in mind : Good luck to my Blackbird, wherever he he ! In Scotland he’s loved and dearly approved, In England a stranger he seemeth to he ; But his name I’ll advance in Ireland or France. Good luck to my Blackbird, wherever he he. “ The birds of the forest are all met together The turtle is chosen to dwell with the dove, And I am resolved in foul or fair weather, Once in the spring-time to seek out my love. But since fickle Fortune, which still proves uncertain, Hath caused this parting between him and me, His right I’ll proclaim, and who dares me blame ? Good luck to my Blackbird, wherever he he.’* THE SOLDIER. From “Songs and Ballads,” by Samuel Lovee. Tbis soldier is supposed to be one of the many whom the p§nal laws forced to fight under foreign banners, and we may imagine the battle-field to have been in Flanders. ’Tayas a glorious day, worth a warrior’s telling, Two kings had fought, and the fight was done, When, ’midst the shout of victory swelling, A soldier fell on the field he won. He thought of kings and of royal quarrels, And thought of glory, without a smile : For what had he to do with laurels ? He was only one of the rank and file. But he pull’d out his little cruiskeen* And drank to his pretty colleen, f “ Oh darling ! ” says he, “ when I die You won’t he a widow — for why P Ah ! you never would have me, vourneen”\ A raven tress from his bosom taking, That now was stain’d with his life-stream shed, ■ A fervent pray’r o’er that ringlet making, He blessings sought on the lov’d one’s head. * Dram-bottle. t Girl, X Darling, HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 269 And visions fair of his native mountains Arose — enchanting his fading sight, Their emerald valleys and crystal fountains W ere never shining more fair and bright ; And grasping his little cruiskeen, He pledg’d the dear island of green ; ‘ ‘ Though far from thy valleys I die, Dearest isle, to my heart thou art nigh, As though absent I never had been.” A tear now fell — for, as life was sinking, The pride that guarded his manly eye Was weaker grown — and his last fond thinking Brought heaven, and home, and his true love nigh. But, with the fire of his gallant nation, He scorn’d to surrender without a blow! He made with death capitulation, And with warlike honours he still would go ! For, draining his little cruiskeen , He drank to his cruel colleen , To the emerald land of his birth — And lifeless he sank to the earth Brave a soldier as ever was seen. TnE FLOWER OF FINAE. Thomas Davis. This charming' ballad, in its descriptiveness, its tenderness, and dramatic power, is well worthy of the author’s high reputation. Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough Sheelin, A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is stealing, While fair round its islets the small ripples play, But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae. Her hair is like night, and her eyes like grey morning, She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning, Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May day, Sweet Eily Mac Mahon, the Flower of Finae. But who down the hill side than red deer runs fleeter ? And who on the lake side is hastening to greet her ? Who, but Fergus O’ Farrell, the fiery and gay, The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae. 270 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of gladness ; Ah ! why do they change on a sudden to sadness — He has told his hard fortune, nor more he can stay ; He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae. For Fergus O’ Farrell was true to his sire-land, And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from Ireland ; He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away, But he vows he’ll come hack to the Flower of Finae. He fought at Cremona — she hears of his story ; He fought at Cassano— she’s proud of his glor}’- ; Yet sadly she sings “ Shule Aroon ’’* all the day, “ Oh, come, come, my darling, come home to Finae.” Eight long years have pass’d, till she’s nigh broken-hearted, Her “reel,” and her “rock,” and her “flax” she has parted ;* She sails with the “Wild Geese” to Flanders away,j* And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae. Lord Clare on the field of Eamillies is charging — Before him, the Sasanach squadrons enlarging — Behind him the CravatsJ their sections display — Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae. On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are flying. Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying, Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array ; And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae. ******© In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying, And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying ; That flag’s the sole trophy of Itamillies’ fray ; This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae. * This is an allusion to an old Irish song called Shule Aroon, named in the verse above, belonging to the period of which this ballad treats, in which occurs this verse : — “ I’ll sell my rock. I’ll sell my reel, I’ll sell my only spinning-wheel To buy for my love a sword of steel.” It may be necessary to say that a rock is an old-fashioned distaff ; for though the word is still to be found in our dictionaries, many modern readers do not know its meaning. t The Irish who expatriated themselves after the celebrated siege of Limerick were called “ The Wild Geese they afterwards formed the famous Irish Brigade in the service of France, and all recruits raised for the Brigade in Ireland were, ever after, familiarly known by the name of “ Wild Geese.” % I have endeavoured, but unsuccessfully, to discover the origin and meaning of this sobriquet. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SORGS. 271 A most plaintive melody, said to have been sung by the women who wailed and wept the departure of the heroes of Limerick, is given in Bunting’s “ Ancient Music of Ireland,” — (Dublin, 1840,) and called “The Wild Geese.” To that air Moore wrote' his beautiful song entitled “ The Origin of the Harp,” beginning — “ ’Tis believ’d that this harp which I wake now to thee. Was a. Syren of old who sung under the sea.” The song proceeds to tell how her love for a youth was rejected ; and, in pity to her unre- ‘ quited passion, a spell was wrought — “ And chang’d to this soft harp the sea maiden’s form.” Moore then elaborates with great felicity an idea which he tells us he derived from a design prefixed to an ode on St. Cecilia’s day, thus : — “ Still her bosom rose fair, still her cheek smil’d the same, While her sea-beauties gracefully curl’d round the frame, And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright rings Fell over her white arm to make the gold strings.” The Bard then tells his mistress that this harp used to give forth mingled notes of love’s gladness and tones of sorrow, until, as the Bard says, with exquisite grace, to his mistress, — “ Thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To be love, when I’m near thee— and grief when away.” It is not unworthy of remark that Moore, with his excessive love of polish, altered the verse I have quoted in full, in the last edition of his collected works, thus “Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheeks smil d the same — While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light frame And her hair, as, let loose, o’er her white arm it fell, Was chang’d to bright chords utt’ring melody’s spell.” Though it may savour of presumption to criticise so polished a versifier as Moore, I can- not help saying I think the alteration, with the exception of the word “ chang'd ” for curl’d, is not an improvement. The image is more perfectly presented to the mind in the two last lines of the verse as it originally stood; and the “ let loose” in the second version, implies intentional disposition of the hair, far less pleasing than the unpremeditated grace with which it “fell” in the first form of the stanza. Then, “utt’ring” is a word so unmusical, that one almost wonders how it could have satisfied Moore’s delicate ear. THE SIEGE OF CARRICKFERGUS. In the year 1759, France made great exertions for the invasion of the British dominions. Admiral Thurot was appointed to command an expedition from Dunkirk. Admiral Conflans a still larger one from Brest. Sir Edward Hawke watched Brest ; a storm drove him from his blockade. Conflans took the opportunity of sailing ; but the British Admiral caught him out at sea, and defeated him off Belleisle, which glorious action is more commonly spoken of as “ Hawke’s Victory.” Dunkirk was watched by Commodore Boys, whom Thurot contrived to evade. He sailed with six ships up the North Sea, and went, north about, to Ireland severe weather scattered his ships, and only three reached Ireland. Thurot entered the Bay of Carrickfergus and landed; the garrison of the castle was very small, but fought the French with great gallantry. Their numbers were too insignificant for lengthened resistance, and, finally, they surrendered. Thurot’ s success was of but short duration; troops were despatched to the spot with hot haste, and Thurot, after having obtained a supply of provi- sions from Belfast, was obliged to retire. He sailed south, and the next morning an English squadron, under Captain Elliot, gave chase to the French ships, brought them to action, and captured them. In this action Thurot fell ; and thus ended the contemplated invasion of 1759. The following song has no literary merit whatever, but is a curious specimen of its class ; and coming fairly within the series of historic and political songs, in which I have endea- voured to establish a succession, I think it cannot be considered out of place, more particu- larly as the attack on Carrickfergus, and laying Belfast under contribution, is alluded to elsewhere, and a note of reference to this very song appended. From Dunkirk, in France, in the month of September, Fitted out was a fleet, and away they did sail ; And Monsieur Thurot, their only commander, With him at their head they were sure not to fail. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 273 So away they did steer, without dread or fear, And searched and plunder’d the coasts all around ; Till at length they arriv’d on the shore of old Ireland, And landed their men on our Irish ground. It was at Carrickfergus, in the north of this kingdom, They landed their men and march’d up to our walls ; Then cry’d the undaunted, brave Colonel Jennings, “ My boys, let’s salute them with powder and balls.” The battle began, and guns they did rattle, And bravely we fought under Jennings’ command, Said he, “ Play away, play away, my brave boys, The beggars the force of our fire cannot stand.” The town then they took without any resistance, The castle they thought was as easy likewise ; So they came marching up in grand divisions, To storm it, then guarded by the brave Irish boys; But we kept constant fire, and made them retire, Till our ammunition entirely was gone ; Then aloud we did say, brave boys let’s away, And sally out on them with sword in hand. But says our brave colonel, “ We cannot defend it, For to make a sally it is but in vain, As our ammunition, you see is expended ; We’ll therefore submit, and good terms will obtain, For plainly you see, that to one they are three, ’Tis best then in time for to capitulate ; For if they take it by storm, by the law of arms, Then death without mercy will sure be our fate.” Then these beggars obtained possession of Carrick, Where they re veil’d and sotted, and drank all the while, Poor people they did sorely ransack and plunder, And hoisted it all on board the Belleisle ; But Elliott soon met them, nor away did he let them, But forc’d them to yield up their ill-gotten store ; Now, Monsieurs, lament in the deepest contrition, For now you can brag of your Thurot no more. Let’s -exalt the brave Elliott, who gained this action, And sing to his praise in the joy fullest song ; For we of our foes have got satisfaction, And Thurot lies rotting in the Isle of Man. Their general is wounded, his schemes are confounded, The brave British tars they can never withstand ; The fire of the fierce and the bold British lions Appear’d in the men under brave Captain Bland. 18 * 274 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. But now to "bring my story to a conclusion, Let’s drink a good health to our officers all ; First brave Colonel Jennings, likewise Bland our captain, Yet never forgetting the brave Mr. Hall. Let’s drink and be jolly, and drown melancholy, So merrily let us rejoice too, and sing ; So fill up your bowls, all ye loyal souls, And toast a good health to great George our king. From a medal by Mossop, of Dublin. A noble statue of Grattan, by Chantrey, stands in the Royal Exchange of Dublin, with this suitable inscription on the pedestal — Filio Optimo Carissimo Henrico Grattan Patria non ingrata 1829. THE MAY YHIO LED THE YAY OF IRISH YOLUYTEERS. Edward Lysaght. Air, “ The British Grenadiers.” The man thus celebrated was Henry Grattan; the most illustrious of Irish patriots. The Irish Volunteers had existed, but ip. separate corps, until 1780, when a# increase and niSTOHICA.L AND POLITICAL SONGS. 27o general organisation of that force took place. The military establishments had been so drained to recruit the regiments in America, that there were not sufficient left in the kingdom to defend the seaports from attack ; and when the town of Belfast, which had been closely visited eighteen years before by invasion, applied to Government for support against the common enemy that threatened to invade them again. Government could not grant it ; and in that state of things the expansion of the volunteer institution was looked upon as the best national safeguard, and with marvellous rapidity men of all conditions and opinions enrolled themselves in these patriot ranks, clothing and arming themselves at their own expense. Henry Grattan’s eloquence in the senate increased the national enthusiasm of the volunteers, who looked upon Grattan with a passionate admiration. Sometime before, his indomitable energy in Parliament had obtained freedom of commerce for his country, and now he sought by the force of his argument and the ardour of his eloquence to rouse the Parliament of Ireland to assert its independence, which it did in the year 1782, as noticed under the song of “ Our Island,” and obtained the repeal of the objectionable act of the English Parliament, 6th Geo. I. Much as may be granted to the powers of eloquence, it is too much to suppose that such a triumph could have been obtained by mere oratory. Grattan had 80,000 volunteers of the same opinion as himself, not an insurrectionary band, but a legalised association of armed gentlemen, who had been loyally protecting their country from foreign invasion for years, and now determined to obtain domestic independence ; to use Mr. Grattan’s own words, “ It seemed as if the subjects of Ireland had met at the altar, and communicated a national sacrament. Juries, cities, counties, commoners, nobles, volunteers, gradations, religions, a solid league, a rapid fire.” That it was thus looked upon by the Government of the day is proved by the address made to Grattan by Mr. J. H. Hutchinson, his Majesty’s principal Secretary of State, when he was charged with communicating a message to the House of Commons from the Lord Lieutenant, by command of his Majesty, as preliminary to assenting to their claim. On that occasion Mr. Hutchinson said, “ Not only the present age, but posterity would be indebted to Mr. Grattan for the greatest of all obligations, and would, but he hoped at a great distance of time, inscribe on his tomb, that he had redeemed the liberties of his country'' When a Secretary of State thus spoke of that memorable event, it is quite clear that it could not be tainted with the smallest particle of what a people should not ask, nor a Sovereign grant. Moore speaks of this era in the history of Ireland, as possessing “a character of grandeur, as passing as it was bright, but which will be long remembered with melancholy pride by hei .sons, and as long recall the memory of that admirable man to whose patriotism she owed her brief day of freedom, and upon whose name that momentary sunshine of her sad history rests.” He pays a tribute also to the memory of Charles James Fox, in thus alluding to “the frank and cordial understanding entered into with Ireland, which identifies the memory of Mr. Fox and this Ministry* with the only oasis in the desert of Irish history.” — Moore’s Life of Sheridan, 8vo, pp. 359 to 375. TnE gen’rous sons of Erin, in manly virtue told, With hearts and hands preparing our country to uphold, Tho’ cruel knaves and bigot slaves disturbed our isle some years, Now hail the man, who led the van of Irish Yolunteers. * The Rockingham Ministry. 276 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. Just thirty years are ending,* since first his glorious aid, Our sacred rights defending, struck shackles from our trade ; To serve us still, with might and skill, the vet’ ran now appears, That gallant man, who led the van of Irish Volunteers. He sows no vile dissensions ; good will to all he hears ; He knows no vain pretensions, no paltry fears or cares ; To Erin’s and to Britain’s sons, his worth his name endears ; They love the man, who led the van of Irish Volunteers. Oppos’d by hirelings sordid, he broke oppression’s chain , On statute-books recorded, his patriot acts remain ; The equipoise his mind employs of Commons, King, and Peers, The upright man, who led the van of Irish Volunteers. A British constitution, (to Erin ever true,) In spite of State pollution, he gained in “ Eighty- tic o ; ” u He watched it in its cradle , and bedew'd its hearse ivith tears ,”f This gallant man, who led the van of Irish Volunteers. While other nations tremble, by proud oppressors gall’d, On hustings^ we’ll assemble, by Erin’s welfare call’d ; Our Grattan, there we’ll meet him, and greet him with three cheers; The gallant man, who led the van of Irish Volunteers. * This would make the date of the song somewhere about 1809. t Mr. Grattan’s feeling and impressive words were these — “ I watched by the cradle of Irish Independence, and I followed its hearse.” t This shows it to be an electioneering song, and for such an occasion, far above tko ordinary mark* THE SHAH VAN VOGH.§ 1796. On! the French are on the sea,|{ Says the Shan Van Vogh; The French are on the sea, Says the Shan Van Vogh ; § Properly spelt, An t-sean lihean bhochd, meaning, the Poor Old Woman — another name for Ireland. || An expedition sailed from France, 1796. It was scattered by a storm, a few ships only reached Ireland, and the force they carried was not sufficient to risk a landing. A copious note relating to this and other such expeditions, will be found under the song “ Up for the Green.” HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 277 Oh ! the French are in the Bay,* They’ll be here without delay, And the Orange will decay, Says the Shan Tan Yogh. Oh! the French are in the Bay. They ’ll he here by break of day, And the Orange will decay, Says the Shan Yan Yogh. And where will they have their camp ? Says the Shan Yan Yogh ; "Where will they have their camp ? Says the Shan Yan Y ogh ; On the Curragh of Kildare, f The boys % they will be there With their pikes in good repair, Says the Shan Yan Yogh. To the Curragh of Kildare The boys they will repair, And Lord Edward § will be there, Says the Shan Yan Yogh. Then what will the yeomen do ? Says the Shan Yan Yogh ; What will the yeomen do ? Says the Shan Yan Yogh ; What should the yeomen do, But throw off the red and blue, And swear that they’ll be true To the Shan Yan Yogh ? What should, &c. And what colour will they wear ? Says the Shan Yan Yogh ; What colour will they wear ? Says the Shan Yan Yogh ; * Pantry. t A noble plain in the county of that name, often used for encampment. A famous race-course is also there. % A familiar name for the rebels. In the following line there is something comically expressive in talking of their pikes being “in good repair,” as if a pike was a sort of thing in Ireland one should always have ready for use. § Lord Edward Fitzgerald — a worthy descendant of the illustrious Geraldines. The Geraldines always espoused the cause of Ireland, the country of their adoption ; fulfilling the truth of the accusation made, of old, by England, against settlers in Ireland— “That they became more Irish than the Irish themselves.” See "History of England” for the Earl of Ivlidare and Henry VII. See also, “The Chain of Gold,” in this collection, p. 243. 278 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. What colour should he seen Where our Fathers’ homes have been 5 But their own immortal Green ? Says the Shan Van Vogh. What colour ; &c. And will Ireland then be free ? Says the Shan Van Vogh ; Will Ireland then he free ? Says the t h m Van Vo ; Yes ! Ireland shall he free, From the centre to the sea ; Then hurra for Liberty ! Says the Shan Van Vogh. Yes! Ireland, &o. There are many versions of this song, which has always been a favourite with the people at all times of political excitement, either varied or rewritten, according to circumstances. At the time of the celebrated Clare election, carried by Daniel O’Connell while the "Catholic Emancipation” cause was yet pending, I remember two verses of a street ballad in Dublin running thus: — "Into Parliament you’ll go, (meaning O’Connell,) says the Shan Van Vogh, To extricate our woe, says the Shan Van Vogh; Our foes you will amaze, And all Europe you will plaze ; And ould Ireland’s now at aise, . Says the Shan Van Vogh. "Our worthy brave O’Connell, says the Shan Van Vogh, To have you in we’re longing, says the Shan Van Vogh; Sure you we well have tried, And you’re always at our side, And you never took a bribe. Says the Shan Van Vogh.” During the “ Repeal ” movement (about 1840) the original song was revived, with the exception of the first verse, and the name of O’Connell substituted for that of Lord Edward SHAN VAN VOUGH. A Street Ballad. I have said, in the notes to the foregoing song of the same title, composed in 1796, that it was a favourite form of expressing popular opinion at all times of political excitement. The following version I remember hearing sung in the streets of Dublin, soon after a debate in the House of Lords on some Irish question. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 279 Oh, I’m told that Anglesea,* Says the Shan Van Vough; Oh, I’m told that Anglesea, Says the Shan Van Vough ; Oh, I’m told that Anglesea, In the House of Lords one day, Said the Papists he would slay, Says the Shan Van Vough. But faith, at 'Waterloo, Says the Shan Van Vough ; But faith, at Waterloo, Says the Shan Van Vough ; But faith, at Waterloo, He’d have looked very blue, Hadn’t Paddy been there too,f Says the Shan Van Vough. Yet, if he needs must fight, Says the Shan Van Vough ; Yet, if he needs must fight, Says the Shan Van Vough ; Yet, if he needs must fight, Oh, he’s always in the right To keep Erin in his sight, Says the Shan Van Vough. For Pat is fond of fun, Says the Shan Van Vough ; For Pat is fond of fun, Says the Shan Van Vough ; F or Pat is fond of fun, And was never known to run From cannon, sword, or gun, Says the Shan Van Vough. And though Rock,J alas, is gone, Says the Shan Van Vough ; And though Bock, alas, is gone, Says the Shan Van V ough ; * The Marquis of Anglesea. Pronounced by the ballad-singers Ang-gla-say. t This was suggested by a passage in a speech of Daniel O’Connell’s at that time, wherein he said that the Duke of Wellington kept all his objections against the Irish for his place in Parliament ; but that he had no objection to them on the field of Waterloo. X Captain Rock. The supposititious leader of insurrectionary movements. His memoirs by Moore, are well worth reading by any one who wishes to be briefly acquainted with the political disturbances of Ireland from the earliest times down to 1824. 280 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS, And though Rock, alas, is gone, I’ll hold you ten to one He’d he with us here anon, Says the Shan Yan Tough. But no Hussar* we’ll see, Says the Shan Yan Yough ; But no Hussar we’ll see, Says the Shan Yan Yough ; But no Hussar we’ll see, For old Erin shall he free, An “ So help me God” says she, The Shan Yan Yough. * The Marquis of Anglesea, it may be remembered, was famous as an Hussar officer j or, I should rather say, it can never be forgotten. Strange enough, it was the Duke of Wellington who, after making many strong speeches against “ Catholic Emancipation,” introduced and carried that measure. And the Marquis of Anglesea was, after the period when the above ballad was sung, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland — and one of the most popular who ever held that place;— so popular indeed, that he was recalled, and his farewell procession from Dublin to his place of embarkation at Kingstown was one of the most remarkable public exhibitions of affectionate demonstration I ever witnessed. He passed through hundreds of thousands, who blessed him as he passed, but to see fresh hundreds of thousands covering the ample shores of the harbour; and at the final moment of departure the deep emotion of the gallant veteran could not be concealed : the scene was equally honourable to the feelings of the Governor and the people he had governed. Such events are proofs of what extraordinary changes may take place in opinion. o UP FOR THE GREEN! A song of the United Irishmen, 1 796. Air, “ Wearing of the Green.” ’Tis the green — oh, the green is the colour of the true, And we’ll hack it ’gainst the orange, and we’ll raise it o’er the blue ! For the colour of old Ireland alone should here he seen — ’Tis the colour of the martyr’d dead — our own immortal green. Then up for the green, boys, and up for the green ! Oh, ’tis down to the dust, and a shame to he seen ; But we’ve hands — oh, we’ve hands, hoys, full strong enough, I ween, To rescue and to raise again our own immortal green ! They may say they have power ’tis vain to oppose — ’Tis better to obey and live, than surely die as foes ; But we scorn all their threats, boys, whatever they may mean ; For we trust in God above us, and we dearly love the green. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 281 So, we’ll up for tlie green, and we’ll up for tlie green ! Oh, to die is far better than be curst as we have been ; And we’ve hearts — oh, we’ve hearts, hoys, full true enough, I ween, To rescue and to raise again our own immortal green ! They may swear, as they often did, our wretchedness to cure ; But we’ll never trust John Bull again, nor let his lies allure. No, we won’t — no, we won’t, Bull, for now nor ever more ! For we’ve hopes on the ocean,* and we’ve trust on the shore. Then up for the green, hoys, and up for the green ! Shout it back to the Sasanach, u We’ll never sell the green !” For our Tone f is coming back, and with men enough, I ween, To rescue, and avenge us and our own immortal green Oh, remember the days when their reign we did disturb, At Limerick and Thurles, Blackwater and Benburb : And ask this proud Saxon if our blows he did enjoy. When we met him on the battle-field of France — at Fontenoy. Then we’ll up for the green, boys, and up for the green ! Oh, ’tis still in the dust, and a shame to be seen ; But we’ve hearts and we’ve hands, boys, full strong enough, I ween, To rescue and to raise again our own unsullied green ! * Alluding to the expected succour from France. f Theobald Wolfe Tone, one of the most active of the United Irishmen. He presented himself to the Directory of the French Republic, as the accredited agent of his party, and it is worthy of remark that in the course of his negociations he had one interview with Napoleon Bonaparte. After much labour and many disappointments he obtained, in 1796, the aid he sought for. He was made Chef de Brigade, and placed on the staff of General Hoche, to whom the command of the expedition to Ireland was entrusted. It was one of great importance ; the fleet consisted of forty-three sail, seventeen being of the line, car- rying some fifteen thousand French troops, with ample supply of warlike stores, and forty- five thousand stand of arms for distribution among the disaffected in Ireland. That expedition was scattered by a storm a few ships anchored in Bantry Bay, and remained for some days ; but the admiral, chief in command, never reached an anchorage — neither did Hoche, the general in chief, and the expedition proved utterly abortive. Many of the ships were wrecked, some were taken by the British cruisers, and the remainder returned to Brest in a very shattered condition. Tone, though thus baffled for the moment, persevered in soliciting foreign aid; and a new and equally formidable expedition was ordered to attempt a descent upon Ireland from the Batavian Republic, in the fol- lowing year, and again under Hoche’s command. That expedition was detained for six weeks by contrary winds in the Texel, and the stores being consumed, the army of invasion was debarked. During that time of detention the memorable mutiny in the British fleet, at the Nore, took place, paralysing, for the time, the naval power of England, and leaving her fearfully exposed to the intended attack. The mutiny was suppressed before the Texel 282 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. fleet, under Admiral De Winter, could put to sea, and gave Admiral Duncan the oppor- tunity of meeting it at Camperdown, and obtaining his famous victory of the 11th of October, 1797 ; a conquest which seriously crippled the naval power of the confederated Republics of France and Batavia, and placed a coronet on the head of the victorious admiral. The indefatigable Tone still urged the French to make a descent upon Ireland, and a third expedition was undertaken, in August 179S, under the command of General Humbert, which landed at Killala, but too small to be influential, unsupported as it then was; and Humbert, after some partial successes, surrendered. The intended support, under the command of General Hardy and Commodore Bompart, sailed from Brest in September, and appeared off the coast of Donegal in October; but a British fleet, under the command of Captain Sir John Borlaze Warren, had watched this hostile movement, and a general action resulted in the defeat of the enemy. Tone was in the French com- modore’s ship (The Hoche), and it is stated that he displayed great gallantry throughout the action, but death in hot blood was not to be his fate. On the arrival of the captured ship in Lough Swilly he was recognised, transmitted to Dublin, tried by court martial, and condemned to death. He appeared on his trial in a French uniform, and as an officer in the French service requested to be shot. This was refused, and to avoid the ignominy of the scaffold, he laid violent hands on himself the evening before the day appointed for his execution. The air to which the foregoing song was sung is very sweet and plaintive, as well as the ballad entitled “ For the wearing of the Green," setting forth the sufferings of the adherents of that colour; there was another, entitled “For the Green on the Cape,” which I myself remember to have heard when a child from the lips of the street ballad-singer, and at a time, too, when it was anything but safe to sing it. In that ballad a conversation was supposed to take place between Bonaparte and an Irishman, and Bonaparte inquires — “And how is ould Ireland, and how docs she stand? ” To which the reply follows — “ ’Tis a poor distressed coun-the-ry, oh, poor I-ar-land.” The refrain being, *• For the green on the cape, for the green on the cape, ’Tis a poor distressed country for the green on the cape.’* This hope in Bonaparte was a very false one, for Tone, in his memoirs, says that when he urged on Napoleon the striking at England through this vulnerable point, the sugges- tion was met with coldness, and the selfish remark, that Ireland had already proved enough for all that the French Directory wanted, in having been a useful diversion in their favour. From this, and certain observations in Bourienne’s Memoirs of the Emperor, it seems questionable if ever he seriously contemplated the invasion of England, and pro- bable, that even all his overt preparations at Boulogne were only diversions to cover other movements. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 283 WHEN ERIN FIRST ROSE. This is so remarkable a song that I hope an editor may be pardoned for taking more than ordinary notice of it. Moore calls it “that beautiful but rebellious song;” but as Dr. Drennan wrote at a period when party passion was at boiling-heat, we cannot wonder at the intensity of his political feelings, and the uncompromising vigour with which they are expressed. His taste, however, was too good to permit him to indulge in any revolting terms of antagonism, which is more than can be said for much of the writing of that day. In the following poem the feelings of an unflinching patriot of the period are eloquently poured forth, and no one, I think, can deny much poetic power and artistic accomplishment in these lines : forcible imagery, and antithetic point, are given in flowing verse and good language. Some exception may be critically made to these qualities, as, here and there, they are open to the charge of carelessness and magniloquence ; but we must, remember that bombast was the vice of his day, and the very nature of the poem excuses, if it cannot justify, exuberance of expression. The similes are not always quite perfect, and the poem is not quite equal throughout ; for in the last verse, where the poet should rise, he decidedly sinks. But greater men than Doctor Drennan have made the same mistake : many think Campbell’s “ Battle of the Baltic” would have been better without the last verse. Take it for all in all, however, the ode is worthy of admiration, and suggests proof to a thinking reader of these days (when we may calmly consider events more than half a century past) that the disaffection existing in Ireland at that time did not, as it has sometimes been mis- represented, exist principally among the lower and ignorant classes. Such lines as these could never have been inspired in the back lanes of low-lived conspiracy; they bear internal evidence of being the work of a gentleman : moreover, it appears to me the whole heart of a nation must have been roused before such lines could have been written ; they are rather the effect than the cause of commotion : — the fringe of foam on the dark rush of the torrent. W hen Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood, God bless’ d the green island, and saw it was good; The em’rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone, In the ring of the world, the most precious stone ; In her sun, in her soil, in her station thrice blest, With her back towards Britain, her face to the West, Erin stands proudly insular, on her steep shore, And strikes her high harp ’mid the ocean’s deep roar. But when its soft tones seem to mourn and to weep, The dark chain of silence* is thrown o’er the deep ; * Dr. Drennan, here, anticipates Moore in his allusion to an old bardic custom. Walker tells us of the assembled bards, on a certain occasion, resorting to this custom to repress a military commotion. “To effect this, they shook the chain of silence , and flung themselves into the ranks, extolling the sweets of peace,” &c. Moore pleasantly calls this shaking of the chain of silence “a practical figure gf rhetoric.” But how beautifully Moore has adopted this image in his farewell to the harp, in the well known lines — “ Dear Harp of my Country ! in darkness I found thee. The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long ; When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I unbound thee. And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song ! ” As George Withers improved on an idea of Sir Walter Raleigh, alluded to in another part of this volume, so Moore transcended his antecessor. 284 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. At the thought of the past the tears gush from her eyes, And the pulse of her heart makes her white bosom rise. 0 ! sons of green Erin, lament o’er the time, When religion was war, and our country a crime — When man in God’s image, inverted his plan, And moulded his God in the image of man. When the int’rest of state wrought thtf general woe, The stranger a friend, and the native a foe ; While the mother rejoic’d o’er her children oppressed, And clasp’d the invader more close to her breast. When with pale for the body and pale for the soul, Church and State joined in compact to conquer the whole ; And as Shannon was stained with Milesian blood, Ey’d each other askance and pronounced it was good. By the groans that ascend from your forefathers’ grave, E or their country thus left to the brute and the slave, Drive the demon of bigotry home to his den, And where Britain made brutes now let Erin make men. Let my sons like the leaves of the shamrock unite, A partition of sects from one footstalk of right, Give each his full share of the earth and the sky, Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would die.* Alas ! for poor Erin that some are still seen, Who would dye the grass red from their hatred to Green ;f Yet, oh ! when you’re up and they’re down, let them live, Then yield them that mercy which they would not give. Arm of Erm be strong ! but be gentle as brave ! And uplifted to strike, be still ready to save ! Let no feeling of vengeance presume to defile The cause of, or men of, the Emerald Isle The cause it is good, and the men they are true, And the green shall outlive both the Orange and Blue ! And the triumphs of Erin her daughters shall share, With the full swelling chest, and the fair flowing hair, Their bosoms heave high for the worthy and brave, But no coward shall rest in that soft-swelling wave ; Men of Erin ! awake ! and make haste to be blest, liise — Arch of the Ocean, and Queen of the West. * In allusion to the Irish soil not harbouring any venomous reptile. t How forcible is this image ; — a hatred so intense that it would alter even the works of God by dyeing the grass. And what colour ?— Bed :- 1 >how fearfully suggestive. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 285 Having ventured to speak of these verses so critically, I wish to support my opinion by referring to the text. It will be observed that the author is fond of indulging in epithet, as, “steep shore”— “high harp” — “deep roar;” and often double epithet, as, “dark- swelling” — “full-swelling” — “soft-swelling” — “fair-swelling” — tending somewhat to tur- gidity. In the fourth and sixth lines the metre is defective ; a little care would have made the sixth smooth, and the sentiment even more bitter. The original stands thus — “With her back towards Britain, her face to the West;” “with,” being expletive and inelegant ; “towards,” false in metre unless mispronounced. I think the line stands better thus — Her back turn’d to Britain,— her face to the West. The metre perfect; composition more compact; and turning the back, increasing the expression of dislike. The four last lines of the second verse, and the entire of the third and fourth, are rich in antithesis, powerful in expression, and faultless in versification, with the one exception of an affected pronunciation of “ Milesian.” The last verse is, unfortunately, the weakest; and the image “soft-swelling wave,” forced; — a bosom cannot be called a wave, and the homely phrase “make haste” is infelicitous at the end of so lofty a strain. But whatever its faults may be, this ode may be ranked among the highest examples of patriotic exhortation and political invective. -O OUR ISLAND I Edward Lysaght. Bom, 17C3. Air, “ The Rogue’s March.” Edward Lysaght was a gentleman of the county of Clare, whose convivial nature won for him the sobriquet of “ Pleasant Ned.” He passed through Trinity College, Dublin, with credit. He was a fluent song writer. Some of his lighter pieces are graceful, and indicate a nice ear for euphony, ( vide “Kate of Garnavilla,” in this volume,) but his patriotic songs are, perhaps, his best; he does the light cavalry business of political warfare with much spirit, cutting and giving point as he dashes along. Mat Grod, in whose hand Is the lot of each land — - Who rules over ocean and dry land— Inspire our good king From his presence to fling 111 advisers who’d ruin our island. 286 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. Don’t we feel ’tis onr dear native island ! A fertile and fine little island ! May Orange and Green* No longer be seen Bestain’d with the blood of our island. The fair ones we prize Declare they despise Those who’d make it a slavish and vile land ; Be their smiles our reward, And we’ll gallantly guard All the rights and delights of our island — For, oh! ’tis a lovely green island! Bright beauties adorn our deai island ! At St. Patrick’s command Vipers quitted our land — But he’s wanted again in our island ! For her interest and pride, We oft fought by the side Of England, that haughty and high land ; Nay, we’d do so again, If she’d let us remain A free and a flourishing island — * Orange and green are the distinctive and antagonistic colours of the two great parties so long dividing Ireland but, as orange and green are harmonious in the artistic arrange- ment of colour, let us hope that a similar result may take place in political chromatics, and that neither of the parties will continue to grind their colours with such intensify as formerly the occasional mixture of a little more oil would make them work more smoothly j and, apropos — the olive, that emblem of peace, has good oleaginous qualities. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 23 7 But she, like a crafty and sly land, Dissension excites in our island, And, our feuds to adjust, She would lay in the dust All the freedom and strength of our island. A few years ago — Though now she says no — We agreed with that surly and sly land, That each, as a friend, Should the other defend, And the Crown he the link of each island! ’Twas the final state-bond of each island ; Independence we swore to each island, f Are we grown so absurd As to credit her word, When she’s breaking her oath with our island ? Let us steadily stand By our king and our land, And it shan’t be a slavish or vile land ; „ Nor impudent Pitt Unpunished commit An attempt on the rights of our island. Each voice should resound through our island — You’re my neighbour, but, Bull, this is my land ! J Nature’s favourite spot — And I’d sooner be shot Than surrender the rights of our island ! t This alludes to the celebrated Declaration of Irish Independence in 17S2. In an address to the Crown, moved as an amendment by Henry Grattan, and carried nem. con (too long to quote in extenso), occurs the following passage : — “ That there is no body of men competent to make laws to bind this nation, except the King, Lords, and Commons, of Ireland; nor any other Parliament which hath any authority or power of any sort whatever, in this country, save only the Parliament of Ireland.” The address further declares the people of Ireland “never expressed a desire to share the freedom of England, without declaring a determination to share her fate likewise — standing oe failing with the Beitish nation.” — Address to the Crown, moved by Mr. Grattan in the Irish Parliament, 16th April, 1782. The Ministry that lost America to England had just gone out. The Rockingham Administration came in, and in a milder spirit of rule the English Parliament not only repealed the obnoxious statute complained of (6th of George I.), but subsequently renounced all claim to bind Ireland. t This neighbourly call reminds us of a funny hit of dialogue in the old farce of “ The Citizen,” where the spendthrift son, George, wishing to make his avaricious father believe he is very thrifty, says, friendship is all very well, but must not interfere with self-interest. “ Love your neighbour, sir ; but don’t pull down your own hedge.” The father replies, “ Very good, indeed George ! Love your neighbour, and pull down his hedge” 288 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. GREEN WERE THE FIELDS. Geobge Nugent Reynolds. Air, “ Savourneen Deelisli.” Green were the fields where my forefathers dwelt, 0 ; Erin, ma vourneen ! slan leat go brah !* Tho’ our farm it was small, yet comforts we felt, 0. Erin, &c. At length came the day when our lease did expire, Fain would I live where before lived my sire ; Rut, ah ! well-a-day ! I was forced to retire. Erin, &c. Tho’ the laws I obey’d, no protection I found, 0,f Erin, &e. With what grief I beheld my cot burn’d to the ground, 0 ! Erin, &c. Forc’d from my home ; yea, from where I was born, To range the wide world — poor, helpless, forlorn ; I look back with regret — and my heart-strings are torn. Erin, &c. With principles pure, patriotic, and firm, Erin, &c. To my country attached, and a friend to reform, Erin, &c. I supported old Ireland — was ready to die for it ; If her foes e’er prevail’d I was well known to sigh for it ; Rut my faith I preserv’d, and am now forced to fiy for it. Erin, &c. - \ Rut hark ! I hear sounds, and my heart is strong beating, Erin, &c. Loud cries for redress, and avaunt on retreating, Erin, &c. We have numbers, and numbers do constitute power, Let us will to be free — and we’re free from that hour : Of Hibernia’s brave sons, oh ! we feel we’re the flower. Erin, &c. * Ireland, my darling ! for ever adieu ! f The saying “ there is one law for the rich and another for the poor,” which we hear so often, “ even in England ,” in these days, was more lamentably pregnant with truth in Ireland in those days. X This verse, I apprehend, is an interpolation. This song, supposed to have been written some time about 1792, was given in one of the volumes emanating from the Young Ireland party, under the title of “ The Exile of Erin” — that title being usurped for the purpose of giving colour to a most unworthy attempt, which is HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 2S9 treated of hereafter. I say usurped — for the original and true title of the scng is that given to it here ; but it was called the Exile of Erin in the publication named above, with a view to make it appear as the first part of a subject carried out in a higher form in the second part by the same author — thus attempting to create a belief in two equally im- probable (or rather impossible) things— namely, that the author of “Green were the Fields” could ever have written the noble lyric of Campbell, or that Campbell could have been guilty of the meanness of literary piracy. The internal evidence borne by the two com- positions is sufficient to establish the impossibility of the first, and the pre-eminent literary reputation of Campbell (my honoured and lamented friend) is sufficient for the second par of the question. It is worthy of remark, too, that the word “ exile” never once occurs in this song, — while “ Exile of Erin” is in the first line of Campbell’s, and, most naturally, suggested its title. TIIE EXILE OF ERIE. Thomas Campbell. Eorn, 1777. Died, 1844. This celebrated lyric is remarkable in two ways. First, for its intrinsic merits, and next, that its touching expression of sentiment, as that of an exiled Irishman, sprang from the sympathy of a man who was not a native of Ireland. But that man had a deep 14 290 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. love of liberty in his soul; he could feel for Ireland as he felt for Poland, and the author of that often-quoted line — “And freedom shriek’d — as Kosciusko fell,” sympathized with the humble exile of Erin. I cannot help expressing 1 my regret, and almost a sense of shame, that any, in Ireland, could be so forgetful of what was due to Campbell for such a song, as to make the attempt (alluded to in the note to the preceding song) to brand with the charge of literary piracy the man who had so sympathized with the Irish exile. The charge that Campbell did not write this song, which he published under his name, was first made in 1830, twenty-nine years after the song was written. Why was not the charge made and substantiated (if it could be) before ? In law, if a man holds an estate for twenty years, unchallenged, it is reckoned a good title. Is there to be no protection on Parnassus ? Campbell publicly denied this charge, under his own hand, while he lived; the charge was revived when he was in the grave. What can be said of this ? “A lion preys not upon carcasses.” But the charge was too ridiculous to be entertained for a moment by any person of critical acumen. Campbell’s lyric has his own mint-mark upon it, and all the scrubbing of presumptuous meddlers cannot efface it. “There is nothing new under the sun,” saith the preacher. This desire to damage reputation has ever been : “ A falcon towering in her pride of place Was by a mousing owl hawked at There is a passage of Moore’s so singularly applicable to the present subject that I quote it. “ In a late work, professing to be the memoirs of Mr. Sheridan, there are some wise doubts expressed as to his being really the author of ‘ The School for Scandal,’ to which, except for the purpose of exposing absurdity, I should not have thought it worth while to allude. It is an old trick of detraction, and one of which it never tires, to father the works of eminent writers upon others ; or, at least, while it kindly leaves the author the credit of his worst performances, to find some one in the background to ease him of the fame of his best. When this sort of charge is brought against a contemporary, the motive is intelligible ; but, such an abstract pleasure have some persons in merely unsettling the crowns of Fame, that a worthy German has written an elaborate book to prove that the Iliad was written, not by that particular Homer the world supposes, but by some other Homer I In truth, if mankind were to be influenced by those qm tam critics, who have, from time to time, in the course of the history of literature, exhibited informations of plagiarism against great authors, the property of fame would pass from its present holders into the hands of persons with whom the world is but little acquainted. Aristotle must refund to one Ocellus Lucanus— Virgil must make a eessio bonorum in favour of Pisander. The metamorphoses of Ovid must be credited to the account of Parthenius of Nictea, and (to come to a modern instance) Mr. Sheridan must, according to his biographer, Dr. Watkins, surrender the glory of having written the ‘School for Scandal’ to a certain anonymous young lady, who died of consumption in Thames-street ! ” — Moore’s Life of Sheridan. 8vo. Yol. I. p. 254. The Americans seem determined not to be surpassed by the rest of the world in this, as in many other achievements. When a planet, before it was ever seen in the unexplored depths of space, was declared to exist, by Le Verrier, and when, to the delight of every generous mind HISTORICAL AXD POLITICAL SOXGS. 291 at this marvellous triumph of science, it did appear in the very place where Le Verrier prophesied it would be found at a certain time, a jealous Yankee star-gazer published a letter to declare that the planet thus revealed, was not the planet Le Verrier thought it was. Another American, but the other day, favoured us with the amusing information that the Plays of Shakspeare (so called) were written by Lord Bacon. But, enough of such odious theme ! Let us turn from this miserable spirit of detraction to the generous outburst of a poet’s soul. There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill : But the day-star attracted his eyes’ sad devotion, For it rose o’er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the hre of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. Sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger ; The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee ; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again in' the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers liv’d, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh. Erin, my country, tho’ sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore, But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more. Oh cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace — where no perils can chase me ? Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood ? Sisters and sire, did you weep for its fall ? Where is the mother that look’d on my childhood ? Where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ? Oh ! my sad heart ! long abandon’d by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure, Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing. One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 292 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green he thy fields, — sweetest isle of the ocean, And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin, ma vourneen ! Erin go bragh ! * * Ireland, my darling ! Ireland for ever ! This song surpasses by far all that were ever written to the lovely air of Sauourneen Deelish. Moore felt that a melody of such beauty must appear in his “ Irish Melodies,” but he abstained from using it for a long time, conscious of the formidable rivalry he had to encounter. He says himself, “ I must express my diffidence in treading upon the same ground with Mr. Campbell, whose beautiful words to this fine air have taken too strong possession of all ears and hearts for me to think of following in his footsteps with any success.” THE CROPPY BOY. A Ballad of ’98. Carroll Malone. The revolutionary party in Ireland of this period wore their hair short, like the round- heads of Cromwell’s day — lienee the term “ crop,” or “ croppy.” The dramatic spirit of this ballad imparts to it a strange interest. “ Good men and true! in this house who dwell, To a stranger bouchal\ I pray you tell Is the priest at home ? or may he he seen ? I would speak a word with Father Green.” “ The priest’s at home, hoy, and may he seen ; ’Tis easy speaking with Father Green ; But you must wait till I go and see If the holy Father alone may he.” The youth has entered an empty hall — "What a lonely sound has his light foot-fall ! And the gloomy chamber’s chill and hare, With a vested priest in a lonely chair. The youth has knelt to tell his sins : “ Nomine Dei ,” the youth begins ; At “ mea culpa ” he beats his breast, And in broken murmurs he speaks the rest. t Boy^ HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 293 il At the siege of Boss did my father fall, And at Gorey my loving brothers all. I alone am left of my name and race; I will go to Wexford* and take their place. “ I cursed three times since last Easter day — At mass-time once I went to play ; I passed the churchyard one day in haste, And forgot to pray for my mother’s rest. “ I bear no hate against living thing ; But I love my country above my king. Now, Father ! bless me, and let me go To die, if God has ordained it so.” The priest said nought, but a rustling noise Made the youth look up in wild surprise ; The robes were off, and in scarlet there Sat a yeoman captain with fiery glare. With fiery glare and with fury hoarse, Instead of blessing, he breathed a curse : — 11 ’Twas a good thought, boy, to come here and shrive, For one short hour is your time to live. “ Upon yon river three tenders float, f The priest's in one, if he isn’t shot— We hold his house for our Lord the King, And, amen say I, may all traitors swing !” At Geneva Barrack^ that young man died, And at Passage they have his body laid. Good people who live in peace and joy, Give a prayer and a tear for the Croppy Boy. * The rebels made a desperate stand at Wexford, which was in their hands for some time ; and there the sanguinary spirit of both parties was fearfully displayed. It was not the first time Wexford beheld a massacre, for Cromwell, in 1649, placed a red letter before his name, there, in the page of history. t Guard-ships were anchored off Wexford, which served as prisons for the captured rebels, or suspected persons. % A military station in Wexford county. 294 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. MARY LE MORE. The Maniac of 1798. George Nugent Reynolds. Air, “ Savourneen Deelish." This is among the best of Mr. Reynolds’s poetical effusions, and gives a fearful picture of the times it represents. As I stray’d o’er the common on Cork’s rugged border, While the dew-drops of morn the sweet primrose array’d, I saw a poor maiden whose mental disorder Her quick- glancing eye and wild aspect betray’d. On the sward she reclin’d, by the green fern surrounded, At her side speckled daisies and wild flow’rs abounded ; To its inmost recesses her heart had been wounded ; Her sighs were unceasing — ’twas Mary le More. Her charms by the keen blasts of sorrow were faded, Yet the soft tinge of beauty still play’d on her cheek ; Her tresses a wreath of pale primroses braided, And strings of fresh daisies hung loose on her neck. "While with pity I gaz’d, she exclaim’d, “ 0 my Mother ! See the blood on that lash, ’tis the blood of my brother ; They have torn his poor fbesh, and they now strip another — ’Tis Connor, the friend of poor Mary le More. “ Though his locks were as white as the foam of the ocean, Those wretches shall find that my father is brave ; My father !” she cried, with the wildest emotion, “ Ah ! no, my poor father now sleeps in the grave !* They have tolled his death-bell, they’ve laid the turf o’er him ; His white locks were bloody ! no aid could restore him ; He is gone ! he is gone ! and the good will deplore him, When the blue waves of Erin hide Mary le More.” * This is an allusion to a song written some time previously, entitled “Mary Le More,” in which the burning of a cabin, accompanied with murder and violation, is the subject, and in which I remember this verse occurs — “One cold winter’s night, as poor Dermot sat musing, Hoarse curses alarm’d him, and crash went the door; The fierce sQldiers enter’d, and straight 'gan abusing The mild but brave father of Mary Le More; To their taunts he replied not — with blows they assail’d him — He felt all indignant, his patience now fail’d him — He return’d their rile blows; and all Munster bewail’d him — For stabb’d was the father of Mary le More.” HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 295 A lark, from the gold -blossom’d fi;rze that grew near her, Now rose, and with energy caroll’d his lay ; “Hush, hush I” she continued, “the trumpet sounds clearer; The horsemen approach ! Erin’s daughters, away ! Ah ! soldiers, ’twas foul, while the cabin was burning, And o’er a pale father a wretch had been mourning — Go, hide with the sea-mew, ye maids, and take warning, Those ruffians have ruin’d poor Mary le More. “ Away, bring the ointment : 0 God ! see those gashes ! Alas ! my poor brother, come dry the big tear ; Anon we’ll have vengeance for these dreadful lashes ; Already the screech-owl and raven appear. By day the green grave, that lies under the willow, With wild tiow’rs I’ll strew, and by night make my pillow, Till the ooze and dark sea-weed, beneath the curl’d billow, Shall furnish a death-bed for Mary le More.” Thus rav’d the poor maniac, in tones more heart-rending '-*■ Than sanity’s voice ever pour’d on my ear, When, lo ! on the waste, and their march tow’rds her bending, A troop of fierce cavalry chanc’d to appear ; “0, ye fiends !” she exclaim’d, and with wild horror started; Then through the tall fern, loudly screaming, she darted ; With an overcharg’d bosom I slowly departed, And sigh’d for the wrongs of poor Mary le More. “HABBY’S SWOBD.” The following spirited and tender lines, which are attributed to a distinguished Presby- terian clergyman, are supposed to be addressed to the sword of Harry M'Cracken by his sister. Harry M'Cracken was engaged, and distinguished himself by his courage, in open battle ; was subsequently taken prisoner, and died heroically on the scaffold, — where, up to the last moment, he was made conscious of the unflinching love and Spartan fortitude of that very sister. Scott makes us wonder at the heroism of Flora MTvor in making the shroud for her brother Fergus. How near fiction may come to truth ! — or did Scott derive his incident from fact ? To what a fearful pitch must nerve be wrought by such times of excitement ! ’Tis the sword of my Harry — its own native hue — The emerald handle — and steel’s glossy blue : I know the curv’d sweep of the well-temper’d blade, With shamrock of gold and sweet myrtle inlaid. How oft has it shone on the mountains afar, When it marshall’ d the sons of green Erin for war — The avenger of wrong and the scourge of the foe ! But the hand that could wield it, alas ! is laid low. 298 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. How long has it slumber’d secure in the sheath ! And years have roll’d on since it flash’d on the heath ; From its hilt the green shamrocks that once bloom’d so gay, Fair emblems of freedom, have all died away. The tooth of fell Time has been trying the blade, And a spot of dark rust marks the pressure it made ; How it drinks up my tears, as it shar’d in my woe — For the hand that could wield it, alas ! is laid low. Oh ! would that these tears might its splendour restore ! But ne’er can it shine as it oft shone before, When, like heaven’s fires, it the conflict began, And Harry and Victory blaz’d in the van : Then rout and dismay urg’d the proud Saxon horde, And death mark’d each whirl of the conquering sword — But no more shall it hurl such despair on the foe, Since the hand that could wield it, alas ! is laid low. THE PATRIOT MOTHER. A Ballad of ’93. tf Come, tell us the name of the rebelly crew Who lifted the pike on the Curragh with you ; Come, tell us their treason, and then you’ll be free, Or by heavens you shall swing from the high gallows tree.” “ Alcmna! alannal* the shadow of shame Has never yet fallen upon one of your name, And, oh ! may the food from my bosom you drew, In your veins turn to poison, if you turn untrue. ‘ ‘ The foul words — oh ! let them not blacken your tongue, That would prove to your friends and your country a wrong, Or the curse of a mother, so bitter and dread, With the wrath of the L'ord — may they fall on your head ! ‘ ‘ I have no one but you in the whole world wide, Yet, false to your pledge, you’d ne’er stand at my side ; If a traitor you liv’d, you’d be farther away From my heart than, if true, you were wrapp’d in the clay. “ Oh! deeper and darker the mourning would be For your falsehood so base, than your death proud and free ; Dearer, far dearer than ever to me, My darling, you’R be on the brave gallows tree. * Alaneacht signifies beauty the exclamation is therefore equivalent to the English “ My beautiful ! ” and the subsequent text proves she might have added, “ my brave ! ” HISTORICAL AND EOLITICAL SONGS, 297 11 ’Tis holy, agra /f with the bravest and best Go! go! from my heart, and be join’d with the rest; Alanna ma chree! O, alanna ma chree!% Sure a ‘ stag ’ § and a traitor you never will be.” There’s no look of a traitor upon the young brow That’s raised to the tempters so haughtily now ; No traitor e’er held up the firm head so high — No traitor e’er show’d such a proud flashing eye. On the high gallows tree ! on the brave gallows tree ! Where smil’d leaves and blossoms, his sad doom met lie; But it never bore blossom so pure or so fair, As the heart of the martyr that hangs from it there. t My love. t Beauty of my heart. § An informer. The heroism described in the foregoing lines was not uncommon. My father witnessed a case somewhat similar : a mother stood by while her young son (little more than a boy) was undergoing the agony of the lash, exhorting him never to disgrace himself by becoming an informer. « THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. These lines are from that remarkable volume entitled “The Spirit of the Nation;” and are remarkable among things of mark. Much in that volume abounds in high poetic qualities, but the period in which it appeared is too near our own times not to suggest the question to an editor how far it is wise to make extracts bearing upon a period of great political excitement, in which the feelings of the present generation were engaged. Eut, in this particular section of the volume, devoted especially to political songs, of all parties, the following is entitled to a place for its high literary merit. It is vigorous, tender, and enthusiastic ; and the free flow of the versification vouches for the spontaniety of this spirit- stirring song. Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight? Who blushes at the name ? When cowards mock the patriot’s fate, Who hangs his head for shame ? He’s all a knave, or half a slave, Who slights his country thus ; But a true man, like you, man, Will fill your glass with us. We drink the memory of the brave, The faithful and the few — Some lie far off beyond the wave — Some sleep in Ireland, too ; All — all are gone — but still lives on The fame of those who died — All true men, like you, men, Remember them with pride. 14 * 298 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger’s heedless hands Their lonely graves were made ; But, though their clay he far away Beyond the Atlantic foam — In true men, like you, men, Their spirit ’s still at home. The dust of some is Irish earth ; Among their own they rest ; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast ; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part. They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land ; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas ! that Might can vanquish Bight — They fell and passed away ; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here’s their memory — may it bo For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite. Through good and ill, be Ireland’s still, Though sad* as their’ s your fate ; And true men be you, men, Like those of Mnety-Eight. A PROSPECTi Edward Ltsaght. Air, “ Let the Toast Pass.” In this song Lysaght prefigures, in a vein of bitter mirth, the impending ruin of Dublin by the projected measure of the Union. How justly alarmed is each Dublin cit That he’ll soon be transformed to a clown, sir ! By a magical move of that conjurer, Pitt, The country is coming to town, sir ! Give Pitt, and Dundas, and J enky a glass, Who’d ride on John Bull, and make Paddy an Ass, HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 299 Thro’ Capel-street soon as you’ll rurally range, You’ll scarce recognise it the same street ; Choice turnips shall grow in your Royal Exchange, And fine cabbages down along Dame-street. * ** Give Pitt, &c. Wild oats in the college won’t want to be till’d ; And hemp in the Four-Courts may thrive, sir ! Your markets again shall with muttons be fill’d — By St. Patrick, they’ll graze there alive, sir ! Give Pitt, &c. In the Parliament House, quite alive, shall there be All the vermin the island e’er gathers ; Full of rooks, as before, Daly’s club-house you’ll see, But the pigeons won’t have any feathers. Give Pitt, &c. Our Custom House quay, full of weeds, oh, rare sport But the Ministers’ minions, kind elves, sir ! Will give us free leave all our goods to export, f When we’ve got none at home for ourselves, sir ! Give Pitt, &c. Says an alderman — “ Corn will soon grow in your shops; This Union must work our enslavement.” “ That’s true ” says the Sheriff*, “for plenty of crops\ Already I’ve seen on the pavement.” Give Pitt, &c. Ye brave loyal yeoman dress’d gaily in red, This Ministers’ plan must elate us ; And well may John Bull, when he’s robbed us of bread, Call poor Ireland “the land of potatoes.” Give Pitt, &*c. * Dame-street and Capel-street, two great thoroughfares; the former was then the ** Bond-street ” of Dublin. t The limitation of exports and imports was a source of great discontent. t Those of the democratic party wore short hair — hence they were called “ crops ” or ‘‘croppies.” The croppy of Ireland was equivalent to the English “roundhead” of a century and a half before. In both these cases the people cut short their hair and their allegiance together. THE RECONCILIATION. John Banim. This ballad is said to have been founded on a fact which occurred in a remote country chapel at the time when exertions were made to put down faction-fights among the peasantry. The old man he knelt at the altar His enemy’s hand to take, And at first his weak voice did falter, And his feeble limbs did shake ; For his only brave boy, his glory, Had been stretch’d at the old man’s feet, A corpse, all so. haggard and gory, By the hand which he now must greet. And soon the old man stopp’d speaking, And rage which had not gone by, From under his brows came breaking Up into his enemy’s eye — And now his limbs were not shaking, But his clench’d hands his bosom cross’d, And he look’d a fierce wish to be taking llevenge for the boy he had lost ! But the old man he looked aroun him, And thought of the place he was in, And thought of the promise which bound him, And thought that revenge was sin — HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 301 And then, crying tears, like a woman, “ Your hand !” he said — “ aye, that hand ! And I do forgive you, foeman, For the sake of our bleeding land ! ” A certain gallant major, a stipendiary magistrate, some thirty years ago was quizzed by the English press, for a bull he committed in an official report to Government on the state of the south-western provinces. He said, the best proof of returning tranquillity was, that the people had recommenced their faction- fights. Now, a most expressive meaning lay be- neath this apparent contradiction, as is frequently the case in that figure of speech entitled an Irish bull, for it was a fact, that, whenever the peasantry were leagued in unlawful com- binations against constituted authority, they ceased to fight among themselves. DEAR LAND. "W hen comes the day all hearts to weigh, If staunch they be, or vile, Shall we forget the sacred debt W e owe our mother isle ? My native heath is brown beneath, My native waters blue ; But crimson red o’er both shall spread, Ere I am false to you, Dear land — Ere I am false to you. "When I behold your mountains bold — Your noble lakes and streams — A mingled tide of grief and pride Within my bosom teems. I think of all your long dark thrall— Your martyrs brave and true ; And dash apart the tears that start — We must not weep for you, Dear land — We must not weep for you. My grandsire died, his home beside ; They seized and hanged him there ; His only crime, in evil time, Your hallowed green to wear. Across the main his brothers twain W ere sent to pine and rue ; And still they turn’d, with hearts that burn’d, In hopeless love to you Dear land — In hopeless love to you. 302 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. My boyish ear still clung to bear Of Erin’s pride of yore. Ere Norman foot bad dared pollute Her independent shore : Of chiefs, long dead, who rose to head Some gallant patriot few, Till all my aim on earth became To strike one blow for you, Hear land — To strike one blow for you. What path is best your rights to wrest Let other heads divine ; By work or word, with voice or sword, To follow them be mine. The breast that zeal and hatred steel, No terrors can subdue ; If death should come, that martyrdom Were sweet, endured for you, Hear land — Were sweet, endured for you. No name is given to claim the authorship of these passionate lines. There arc many who would not like to father the politics of the song there are none who might not be proud of its poetic paternity. But, passing its higher claims, it is worthy of notice for facility of expression; — the meaning is never involved for an instant, though it runs through difficult passages of double rhymes, thus increasing the mechanical difficulty The model of its rythmical structure is to be found, if I am not much mistaken, in one of the most beautiful of Moore’s songs in his National Melodies “ Then fare thee well my own dear love. This world has now, for us. No greater grief, nor pain above The pain of parting thus, Dear love, The pain of parting thus.’’ I knew a young man of great talent and strong feeling who loved that song, and the writer of that song, and all the writer of that song loved ; and I am inclined to think that early acquaintance of mine was the author of this fervid song — “ Dear Land.” In the introduction tc^this section I spoke of the difficulty of deal- ing with such a class of songs ; and in making the foregoing selection a careful abstinence has been desired, and I hope observed, from the use of any specimen in which expressions of extreme bitterness or HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 303 harsh offensiveness occur. There are a good many of the political songs of Ireland much more emphatic in epithet , much more intense in terms , on both sides of the question, which, however safe — I will even say interesting to read, by those who can look upon them as mere literary relics — the ashes of fires burnt out — might never- theless arouse feelings in many readers which the pages of this book were never meant to awaken. I wish it to be believed that it is not want of information, on my part, of the existence of such combustible material that prevented me from making a blazing section in my book, but a desire, which I am sure the wise and the gentle-hearted will respect, to avoid even the risk of exciting angry passions. I could give examples, from what might be called specially the Rebel and Orange songs of Ireland, of the extreme ferocity to which political feelings may hurry us — and by a contrast (not un- usual in human nature) touches of tenderness are close beside these passionate outbreaks, like spots of verdure on the edge of the volcano — but I will content myself with merely touching on two or three small portions of such fierce examples, to show that it is not from my ignorance of the existence of such compositions that they do not appear in this volume. There is a rebel song illustrative of the tenderness I have alluded to, and giving, also, the other aspect of feeling. The rebel is supposed to contemplate flight to a foreign land he dare not appear in his native place again, and he exclaims, — “ Then farewell father, and mother too, And sister Mary : — I have but you ! — A thousand guineas you would lay down If I might walk in Wexford town.” I think there is great tenderness in this verse. But he must not walk in Wexford town — for there are those there who are singing a fierce song on the other side of the question, the refrain of which is, — “ Holy water, Slaughter, slaughter • Sprinkle the Catholics every one, We’ll cut them asunder And make them lie under, And Protestant hoys shall carry the day/* Well — the fugitive who has sung the plaintive strain has not done his song yet; he contemplates coming back to Ireland on some future day, and, after lamenting his hard lot in being expatriated, he concludes with a promise displaying quite as much ferocity as his antagonists — 304 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. “ But if I live, aud that I come home, I will whet my pike on their orange bones.” But political vengeance is not exhausted in this world : the next is looked forward to for its aggravation. The Celtic race, I imagine, are fond of an appeal to the “ courts below:” llhadamanthus in pre- ference to the Lord Chancellor — coalsack versus woolsack. In one of the Scotch Jacobite songs, the hatred borne to the Duke of Cumber- land is thus expressed — “ The Deil sat girnin in the neuk Ryving sticks to roast the Duke.” Mr. Thomas Crofton Croker, in one of his translations of an Irish Keen ( Caoine ), makes part of the lamentation over the dead run thus : “ The Condons of Cloughlea That was sold by a piper, May he caper in hell To his tune — the false viper ! ” Here, the grotesque, so inherent in the Irish character, mingles with the vengeful. But those lines are far surpassed by a verse of an Irish rebel ballad, that concludes thus ; and for wild vigour of fancy, and intensity of hatred, I know nothing to match it, — “ The tree of Liberty is planted In the flames of burning hell, And the fruit that grows upon it Is the sowls of Orangemen.” And here concludes our section of the specimens of the songs of parties, and I think it will be admitted there was no love lost between them. T is almost needless for an editor to remind the reader, that much cannot be said in the way of introduction to a section which is headed “Miscellaneous.” It may he inferred that the compositions given under such a heading do not treat so exclusively of one subject — have not such special points of character, as to mark them, at once, for classification under particular heads ; but let it not be therefore supposed that, like Pope’s women, they “ Have no character at all.” Far from it, as the examples given will sufficiently prove. Our miscellany is not “a mixed party” — that thing which is not 308 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. considered respectable, and at which everybody agrees nobody should appear. By no means : it has variety, it is true, but no portion of the company need be ashamed to mix with the other, though they be not all of the same class, or equally high in rank. Neither is this last section a beating-up of raw recruits to fill our columns: — on the contrary, here will be found some of the choicest of our levies ; and among these I will venture to particularize Mr. Ferguson’s celebrated ode, “ The Forging of the Anchor,” which is, without doubt, one of the finest things in the English language. In writing the introduction to the last section of this book, I feel as if I were parting from a dear old acquaintance. The work became, as I have said in the preface, a labour of love as it pro- gressed; and in the calm of some rich summer sunset, which might not inaptly be likened to the golden glories that hang round the old minstrelsy of my native land, or by the winter fire of my little library, it has been my companion for more than a year, and in such companionship many were the thoughtful pleasant hours. If it be not all it ought to be, I can only blame my incapacity ; for I can- didly confess I have not spared either time or toil to make it worthy of the object I had in view: — an honourable testimonial to tile genius of Ireland. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 307 THE FORESTER’S COMPLAINT. Samuel Ferguson, M.R.I.A. The post of honour in this section is Mr. Ferguson’s; — his verses lead here he appears, not in a translation, but an original poem. An expression for his genius in general, and an acknowledgment of indebtedness to him, appended to his noble ode, “ The Forging of the Anchor,” p. 312. Through our wild wood-walks hero Sunbright and shady, Free as the forest deer Roams a lone lady : Far from her castle-keep, Down i’ the valley, Roams she, by dingle deep, Green holme and alley ; With her sweet presence bright Gladd’ning my dwelling — Oh, fair her face of light, Past the tongue’s telling! Woe was me E’er to see Beauty so shining ; Ever since, hourly, Have I been pining ! In our blithe sports’ debates Down by the river, I, of my merry mates, Foremost was ever ; Skilfullest with my flute, Leading the maidens Heark’ning by moonlight mute To its sweet cadence ; Sprightliest in the dance Tripping together — Such a one was I once E’er she came hither! Woe was me E’er to see Beauty so shining ; Ever since, hourly, Have I been pining ! Loud now my comrades laugh As I pass by them ; Broadsword and quarter-stall-— No more I ply them. the van ; and of admiration will be found 308 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Coy now the maidens frown, W anting their dances ; How can their faces brown Win one, who fancies Even an angel’s face Hark to be seen would Be, by the Lily-grace Gladd’ning the greenwood ? Woe was me E’er to see Beauty so shining, Ever since, hourly, Have I been pining ! Wolf, by my broken bow Idle is lying, While through the woods I go, All the day, sighing ; Tracing her footsteps small Through the moss’d cover, Hiding then, breathless all, At the sight of her, Lest my rude gazing should From her haunt scare her — Oh, what a solitude Wanting her, here were ! Woe was me E’er to see Beauty so shining ; Ever since, hourly, Have I been pining ! THE BRIDAL WAKE. Gerald Griffin - . The priest stood at the marriage boaid — The marriage cake was made, With meat the marriage chest was stored, Decked was the marriage bed. The old man sat beside the fire, The mother sat by him, The white bride was in gay attire, But her dark eye was dim. Ululah ! Ululak ! The night falls quick, the sun is set, Her love is on the water yet. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. soa I saw a red cloud in the west, Against the morning light, Heaven shield the youth that she loves best From evil chance to-night. The door flings wide ! loud moans the gale, Wild fear her hosom Alls, It is, it is the Banshee’s wail!* Over the darkened hills. Ululah! Ululah! The day is past ! the night is dark ! The waves are mounting round his hark. The guests sit round the bridal bed, And break the bridal cake ; But they sit by the dead man’s head, And hold his wedding wake. The bride is praying in her room, The place is silent all ! A fearful call ! a sudden doom ! Bridal and funeral. Ululah! Ululah! A youth to Kilfiehera’sf ta’en, That never will return again. * The Banshee (bean-sighe ) , she-fairy, or woman-fairy, is a spiritual attendant on families of ancient Irish descent, only, and her wail prognosticates the death of some one of the family. Mr. Crofton Croker, in his "Specimens of the Keen of the South of Ireland," printed for the Percy Society, gives some verses, translated from the Irish, illustrative of the subject. “ The prosperous Saxons Were seized with affright. In Tralee they packed up. And made ready for flight. For there a shrill voice At the door of each hall Was heard, and they fancied Foretelling their fall. “At Dingle the merchants In terror forsook Their ships and their business ; They trembled and shook. Some fled to concealment, — The fools thus to fly ! For no trader a Banshee Will utter a cry.” The last verse is quoted, as Mr. Croker informs us, by Dr. O’Brien, in his Irish Dictionary, “ to show that the Banshee is solely a spiritual aristocratic appendage." The verses are from a Keen on Maurice Fitzgerald, Knight of Kerry. t The name of a churchyard near Kilkee. 310 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. THE CONVICT OF CLONMELL. Translated from the Irish by J. J. Callanan. Our sympathies are strongly stirred by this ballad in favour of the convict. The contrast between his thraldom and the liberty and sports he pines after is very dramatic. In every country where death or imprisonment is inflicted for political offences there is always great general commiseration for the condemned. Such has been the case in Ireland. Such is the case in Italy; and that fact makes Italy, at this moment, an object of European interest. How hard is my fortune, And vain my repining ! The strong rope of fate For this young neck is twining. My strength is departed ; My cheek sunk and sallow ; While I languish in chains, In the gaol of Cloninala.* No hoy in the village W as ever yet milder ; I’d play with a child, And my sport would be wilder j I’d dance without tiring From morning till even, And the goal-hall I’d strike* To the lightning of heaven. At my bed-foot decaying My hurlbat is lying, Through the boys of village My goal-ball is flying ; My horse ’mong the neighbours Neglected may fallow, — While I pine in my chains, In the gaol of Clonmala. Next Sunday the patron At home will be keeping, And the young active hurlers The field will be sweeping ,* With the dance of fair maidens The evening they’ll hallow, While this heart, once so gay, Shall lie cold in Clonmala. * Cluan-meala — the sweet retreat ; literally, the recess of boney. t The goal-ball is that employed in the game of hurling, a pastime of universal practice throughout Ireland, and one demanding great activity, and giving occasion for the exercise not only of agility, but strength ; hence the prisoner’s boast of the height to which he would drive the ball. X Keeping the patron (pronounced by the peasantry pattern ) means the observance of a patron saint’s day. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 311 A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. J. F. Waeleb, LL.D. Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning ; Close by the window young Eileen is spinning ; Bent o’er the fire her blind grandmother, sitting, Is croning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting — “Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping.” — “ ’Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping.” “ Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing.” — “’Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying.” Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot’s stirring ; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. “ What’s that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder ?” — “ ’Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under.” “What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, And singing all wrong that old song of ‘The Coolun’ ?” — There’s a form at the casement — the form of her true-love — And he whispers, with face bent, “ I’m waiting for you, love ; Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly, We’ll rove in the grove while the moon’s shining brightly.” Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot’s stirring; Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers, Steals up from the seat — longs to go, and yet lingers ; A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother ; Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other. Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round ; Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel’s sound ; Noiseless and light to the lattice above her The maid steps — then leaps to the arms of her lover. Slower — and slower — and slower the wheel swings ; Lower — and lower — and lower the reel rings ; Ere the reel and the wheel stopped their ringing and moving, Thro’ the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving. THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. Samuel Ferguson - , M.R.I.A. This collection of songs is much, enriched by many admirable translations from the Irish by Mr. Ferguson. And why are Mr. Ferguson’s translations so good ? — Because he is a poet himself. His original productions given in this volume, prove, however, that though his merits are great in currying up another man’s Pegasus, he is always greatest in riding his own horse. His “ Forester’s Complaint” is of great beauty, and the following noble Ode has already achieved so high a reputation, that any notice of mine would be impertinent, further than to thank the author, as I do, for all the pleasure I have derived, “ over and over again,” from its varied beauties ; its vigour and tenderness — from the truthful minuteness of open- ing detail, to the final breadth of treatment — while, between those two points, a fertility of illustrated imagery is exhibited, as rapid and as telling as the blows of his own anchorsmiths. Come, see the Dolphin’s anchor forged — ’tis at a white heat now : The bellows ceased, the flames decreased — tho’ on the forge’s brow The little flames still fitfully play thro’ the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only hare — Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins hurst out at every throe : MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 313 It rises, roars, rends all outright — 0, Yulcan, what a glow! ’Tis blinding white, ’tis blasting bright — the high sun shines not so ! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show ; The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe. As, quivering thro’ his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow Sinks on the anvil — all about the faces fiery grow. “Hurrah!” they shout, “leap out — leap out;” bang, bang the sledges go : Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low — A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow, The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow The ground around : at every bound the sweltering fountains flow, And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant “ ho !” Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and lay on load ! Let’s forge a goodly anchor — a bower thick and broad ; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road — The low reef roaring on her lee — the roll of ocean pour’d From stem to stern, sea after sea : the mainmast by the board ; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains ! But courage still, brave mariners — the bower yet remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high ; Then moves his head, as tho’ he said, “ Fear nothing — here am I.” Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time ; Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple’s chime. But, while you sling your sledges, sing — and let the burthen be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we ! Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull their rustling red ; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped ; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, Foi a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o’, and the heave-away, and the sighing seaman’s cheer ; "When, weighing slow, at eve they go — far, far from love and home ; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o’er the ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last ; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e’er from cat was cast. 0 trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea ! 0 deep Sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou ? The hoary-monster’s palaces ! methinks what joy ’t were now To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churn’d sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails! 15 314 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea nnicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn ; To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; And for the ghastly-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to scorn : — To leap down on the kraken’s back, where ’mid Norwegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallow’d miles, ’Till, snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; Meanwhile to swing, a-buffetting the far astonished shoals Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply in a cove, Sliell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine’s love, To find the long -hair’d mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands, To wrestle with the Sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. 0 broad-armed Fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine ? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line ; And night by night, ’tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play — But shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave — A fisher’s joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. 0 lodger in the sea-kings’ halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend — Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride ; thou’dst leap within the sea! Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of Father-land — Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave, So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave — Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honour him for their memory, whose bones he goes among I MISCELLANEOUS SONGS, 315 THE WAKE OF THE ABSENT. Gerald Griffin. It is a custom among the peasantry in some parts of Ireland, when any member of a family has been lost at sea (or in any other way which renders the performance of the customary funeral rite impossible), to celebrate the “ wake,” exactly in the same way as if the corpse were actually present. The dismal yew, and cypress tall, Wave o’er the churchyard lone, Where rest our friends and fathers all, Beneath the funeral stone. Un vexed in holy ground they sleep, Oh, early lost ! o’er thee No sorrowing friend shall ever weep, Nor stranger bend the knee, Mo Chuma /* lorn am I! Hoarse dashing rolls the salt sea wave, Over our perished darling’s grave — The winds the sullen deep that tore, His death-song chanted loud, The weeds that line the clifted shore Were all his burial shroud. For friendly wail and holy dirge, And long lament of love, Around him roared the angry surge, The curlew screamed above, Mo Chuma ! lorn am I ! My grief would turn to rapture now, Might I but touch that pallid brow. The stream-born bubbles soonest burst That earliest left the source : Buds earliest blown are faded first, In nature’s wonted course : With guarded pace her seasons creep, By slow decay expire ; The youDg above the aged weep, The son above the sire : Mo Chuma ! lorn am I ! That death a backward course should hold, To smite the young, and spare the old. * Mo Chuma — My grief ; or, woe is me ! 316 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. GRACE NUGENT. Carolan. Translated by Samuel Ferguson, M.R.LA. Brightest blossom of the spring, Grace, the sprightly girl, I sing ; Grace who bore the palm of mind From all the rest of womankind : Whomsoe’er the fates decree, Happy fate for life to be, Day and night my Coolun* near, Ache or pain need never fear. Her neck outdoes the stately swan, Her radiant face the summer dawn ; Ah, happy thrice the youth for whom The fates design that branch of bloom ! Pleasant are your words benign, Rich those azure eyes of thine ; Ye who see my queen, beware Those twisted links of golden hair ! * Coolun means a fine head of hair, and the term is often used as one of endearment. The Irish bards loved to praise fine hair (for which, by the way, the Irish are remark- able), both in poetry and music. There is a sweet Irish air, called “Nancy of the brandling tresses.” Hardiman, in his “ Irish Minstrelsy,” remarks that “ our Irish poets, like the Arabians, have delighted in description of female hair,” — and he alludes to Byron, in his “ Giaour,” maintaining the oriental character of his poem by celebrating the beauty of his heroine’s hair— “ Her hair in hyacinthian flow, When left to roll its folds below; As midst her handmaids in the hall She stood superior to them all ; Hath swept the marble where her feet Gleamed whiter than the mountain sleet, Ere from the cloud that gave it birth It fell and caught one stain of earth.” Hardiman gives a further example of this Arabian admiration by quoting a translation from the Arabic by Professor Carlyle — “ Thro’ midnight gloom my Leila stray’d. Her ebon locks around her play’d; So dark they waved — so black they curl’d. Another night o’erspread the world.” Pretty well for dark hair !— But our Irish bards are not easily outdone ; and here is one who thus celebrates the blackness of his mistress’s hair, even at the risk of wounding “ears polite — “Your talk is so quare, And your sweet curly hair Is as black as. the Divil.” MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 317 This is what I fain would say To the bird- voiced lady gayf — Never yet conceived the heart Joy that Grace cannot impart : Fold of jewels, case of pearls ! Coolun of the circling curls ! More I say not, but no less Drink your health and happiness. t This “bird-voiced lady” (how sweet the epithet !) was a fair daughter of the Nugent of Castle Nugent, Columbre. By the way, I knew a certain bird-voiced lady, who, in giving evidence before a magistrate on the subject of a burglary, complained that, on hearing the thieves in the house, she opened a window, and called for “ the watch,” but they neglected her call. “Madam,” said the gallant magistrate, “I suppose they mistook your call for the voice of the nightingale.” SONG OF THE STItEAMS. Mrs. Downing. We’re rushing, we’re rushing, All freely and bright ; The sunbeam is flushing Our waves with its light ; 318 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Oh ! long the dark winter In ice chains hath bound us, But now the fair hand Of the spring tide is round us. # We’re glancing away, From the height of the mountain We’re leaving our spray, On the calm valley fountain ; Through the depth of the glen, In the shade of the woods, We’re murmuring our music, And mingling our hoods. We’re sparkling along, Over granite and green ; We’re heard but in song, And, in light, we are seen ; The brushwood is stemming, Our tides as they flow ; And the young flowers are gemming, Wherever we go. Hark to the sounds Of our waters afar, As they break through the bounds Where the wild willows are ; Oh ! fresh from the chain Of the winter wind gushing, In the beauty of spring tide, We’re rushing, we’re rushing! * Goethe, in “ Faustus,” employs a pleasing image to indicate the action of Spring in overcoming the power of Winter. “ The warm and vivifying glance of Spring Has melted the cold fetters of the brooks .” GLENFINNISHK. Joseph O’Leaet. Glenfinnishk,* where thy waters mix with Arraglen’s wild tide, ’Tis sweet, at hush of evening, to wander by thy side ! ’Tis sweet to hear the night- winds sigh along Macrona’s wood, And mingle their wild music with the murmur of thy flood ! * Glenfmnishk (the glen of the fair waters), in the county of Cork. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 319 ’Tis sweet, when in the deep blue vault the morn is shining bright, To watch where thy clear waters are breaking into light ; To mark the starry sparks that o’er thy smoother surface gleam, As if some fairy hand were flinging diamonds on thy stream ! Oh ! if departed spirits e’er to this dark world return, ’Tis in some lonely, lovely spot like this they would sojourn ; Whate’er their mystic rites may he, no human eye is here, Save mine, to mark their mystery — no human voice is near. At such an hour, in such a scene, I could forget my birth — I could forget I e’er have been, or am, a thing of earth ; Shake off the fleshly bonds that hold my soul in thrall, and be Even like themselves, a spirit, as boundless and as free ! Ye shadowy race ! if we believe the tales of legends old, Ye sometimes hold high converse with those of mortal mould : Oh ! come, whilst now my soul is free, and bear me in your train, Ne’er to return to misery and this dark world again ! THE TWISTING OF THE HOPE.* Translated from the Irish, by E. Walsh. What mortal conflict drove me here to roam, Though many a maid I’ve left behind at home ; Forth from the house where dwelt my heart’s dear hope, I was turned by the hag at the twisting of the rope ! If thou be mine, be mine both day and night, If thou be mine, be mine in all men’s sight, If thou be mine, be mine o’er all beside — And oh, that thou wert now my wedded bride I In Sligo first I did my love behold, In Galway town I spent with her my gold — But by this hand, if thus they me pursue, I’ll teach these dames to dance a measure new ! This song is of no intrinsic value, but becomes interesting from the following note appended to it by the translator : — * “ This is said to be the original song composed to that delightful tune, * The Twisting of the Rope.’ Tradition thus speaks of its origin. A Connaught harper having once put up at the residence of a rich farmer, began to pay such attentions to the young woman of the house as greatly displeased her mother, who instantly conceived a plan for the sum* 320 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. mary ejectment of the minstrel. She provided some hay, and requested the harper to twist- the rope which she set about making. As the work progressed and the rope lengthened, the harper, of course, retired backward, till he went beyond the door of the dwelling, when the crafty matron suddenly shut the door ir^ his face, and then threw his harp out at the window. The version sung in the south of Ireland has some additional stanzas, but I give the song as it is found in Hardiman’s * Minstrelsy,’ vol. i., where it is left untranslated.” FOR I AM DESOLATE. Gerald Griffin - . The Christmas light* is burning bright In many a village pane, And many a cottage rings to-night With many a merry strain. Young hoys and girls run laughing by. Their hearts and eyes elate ; I can hut think on mine, and sigh, For I am desolate ! There’s none to watch in our old cot Beside the holy light, No tongue to bless the silent spot Against the parting night, f I’ve closed the door, and hither come To mourn my lonely fate ; I cannot hear my own old home, It is so desolate ! I saw my father’s eyes grow dim, And clasp’d my mother’s knee ; I saw my mother follow him, My husband wept with me. My husband did not long remain, His child was left me yet ; But now my heart’s last love is slain, And I am desolate ! * At sunset on Christmas eve, in Irish houses, a large candle is lighted, which it Is a kind of impiety to snuff, touch, or use for any ordinary purpose. t It is the custom in Irish Catholic families to sit up till midnight on Christmas eve, in order to join ip the devotion of the midnight mass. One of Carleton’s powerful tales is founded oq this custom, and is entitled The Midnight BOATMAN’S HYMN. From the Irish. Translated by Samuel Ferguson - , M.R.I.A, There are other translations of this fine old Irish burst of poetry, but Mr. Ferguson's is incomparably the best. Bark that bears me through foam and squall, Y ou in the storm are my castle wall ; Though the sea should redden from bottom to top, From tiller to mast she takes no drop. On the tide top, the tide top, Wherry aroon, * my land and store ! On the tide top, the tide top, She is the boat can sail go-leor .f She dresses herself, and goes gliding on, Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn ; For God has blessed her, gunnel and wale — And oh ! if you saw her stretch out to the gale, On the tide top, the tide top, &c. Whillan.,| ahoy ! old heart of stone, Stooping so black o’er the beach alone, Answer me well — On the bursting brine Saw you ever a hark like mine ? On the tide top, the tide top, &c. ♦ “ Aroon” is a term of endearment. t The Irish go-leor, in this place, may find its equivalent in the English phrase, “ Enough end to spare.” X The name of a rock in Blacksod Bay. This shows the poem to be of Sligo origin. 15 * 822 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Says Whillan — Since first I was made of stone, I have looked abroad o’er the beach alone — But, till to-day, on the bursting brine Saw I never a bark like thine ! On the tide top, the tide top, &e. God of the air ! the seamen thout When they see ns tossing the brine about : Give us the shelter of strand or rock, Or through and through us she goes with a shock ! On the tide top, the tide top, &c. How full of spirit, how descriptive, how exulting is this fine burst, which I should suppose to belong to an early period, from the antique outline about it. The appeal to the rock — and the rock echoing, as it were, an answer nearly in the words in which it was addressed — is quite oriental in its character, indicating the source of the Irish language. In the last verse, the fear the boat inspires in all who lie in her track, that she will go “ through and through ” them, partakes also of eastern hyperbole. This would have been just the boat for “ Barny O’Reirdon,” — if I may be allowed to allude to him — when he cautioned all before him to “get out of his nor’east coorse ! ” SONG. From “ The Bucaneer.” Mrs. S. C. IIall. Here, again, a poetical trifle enables the editor to enrich his pages with a name more noted in prose than verse; a name holding a distinguished place in the literature of Ireland; and while the works of Mrs. Hall are as amusing as those of most authors, she contrives to make them useful also. Many a piece of good advice is given to the people of her native land, many an incentive to self-reliance, and industry, and prudence ; but done so gently, in a spirit so sweet and womanly, that it never offends ; and while she exposes errors that lie on the surface of Irish character, she never forgets to represent the many excellent qualities that lie deeper. Some of her tales of the Irish peasantry are exquisitely touching — sunny and shadowy, like the people themselves. I have already, in a previous brief allusion, spoken of Mrs. Hall as one of the most gifted of Ireland’s daughters, and borne witness to her name being celebrated abroad and beloved at home. O’er the clear quiet waters My gondola glides, And gently it wakens The slumbering tides, All nature is waiting Beneath and above, While earth and while heaven Are breathing of love ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 323 In vain are they breathing, Earth — heaven — to me, Though their beauty and calmness Are whispers of thee, For the bright sky must darken, The earth must be grey, Ere the deep gloom that saddens My soul pass away ! But see, the last day -beam Grows pale — ere it die, And the dark clouds are passing All over the sky, I hear thy light footsteps, Thy fair form I see — Ah ! the twilight has told thee Who watches for thee ! THE LEAVES SO GREEN. "When life hath left this senseless clay, By all but thee forgot ; Oh ! bear me, dearest, far away, To some green lonely spot : Where none with careless step may tread The grass upon my grave, But gently o’er my narrow bed “ The leaves so green ” may wave. The wild flowers, too, I loved so well, Shall breathe their sweetness there, While thrush and blackbird’s songs shall swell Amid the fragrant air. No noisy burst of joy or woe Will there disturb my rest, But silent tears in secret flow From those who loved me best. The crowded town and haunts of men I never loved to tread, To sheltered vale or lonely glen My weary spirit fled. There lay me, dearest, far away, By other eyes unseen, Where gleams of sunshine rarely stray, Beneath “the leaves so green.” 324 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. NED OF THE HILL. From “Songs and Ballads,” by Samuel Lover. Many legends are extant of this romantic minstrel freebooter, whose predatory achieve- ments sometimes extended to the hearts of the gentle sex. Dark is the evening, and silent the hour, Who is the minstrel by yonder lone tower ? His harp all so tenderly touching with skill ; Oh, who should it he, but Ned of the Hill ? W T ho sings, “ lady love, come to me now, Come and live merrily under the bough, And I’ll pillow thy head, Where the fairies tread, If thou wilt but wed with Ned of the Hill ! ” Ned of the Hill has no castle nor hall, Nor spearmen nor bowmen to come at his call ; But one little archer, of exquisite skill, Has shot a bright shaft for Ned of the Hill, Who sings, “ lady love, come to me now, Come and live merrily under the bough, And I’ll pillow thy head, Where the fairies tread, If thou wilt but wed with Ned of the Hill ! ” ’Tis hard to escape from that fair lady’s bower, For high is the window, and guarded the tower ; 11 But there’s always a way where there is a will” So Ellen is off with Ned of the Hill ! Who sings, “ lady love, thou art mine now ! We will live merrily under the bough, And I’ll pillow thy head, Where the fairies tread, For Ellen is wed to Ned of the Hill ! ” I am sorry to say the termination of the love suit, pictured in this ballad, was not so happy as imagination framed it. After the warmth of fiction, here is the coldness of reality. Edmond O’Ryan was the name of this minstrel outlaw, familiarly known as “ Ned of the Hill.” His memory is still affectionately cherished by the Irish peasant, in song and legend. He has a double claim to the affections of a warm-hearted and imaginative people : — he was a martyr and a minstrel. He lost his property by following the fortunes of the Stuarts, and became an outlaw chieftain ; and it would seem that upon this change of fortune, he was forsaken by the lady of his love, if we may judge from a passionate strain of complaint he pours forth in his own native Irish. But in all this plaint, and a long one too, he never laments his loss of property. No ; the loss of that false woman’s heart was his only regret : there is something excessively touching in this. The original Irish poem is called “ Edmond O’Ryan’s Love Elegy,” and has been admirably translated by Miss Brooke ; MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 325 but, though every verse is beautiful, it is too long for insertion at length here, and only a few lines and verses are given. One stanza justifies my own line ** We will live merrily under the bough.” For Edmond himself says, more elaborately, that, if his love were with him — “ Sweet would seem the holly shade, Bright the clustering berries growing ; And, in scented bloom array’d, Apple blossoms * round us blowing.” He thus passionately describes his feelings upon being deserted— “ 0, sickness past all medicine’s art, — 0 sorrow every grief exceeding, 0 wound that in my breaking heart. Cureless, deep, to death art bleeding.” He then apostrophizes the nightingale, and exclaims — “ Mine, 0 hapless bird, thy fate ! The plunder’d nest, the lonely sorrow ! The lost, the lov’d harmonious mate 1 The wailing night — the cheerless morrow.” This, I think, must be acknowledged as very pathetic, particularly in the second line : — there is something almost painfully expressive of bereavement and desolation in “ The plunder’d nest— the lonely sorrow. Finally, notwithstanding his wrongs, he says, with a devotedness that deserved a better requital — “ Still my heart its faith shall prove. And its last sigh shall breathe to bless thee !” * The frequency of allusion to the apple blossom is remarkable in the poetry of the native Irish. • THE DAWNING OF THE DAY. At early dawn I once had been Where Lene’s* blue waters How, When summer bid the groves be green, The lamp of light to glow — As on by bower, and town, and tower, And wide-spread fields I stray, I meet a maid in the greenwood shade, At the dawning of the day. Her feet and beauteous head were hare, No mantle fair she wore, But down her waist fell golden hair That swept the tall grass o’er ; With milking-pail she sought the vale, And bright her charms’ display, Outshining far the morning star, At the dawning of the day ! * Lene , Killamey. 326 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Beside me sat that maid divine, Where grassy hanks outspread — “ Oh, let me call thee ever mine, Dear maid,” I sportive said. “ False man, for shame, why bring me blame ?” She cried, and burst away — The sun’s first light pursued her flight, At the dawning of the day ! This “ dawning of the day ” is a favourite refrain to Irish songs. I have heard such in some variety, and a “ milking-pail ” is always present in them. One of my earliest remem- brances is hearing my nurse sing such a song, and the refrain, throughout, of that song was wed to the milking-pail in this couplet, “ With her milking-pail all in her hand At the dawning of the day.” The melody to which this song is sung is very sweet. DESERTER’S MEDITATION. ** As Mr. Curran was travelling upon an unfrequented road, he perceived a man in a soldier’s dress sitting by the road side, and apparently much exhausted by fatigue and agitation. He invited him to take a seat in his chaise, and soon discovered that he was a deserter. Having stopt at a small inn for refreshment, Mr. Curran observed to the soldier that he had committed an offence of which the penalty was death, and that his chance of escaping it was but small: “Tell me, then (continued he), whether you feel disposed to pass the little remnant of life that is left you in penitence and fasting, or whether you would prefer to drown your sorrow in a merry glass ?” The following is the deserter’s answer, which Mr. Curran, in composing it, adapted to a plaintive Irish air .” — Life of Curran by his son, TV. H. Curran. If sadly thinking, with spirits sinking, Could more than drinking my cares compose, A cure for sorrow from sigbs I’d borrow, And hope to-morrow would end my woes. But as in wailing there’s nought availing, And Death unfailing will strike the blow, Then for that reason, and for a season, Let us be merry before we go ! To joy a stranger, a way-worn ranger, In ev’ry danger my course I’ve run Now hope all ending, and Death befriending, His last aid lending, my cares are done : No more a rover, or hapless lover, My griefs are over — my glass runs low Then for that reason, and for a season, Let us be merry before we go ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 327 MARGREAD NI CHEALLEADH. Edwabd Walsh. This ballad is founded on the story of Daniel O’Keeffe, an outlaw famous in the tradi- tions of the county of Cork, where his name is still associated with several localities. It is related that O’Keeffe’s beautiful mistress, Margaret Kelly, ( Mairgread ni Chealleadh), tempted by a large reward, undertook to deliver him into the hands of the English soldiers; but O’Keeffe having discovered in her possession a document revealing her perfidy, in a frenzy of indignation stabbed her to the heart with his skian. He lived in the time of William III., and is represented to have been a gentleman and a poet. — Author’s note. At the dance in the village Thy white foot was fleetest ; Thy voice mid the concert Of maidens was sweetest ; The swell of thy white breast Made rich lovers follow ; And thy raven hair bound them, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. Thy neck was, lost maid ! Than the ceanabhan* whiter; And the glow of thy cheek Than the monadant brighter : But death’s chain hath bound thee Thine eye’s glazed and hollow That shone like a sun-burst, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. No more shall mine ear drink Thy melody swelling ; Nor thy' beamy eye brighten The outlaw’s dark dwelling ; Or thy soft heaving bosom My destiny hallow, With thy twining arms round me, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. • The moss couch 1 brought thee To-day from the mountain, Has drank the last drop Of thy young heart’s red fountain, • A plant found in bogs, the top of which bears a substance resembling cotton, and as white as snow. t The monadan is a red berry, growing on an humble creeping plant found on wild marshy mountains. 328 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. For this good skian\ beside me Struck deep and rung hollow In thy bosom of treason, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. With strings of rich pearls Thy white neck was laden, And thy lingers with spoils' Of the Sassanach maiden : Such rich silks enrob’d not The proud dames of Mallow — Such pure gold they wore not As Mairgread ni Chealleadh. Alas ! that my loved one Her outlaw would injure — Alas ! that he e’er proved Her treason’s avenger ! That this right hand should make thee A bed cold and hollow, When in death’s sleep it laid thee, Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh! And while to this lone cave My deep grief I’m venting, The Saxon’s keen bandog My footsteps is scenting : But true men await me Afar in Duhallow, Farewell, cave of slaughter And Mairgread ni Chealleadh. $ A knife; pronounced as if written skeen. We may infer the sJcian was of high repute, of old, for mention of it is made in ancient English ballads. Robin Hood, that celebrated outlaw, designated in ancient annals as “ Of all theeves the prince and the most gentle theefe ,” is invested with an “ Iryshe knife'’ by the minstrel ; and we may suppose the prince of thieves would have the best. In the ballad of “Robin Hood and Guy of Gis- borne,” Robin makes use of this knife on Guy, and afterwards uses it to loose “ Little Jolin” from the bonds of the enemy. “ But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife. And losed John hand and foote. And gave him Sir Guye’s bowe into his hand, And bade it be his boote.” THE MID WATCH. Sheridan. When ’tis night, and the mid-watch is come, And chilling mists hang o’er the darkened main. Then sailors think of their far-distant home, And of those friends they ne’er may see again ; But when the light’s begun, Each serving at his gun Should any thought of them come o’er your mind ; Think, only, should the day be won, How ’twill cheer Their hearts to hear That their old companion he was one. Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind Have left on shore, some pretty girl and true, Who many a night doth listen to the wind, And sighs to think how it may fare with you : Oh, when the light’s begun, You serving at your gun, Should any thought of her come o’er your mind : Think, only, should the day be won, How ’twill cheer Her heart to hear That her own true sailor he was one. This is a charming song, and full of sweet sentiment, and has, therefore, enjoyed great L 330 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. popularity. Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, notices the inadmissable rhyme, “ But when the fight’s begun, Each serving at his gun .” And, strange to say, he tells us Sheridan would insist upon it the rhyme was good. Now, clearly, it is not. The sound here is not a match for a preceding sound, but identical with it, and, therefore, not a rhyme. Indeed, Sheridan seems to have been very careless as to rhymes throughout this otherwise perfect composition ; for, in the first verse, the word “mind,” in the seventh line, does not rhyme to anything. CAITRIN, THE DAUGHTER OF JOHN. From the Irish. The very title of this ballad is of antique mould— no surname— she is Catharine, the daughter of John. Her Christian name, even, is mentioned only mice. She is the cold virgin — or a splendid jewel — light of the poet — fairest of beauty’s train — the harp’s inspira- tion — and, finally, “ Bright swan of Lough Glynn.” This has the ring of the old metal about it. Sing the Hunter of Bera,* who from Ballagh came hither, Our gates opened wide to his coming at noon,. And the virgin whose coldness- did suitors’ hopes wither, The snow-waisted Caitrin, the daughter of John ! There are tall sons of bravery that pine in her slavery ; Her eye all beguiling — small lips like the rose ; She’s a jewel all splendid, of brightest hues blended, Each gold- wreathed ringlet to her white ancle flows ! Now why should we wonder if thousands surrender, Like Connor to Deirdre, j* their hearts to her chain ; Guiding light of the poet, of sun-glancing splendour, The fairest in Erin of beauty’s bright train ! O’er her kindred and nation she holds highest station, Dispensing rich guerdons to minstrels of song ; Cl an- Murray’s fair darling — my harp’s inspiration, Bright swan of Lough Glynn, beauteous daughter of John ! * Bera means the old O’Sullivan Country in the south-west of Cork. The head of the family is still called O’Sullivan Bear by the peasantry. Hence the name of the fine harbour in that locality, Bearhaven. The scenery in this region is very fine. t Allusion to Deirdre is frequently made by the Irish minstrels. A sketch of her strange story and fate is given in this volume. See “ Deirdre.” MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 331 THE FETCH John Banim. In Ireland, a Fetch is the supernatural fac simile of some individual, which comes to insure to its original a happy longevity, or immediate dissolution. If seen in the morning, the one event is predicted; if in the evening, the other. — Author's note. Tiie mother died when, the child was horn, And left me her baby to keep ; I rocked its cradle the night and morn, Or, silent, hung o’er it to weep. ’Twas a sickly child through its infancy, Its cheeks were so ashy pale ; Till it broke from my aims to walk in glee, Out in the sharp, fresh gale. And then my little girl grew strong, And laughed the hours away ; Or sung me the merry lark’s mountain song, Which he taught her at break of day. When she wreathed her hair in thicket bowers, With the hedge-rose and hare-hell blue, I called her my May, in her crown of flowers, And her smile so soft and new. And the rose, I thought, never shamed her cheek, But rosy and rosier made it ; And her eye of blue did more brightly break, Through the bluebell that strove to shade it. One evening I left her asleep in her smiles, And walked through the mountains lonely ; . I was far from my darling, ah ! many long miles. And I thought of her, and her only ! . She darkened my path, like a troubled dream, In that solitude far and drear ; I spoke to my child ! but she did not seem To hearken with human ear. She only looked with a dead, dead eye, And a wan, wan cheek of sorrow, I knew her Fetch ! she was called to die And she died upon the morrow. 332 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. THE LOST PATH- Thomas Davis. Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort he, All comfort else has flown ; For every hope was false to me, And here I am alone. What thoughts were mine in early youth ! Like some old Irish song, Brimful of love, and life, and truth, My spirit gush’d along. I hoped to right my native isle, I hoped^i soldier’s fame, I hoped to rest in woman’s smile, And win a minstrel’s name. Oh ! little have I served my land, Ho laurels press my brow, I have no woman’s heart or hand, Hor minstrel honour's now. But fancy has a magic power, It brings me wreath and crown, And woman’s love, the self-same hour It smites oppression down. Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort he, I have no joy beside ; Oh ! throng around, and he to me Power, country, fame, and bride. WHOE’ER SHE BE, I LOVE HER. From tlie Irish. Translated by Edward Walsh. Theougii pleasure’s bowers I wildly flew, Deceiving maids, if tales he true, Till love’s lorn anguish made me rue That one young Fair-neck saw me, Whose modest mien did awe me, Who left my life to hover O’er death’s dark shade — The stainless maid, Whoe’er she he, I love her ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 333 Her hair like quivering foliage flows, Her heart no thought of evil knows, Her face with purest virtue glows, Her fame all hate defying — While for her crowds aie dying, And round death’s threshold hover, Where I, for one, Am nearly gone — Whoe’er she he, I love her ! What beauteous teeth, and lip, and neck, And eye, and brow the maiden deck ! What red and white her cheek bespeck ! Like wave-pois’d swan, she’s fairest, In virtue high she’s rarest ; In her may none discover One deed to blame — Mild, modest dame, Whoe’er she be, I love her ! But since soft ties are round us wove, Which nought but death can e’er remove, That balsam-bearing Lip of love That spell-bound left me dying — Now far together flying The ocean-billows over, Who can divide From me my bride ? Whoe’er she be, I love her ! But first to Eirne’s lovely lake, Where maids are gay, our course we’ll take, Where generous chiefs bright banquets make, And purple wine is flowing ; Then from our dear friends going, We’ll sail the ocean over, I and my dame Of stainless fame — Whoe’er she be, I love her ! Her secret name I’ll not impart, Although she pierced my wandering heart, With such a death- dispensing dart As love- sick left me lying, In fiery torment dying, Till pity mild did move her — But wine of Spain To her we’ll drain, Whoe’er she be, I love her! MARY OF TIPPERARY. Samuel Loyeh. From sweet Tipperary See light-hearted Mary, Her step, like a fairy, scarce ruffles the dew, As she joyously springs, And as joyously sings, Disdaining such things as a stocking or shoe ; For she goes hare-footed — Like Yenus, or Cupid, And who’d be so stupid to put her in silk, When her sweet foot and ankle The dewdrops bespangle, As she trips o’er the lawn, At the blush of the dawn, As she trips o’er the lawn Avith her full pail of milk. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 335 For the dance when array’d, See this bright mountain maid, If her hair she would braid with young* beauty’s fond lure, O’er some clear fountain stooping, Her dark tresses looping, — Diana herself ne’er had mirror more pure ! How lovely that toilet ! Would Fashion dare soil it With paint, or with patches, when Nature bestows A beauty more simple, In mirth’s artless dimple? Heaven’s light in her eye — The soft blue of the sky — Heaven’s light in her eye, and a blush like the rose ! THE SEA. Mrs. Downing. I LOVE it, I love it, Whatever its hue — Be it dark, be it bright, Be it green, be it blue ; In whirlwind or calm, Let it chance as it will, In sunshine or storm, It is dear to me still, I love it when glassy, And shadowy and shining, The bark and the oar On its wave are reclining — When lute-sounds of song O’er its bosom are stealing — When lightnings are flashing, When thunders are pealing. I love it when resting In dawn’s misty light, The white sails are cresting The foam-billows height ; When, dim in the starlight, It breaks into spray — When broadly and brightly ’Tis flashing in day. 336 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. But oh ! when the green Island shores are at rest, When the last glowing ray Fades away from the west, With silence and moonlight About, and above it, Then, then, most of all, Oh ! I love it, I love it ! LEADING* THE CALVES. From the Irish. One evening mild, in summer weather, My calves in the wild wood tending, I saw a maid, in whom together All beauty’s charms were blending — ■ 44 Permit our Hocks to mix,” I said, “ ’Tis what a maiden mild would, And when the shades of night are lied We’ll lead our calves from the wild wood.” 44 There grows a tree in the wild wood’s breast, We’ll stay till morn beneath it, Where songs of birds invite to rest, And leaves and flowers enwreath it — Mild, modest maid, ’tis not amiss ; ’Twas thus we met in childhood ; To thee at morn my hand I’ll kiss,* And lead the calves through the wild wood ! 5 44 With calves I sought the pastures wild ; They’ve stray’d beyond my keeping — At home my father calls his child, And my dear mother’s weeping — The forester, if here they stray, Perhaps, in friendship mild, would Permit our stay till the dawn of day, When we’ll lead our calves from the wild wood.” * The literal meaning of this line, in the original, is, you will receive a kiss from me out of the top of my hand. It shows that the custom of kissing hands in salutation has pre- vailed among the Irish peasantry. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 337 THE FIRST CUCKOO IN STRING. J. F. Waller, LL.D. This song is written to a charming air, called “My Bonny Cuckoo,” given in “Bunting's Ancient Music of Ireland (Dublin, 1840).” The cuckoo’s musical interval is given in the air, and the Italic passages in the song are most ingeniously adapted to the melody. One sweet eve in spring, as the daylight died, Mave sat in her bow’r by her father’s side ; ( Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !) so soft and so clear, Sang the bonny cuckoo from a thicket near : ( Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !) “Do listen, my dear, ’Tis the first cuckoo’s note I have heard this year.” The maiden smiled archly, then sighed — “ ’Tis long I’ve waited and watched for that sweet bird’s song ( Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !) ‘ { Ere winter he’ll roam With some beloved mate to his distant home.” ( Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !) ‘ ‘ Ah, would I might roam With that bonny cuckoo to his distant home.” The old man he frowned at the maid, and said, “What puts such wild thoughts in your foolish head ?” ( Cuckoo ! Cuckoo!) “ No maid should desire To roam from her own native land and sire.” ( Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !) “ I don’t love a note That comes from that foreign bird’s weary throat. “ The blackbird and throstle, I love their song, They cheer us through summer and autumn long ( Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !) “ And then they ne’er roam, But they mate and they live all the year at home ( Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !) “ ’Tis still the same note That comes from that foreign bird’s weary throat.” The old man he sleeps in the drowsy air, While soft from his side steals his daughter fair. (< Cuckoo ! Cuckoo /) There’s a bird in the grove That sings a sweet song all young maidens love. ( Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !) Says the bird from the grove, — “I’m weary cuckooing this hour, my love.” The old man he dreams that the cuckoo sings Close up to his ear very wondrous things : ( Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !) “I love your dear Mave, And won her young heart just without your leave .’ 5 ( Cuckoo ! Cuckoo /) ‘ 1 She is willing to roam From her own beloved nest to my distant home.” 16 338 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Half in fear, half in anger, her sire awakes, As her lip on his brow a soft farewell takes. ( Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !) The old man is alone, For vision, and cuckoo, and child are gone : {Cuckoo ! Cuckoo !) A sweet voice whispers near, — 4 ‘ We’ll be back with the cuckoo in spring next year.” THE HAUNTED SPRING. Samuel Lover. It is said Fays have the power to assume various shapes for the purpose of luring mortals into Fairyland : hunters seem to have been particularly the objects of the lady-fairies fancies. Gaily through the mountain glen The hunter’s horn did ring, As the milk-white doe Escaped his bow, Down by the haunted spring ; In vain his silver horn he wound,— ’Twas echo answer’d back; For neither groom nor baying hound Was on the hunter’s track ; In vain he sought the milk-white doe That made him stray, and ’scaped his bow, For, save himself, no living thing Was by the silent haunted spring. The purple heath-bells, blooming fair, Their fragrance round did fling, As the hunter lay, At close of day, Down by the haunted spring ; A lady fair, in robe of white, To greet the hunter came ; She kiss’d a cup with jewels bright, And pledged him by his name ; “ Oh, lady fair,” the hunter cried, “ Be thou my love, my blooming bride, A bride that well might grace a king ! Fair lady of the haunted spring.” In the fountain clear she stoop’d, And forth she drew a ring ; And that loved knight His faith did plight Down by the haunted spring - MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 339 But since that day his chase did stray, The hunter ne’er was seen, And legends tell, he now doth dwell Within the hills so green ;* But still the milk-white doe appears, And wakes the peasants’ evening fears, While distant bugles faintly ring Around the lonely haunted spring. • In Ireland, the fairies are said to abide in the “ green hills.” MAURYEEN. The cottage is here as of old 1 remember, The pathway is worn as it always hath been ; On the turf-piled hearth there still lives a bright ember, But where is Mauryeen ? The same pleasant prospect still lieth before me, — The river — the mountain — the valley of green ; And heaven itself (a bright blessing !) is o’er me : — But where is Mauryeen ? Lost ! lost ! like a dream that hath come and departed (Ah, why are the loved and the lost ever seen ?) She has fallen — hath flown — with a lover false-hearted — • So mourn for Mauryeen ! And she who so loved her is slain — (the poor mother !) Struck dead in a day by a shadow unseen ; And the home we once loved is the home of another — And lost is Mauryeen ! Sweet Shannon, a moment by thee let me ponder — A moment look back to the things that have been ; Then away to the world, where the ruin’d ones wander, To seek for Mauryeen ! Pale peasant, perhaps, ’neath the frown of high heaven, She roams the dark deserts of sorrow unseen, Unpitied — unknown ; but I — I shall know even The ghost of Mauryeen ! TOM MOODY. Andrew Cheery. Andrew Cherry was bom in Limerick, January 11, 1762. He received a respectable education at a grammar school there — was intended for holy orders, but his father meet- ing with misfortunes, Cherry was bound to a printer. He went on the stage, and, after all the vicissitudes attending a stroller’s life, made reputation, and graduated from the pro- vinces up to Dublin, and thence to London, and was received with much applause. He became manager of the Swansea theatre, and there, in my boyhood, I saw Edmund Kean perform before he made his great name in London. Cherry produced ten dramatic pieces, of which the incidental songs are of fair average merit ; but the one that follows is not only Cherry’s best, but among the very best of its class, possessing a tenderness of senti- ment rare in this class of composition, and touching the feelings after a manner that reminds us of that other celebrated sporting song, “ The High-mettled Racer,” of Dibdin. You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well ; The hell just done tolling was honest Tom’s knell ; A more able sportsman ne’er followed a hound, Through a country well known to him fifty miles round. No hound ever open’d with Tom near the wood, But he’d challenge the tone, and could tell if ’twere good ; And all with attention would eagerly mark, When he cheer’d up the pack, “Hark! to Rookwood, hark! hark! High ! — wind him ! and cross him ; Now, Rattler, boy! — Hark!” MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 341 Six crafty earth-stoppers, in hunter’s green drest, Supported poor Tom to an “ earth” made for rest ; His horse, which he styled his Old Soul, next appear’d, On whose forehead the brush of the last fox was rear’d ; Whip, cap, boots, and spurs, in a trophy were bound, And here and there follow’d an old straggling hound. Ah ! no more at his voice yonder vales will they trace, Nor the welkin resound to the burst in the chase ! With “ High over ! — now press him ! Tally-ho!— Tally-ho!” Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his breath, “ Since I see you’re resolved to be in at the death, One favour bestow — ’tis the last I shall crave, — Give a rattling view-hollow thrice over my grave ; And unless at that warning I lift up my head, My boys you may fairly conclude I am dead ! ” Honest Tom was obey’d, and the shout rent the sky. For every voice join’d in the tally-ho cry, Tally-ho ! Hark forward ! Tally-ho! Tally-ho! HE WAS FAMED FOR DEEDS OF ARMS. Andeew Cheeky. Here is another specimen of Cherry’s muse, by no means equal to the former, but it gave the opportunity of effect in being sung, and hence, was a favourite song of the late Mr. Braham, that great English singer, who has left no equal behind him. He was famed for deeds of arms, She a maid of envied charms ; She to him her love imparts, One pure flame pervades both hearts ; Honour calls him to the field, Love to conquest, now, must yield — Sweet maid ! he cries, again I’ll come to thee, When the glad trumpet sounds a victory ! Battle, now, with fury glows ; Hostile blood in torrents flows ; His duty tells him to depart ; She pressed her hero to her heart ; And, now, the trumpet sounds to arms ; Amid the clash of rude alarms — Sweet maid, he cries, again I’ll come to thee, When the glad trumpet sounds a victory ! 342 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. He with, love and conquest burns, Both subdue his mind by turns ! Death the soldier, now, enthrals ! With his wounds the hero falls ! She, disdaining war’s alarms, Bushed, and caught him in her arms ! Oh ! death, he cries, thou’rt welcome now to me ! For, hark ! the trumpet sounds a victory ! THE BAY OF BISCAY. Andrew Cherry. Here is a third song of Cherry’s, which has, at least, the merit of being graphic — and to that may be attributed most likely its great popularity, assisted, no doubt, by Davy’s pleasing and effective music. This was also one of Braham’s favourites, and one of tho very few sea-songs of Irish origin. Loud roar’d the dreadful thunder, The rain a deluge showers, The clouds were rent asunder By lightning’s vivid powers: The night both drear and dark, Our poor devoted bark, Till next day, there she lay In the Bay of Biscay, 0 ! How dash’d upon the billow, Our opening timbers creak ; Each fears a wat’ry pillow, Hone stops the dreadful leak; To cling to slipp’ry shrouds Each breathless seaman crowds, As she lay, till next day, In the Bay of Biscay, 0 ! At length the wish’d-for morrow Broke thro’ the hazy sky ; Absorb’d in silent sorrow, Each heav’d a bitter sigh ; The dismal wreck to view Struck horror to the crew, As she lay, on that day, HnT7’ ref Hisnntr MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 343 Her yielding timbers sever, Her pitchy seams are rent, When Heaven, all-bounteous ever, Its boundless mercy sent ; A sail in sight appears, We hail her with three cheers: How we sail, with the gale, From the Bay of Biscay, 0 ! DEIEDRE, From the Irish. Deirdre, the daughter of Felimy, the son of Dali, was exquisitely beautiful. At her birth, it was prophesied she should prove the ruin of Ulster. The king, Connor MacNessa, caused her to be educated with great care, and in guarded seclusion, intending to make her his queen : but Deirdre preferred the young Naisi, one of the sons of Usnach, to the old king, and, snatching a favourable opportunity, threw a rose to Naisi, which, according to the custom of that day, bound him in honour to marry her; and though he anticipated ruin from the abduction of the king’s intended wife, he said to his brothers— who also dreaded the consequences of the act — that he would “rather live in misfortune than in dishonour,” and that he should be “disgraced before the men of Erin for ever, if he did not take her, after that which she had done.” The three brothers— all great warriors — fled from Ireland to Alba (Scotland), and found safety on the banks of Loch Etive. The absence of such distinguished heroes was felt to be a national loss, and the king sent a messenger to them, promising forgiveness to all. Naisi trusted in the king’s word; but Deirdre feared treachery, and before leaving their sylvan retreat, the only safe and happy one in Deirdre’s belief, she is supposed to utter this passionate farewell : — Farewell to fair Alba* bigh bouse of tbe sun ; Farewell to the mountain, the cliff, and the dun; Dun Sweeny, adieu ! for my love cannot stay, And tarry 1 must not, when love cries “ away.” Glen Yasban ! Glen Yasban ! where roebucks run free, Where my love used to feed on the red-deer with me, Where, rocked on thy waters, while stormy winds blew, My love used to slumber ; Glen Yashan, adieu ! Glendaro ! Glendaro ! where birchen boughs weep, Honey dew at high noon to the Nightingale’s sleep ; Where my love used to lead me to hear the cuckoo, ’Mong the high hazel bushes ; Glendaro, adieu ! * It will be observed that there is no mention of Scotland throughout the entire of this antique romance, prose or verse. The country is called Alba its ancient name. 344 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Glenurcby ! Glenurcby ! where loudly and long, My love used to wake up tlie woods with his song, While the son of the rockf, from the depths of the dell, Laughed sweetly in answer ; Glenurchy, farewell ! Glen Etive ! Glen Etive ! where dappled does roam, Where I leave the green sheeling, 1 tirst call’d a home, Where with me my true love delighted to dwell, The sun made his mansion^ ; Glen Etive, farewell ! Farewell to Inch Draynagh ; adieu to the roar Of blue billows bursting in light on the shore ; Dun Fiagh, farewell ! for my love cannot stay, And tarry, I must not, when love cries “ away.” t “Son of the rook.” The echo.— How charmingly fanciful ! t She calls Glen Etive Bally-Graine, or “Suntown.” On arriving in Ireland, they are conducted to Emania, and lodged in the house of the Eed Branch. King Connor inquires if Deirdre be still lovely, “ if her beauty yet lives upon her?” and a messenger tells him she is still “the fairest woman on the ridge of the world.” The house is then surrounded by the soldiers of the king, while Naisi and Deirdre are playing at chess. The brothers, finding they are betrayed, rush out, and do prodigies of valour. Ardan slays “ three-hundred men of might,” Ainli kills twice as many, and then Naisi joins the fray, which is thus described : — “ Till the sands of the sea, the dewdrops of the meadows, the leaves of the forest, or the stars of heaven be counted, it is not possible to tell the numbers of heads and hands and lopped limbs of heroes that there lay bare and red from the hands of Naisi and his brothers of the plain,” — they then spread the links of their joined bucklers round Deirdre, and bounding forth “like three eagles,” swept down on the troops of Connor, making tremendous havoc, until Cathbad, the druid, throws a spell over them, “like a sea of thick gums, that clogged their limbs,” and the sons of Usnach are then put to death, and Deirdre, standing over their grave, sings the funeral song, and then flings herself into the grave and expires. The prophecy was fulfilled, for Connor’s treachery and murderous act alienated all hearts from him, and the downfall of his house was accomplished. Such is a very brief outline of this story, which, as Mr. Ferguson remarks, “ has possessed an extraordinary charm for the people of Ireland for better than a thousand years.” Here is the funeral wail, over the loved and the brave, by the beautiful and fatal Deirdre. DEIRDRE’S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH. Translated from the Irish by S. Ferguson, M.B.I.A. The lions of tbe bill are gone, And I am left alone — alone ; Dig tbe grave botb wide and deep, For I am sick, and fain would sleep. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 345 The falcons of the wood are flown, And 1 am left alone — alone ; Dig the grave both deep and wide, And let us slumber side by side. The dragons of the rock are sleeping — Sleep that wakes not for our weeping ; Dig the grave > and make it ready, Lay me on my true love’s body. Lay their spears and bucklers bright By the warriors’ sides aright ; Many a day the three before me On their linked bucklers bore me. Lay upon the low grave floor, ’Neath each head, the blue claymore ; Many a time the noble three Bedaened these blue blades for me. Lay the collars, as is meet, Of their greyhounds at their feet ; Many a time for me have they Brought the tall red deer to bay. In the falcon’s jesses throw Hook and arrow, line and bow ; Never again by stream or plain Shall the gentle woodsmen go. Sweet companions, were ye ever Harsh to me, your sister F — never. Woods, and wilds, and misty valleys, Were with you as good’s a palace. Oh ! to hear my true love singing,* Sweet as sounds of trumpets ringing ; Like the sway of ocean swelling, Ilolled his deep voice round our dwelling. Oh ! to hear the echoes pealing Bound our green and fairy sheeling, When the three, with soaring chorus, Made the sky-lark silent o’er us. * In the original tale, speaking of the brothers, it is said, “ Sweet, in truth, was the music of the sons of Usnacli. The cattle, listening to it, milked over two-thirds more than was their wont." Modern dairymen increase their cow’s milk from pipes of another 346 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Echo, now sleep morn and even — Lark, alone enchant the heaven ; Ardan’s lips are scant of breath, Naisi’s tongue is cold in death. Stag, exult on glen and mountain, Salmon, leap from loch to fountain ; Heron, in the free air warm ye, Usnach’s sons no more will harm ye. Erin’s stay no more ye are, Rulers of the ridge of war ; Never more ’twill be your fate To keep the beam of battle straight. Woe is me ! by fraud and wrong, Traitors false, and tyrants strong, Fell Clan Usnach bought and sold, For Barach’s feast and Conor’s gold. Woe to Eman, roof and wall ! Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall! Tenfold woe and black dishonour To the foul and false Clan Conor. Big the grave both wide and deep, Sick I am, and fain would sleep ! Big the grave and make it ready, Lay me on my true love’s body. THE RAKES OF MALLOW. Air, “ Sandy lent the Man his Mull.” Some hundred years ago Mallow was a fashionable watering-place, and enjoyed the title of “ Irish Bath,” according to Dr. Smith, who wrote about it in those days. But, to judge by the following song, the rakes of Mallow did not trouble the water much. Beauing, belling, dancing, drinking, Breaking windows, damning, sinking, Ever raking, never thinking, Live the rakes of Mallow. Spending faster than it comes. Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns, .Bacohus’ true begotten sons, Live the rakes of Mallory. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 347 One time naught hut claret drinking, Then like politicians thinking To raise the sinking funds when sinking, Live the rakes of Mallow. When at home with dadda dying, Still for Mallow- water crying ; But where there is good claret plying Live the rakes of Mallow. Living short hut merry lives, Going where the devil drives, Having sweethearts, hut no wives, Live the rakes of Mallow. Racking tenants, stewards teasing, Swiftly spending, slowly raising, Wishing to spend all their days in Raking as at Mallow. Then to end this raking life They get sober, take a wife, Ever after live in strife, And wish again for Mallow. LAST WISH. Francis Davis. On ! gather me the flowers fair, And. strew them o’er my bed, They’ll soothe me, mother, while I stay. They’ll deck me when I’m dead ; But throw the white rose far away, For Willie’s brow was fair ; Nor bring the leaf of golden tint, To tell of Willie’s hair. I drew the curls across his brow, My heart beat quick and sore ; I gazed upon that frozen smile ’Till I could gaze no more : And when I knelt beside his grave, Fain, fain were tears to flow ; But something whisper’d to my heart, You’ll soon be full as low. Oh ! there’s a spot at Devis’ foot Where longer lies the dew, And there are daisies purer white, And violets deeper blue ; 348 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Look on them kindly as yon pass, But touch no flower there, For Willie said they bloomed for him, To twine in Annie’s hair. Then draw the curtains closer round, And hide from me the skies ; I cannot bear that sunny blue, So like my Willie’s eyes : And raise ye up this swimming head, My last dear wish to crave : Now mother, mother, mind ye this — Lay me in Willie’s grave ! THE LAMENTATION OF HUGH REYNOLDS. A Street Ballad. The Hugh Reynolds, who is the hero of this ballad (which is clearly genuine) was guilty of abduction. It is generally believed, in Ireland, that abduction is an offence never com- mitted without an implied consent on the part of the woman, and sympathy always exists in favour of the criminal who is brought to justice by the woman swearing against him afterwards, on his trial, as it appears she did in this case. My name it is Hugh Reynolds, I come of honest parents, Near Cavan I was born, as plainly you may see ; By loving of a maid, one Catherine MacCabe, My life has been betrayed ; she’s a dear maid to me.* The country were bewailing my doleful situation, But still I’d expectation this maid would set me free ; But, oh ! she was ungrateful, her parents proved deceitful, And though I loved her faithful, she’s a dear maid to me. Young men and tender maidens, throughout this Irish nation, Who hear my lamentation, I hope you’ll pray for me ; The truth I will unfold, that my precious blood she sold, In the grave I must lie cold ; she’s a dear maid to me. For now my glass is run, and the hour it is come, And I must die for love, and the height of loyalty ; I thought it was no harm to embrace her in my arms, Or take her from her parents ; but she’s a dear maid to me. * This phrase must be taken idiomatically. As, if a man were killed in a fox chase, the Irish peasant would say, “ it was a dear hunting to him j” so Hugh says of the girl that costs him his life, “She’s a dear maid to mo.” MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 349 Adieu my loving father, and you my tender mother, Farewell my dearest brother, who has suffered sore for me ; With irons I’m surrounded, in grief I lie confounded, By perjury unbounded ; she’s a dear maid to me. Now, I can say no more ; to the Law-board I must go, There to take the last farewell of my friends and counterie ; May the angels, shining bright, receive my soul this night, And convey me into Heaven to the blessed Trinity. I would call the English reader’s attention to the triple rhymes through this ballad, and though the rhymes be not always perfect, they are sufficiently close (vowel rhymes) to ring on the ear. The word in the first line, at the csesural point, rhymes to the final word, which is again rhymed to at the csesural point of the second or alternate line, as thus : — “ The truth I will un fold, that my precious blood she sold, In the grave I must lie cold ; she’s a dear maid to me.” If the rhymes were always as perfect as these, any one conversant with metrical structure will see that they might be given in three separate lines with an alternate fourth and eighth; but as that would tax the rhymer too heavily, he adopts the expedient of writing a quatrain of which only the second and fourth lines must rhyme, of necessity, leaving him free to rhyme as often and as closely as he can, throughout the first and third, as thus, in the first verse : — “ By loving of a maid, one Catherine MacCuJe My life has been betrayed, she’s a dear maid tp me.” It is with a view to the English reader I have made this note, and given an example (once for all) of what I have spoken of, frequently, in this volume, as a peculiarity in genuine Irish songs. The Irish reader, I hope, will not, therefore, think me guilty of an editorial intrusion, and mistake an intended courtesy for a mere impertinence. WILLY REILLY. This ballad has ever been a great favourite in Ireland, particularly in the North, where the incident is said to have occurred on which it is founded; and as the hero and the heroine were of different religious communions, a certain party spirit became engaged in the feelings excited by this ballad, which, doubtless, increased its popularity. But, setting aside any other cause than its own intrinsic qualities, it is no wonder it found an abiding place in the hearts of the people : it is full of tenderness, and has great dramatic power. “ Oh ! rise up, Willy Reilly, and come along with me, I mean for to go with you and leave this counterie, To leave my father’s dwelling-house, his houses and free land And away goes Willy Reilly and his dear Coolen Baton * They go by hills and mountains, and by yon lonesome plain, Through shady groves and valleys all dangers to refrain ; But her father followed after with a well-arm’d band, And taken was poor Reilly and his dear Coolen Bawn. * Fair young girl. 350 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. It’s home then she was taken, and in her closet bound, Poor Reilly all in Sligo jail lay on the stony ground, ’Till at the bar of justice before the Judge he’d stand, Por nothing hut the stealing of his dear Coolen Bawn. “ Now, in the cold, cold iron, my hands and feet are hound, I’m handcuffed like a murderer, and tied unto the ground, But all the toil and slavery I’m willing for to stand, Still hoping to he succoured by my dear Coolen Bawn.” The jailor’s son to Reilly goes, and thus to him did say, “Oh! get up, Willy Reilly, you must appear this day, For great Squire Foillard’s anger you never can withstand, I’m afear’df you’ll suffer sorely for your dear Coolen Bawn” Now Willy’s drest from top to toe all in a suit of green, His hair hangs o’er his shoulders most glorious to be seen ; He’s tall and straight and comely as any could he found, He’s lit for Foillard’s daughter, was she heiress to a crown. “ This is the news, young Reilly, last night that I did hear, The lady’s oath will hang you, or else will set you clear “ If that he so,” says Reilly, “ her pleasure I will stand, Still hoping to be succoured by my dear Coolen Bawn.” The Judge he said, “ This lady being in her tender youth, If Reilly has deluded her, she will declare the truth Then, like a moving beauty bright before him she did stand, “ You’re welcome there my heart’s delight and dear Coolen Bawn.” “ Oh, gentlemen,” Squire Foillard said, “ with pity look on me, This villain came amongst us to disgrace our family ; And by his base contrivances this villany was planned, If I don’t get satisfaction I’ll quit this Irish land.” The lady with a tear began, and thus replied she, — “The fault is none of Reilly’s, the blame lies all on me ; I forced him for to leave his place and come along with me, I loved him out of measure, which wrought our destiny.” Out bespoke the noble Fox , % at the table he stood by, “ Oh! gentlemen, consider on this extremity; To hang a man for love is a murder you may see, So spare the life of Reilly, let him leave this counterie.” t Afraid. Afeard is the universal pronunciation of this word among 1 the peasantry in Ireland, to this day, and is hut the retention of the old English mode : — witness Shak* speare : — “ Eye, my Lord, fye;— a soldier and afeard?” — Macbeth. J The prisoner’s counsel. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 351 “ Good, my lord, lie stole from her, her diamonds and her rings, Gold watch and silver buckles, and many precious things, Which cost me in bright guineas more than live hundred pounds, — I’ll have the life of Iteilly should I lose ten thousand pounds.” ‘‘ Good, my lord, I gave them him as tokens of true love, And when we are a-parting I will them all remove, If you have got them, Reilly, pray send them home to me.” “ I will, my loving lady, with many thanks to thee.” il There is a ring among them I allow yourself to wear, With thirty locket diamonds well set in silver fair, And as a true-love-token wear it on your right hand, That y ou’ll think on my poor broken heart when you’re in a foreign land.” Then out spoke noble Fox, 11 You may let the prisoner go, The lady’s oath has cleared him, as the jury all may know ; She has released her own true love, she has renewed his name, May her honour bright gain high estate, and her offspring rise to fame !’* SERENADE. J. J. C ALLAN AN. The blue waves are sleeping, The breezes are still, The light dews are weeping Soft tears on the hill. The moon in mild beauty Shines brightly above ; Then come to the casement Oh ! Mary, my love. No form from the lattice Did ever recline Over Italy’s waters More lovely than thine. Then come to the window, And shed from above One glance from thy bright eye — One smile of thy love. From the storms of this world How gladly I’d ffy To the calm of that breast — To the heaven of that eye. How deeply I love thee ’Twere useless to tell, Farewell then, my dear one, My Mary — farewell ! 352 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. SONGS OF OUB LAND. Air, “ Old Langolee.” Songs of our land, ye are with, us for ever : The power and the splendour of thrones pass away, But yours is the might of some deep-rolling- river, Still flowing- in freshness thro’ things that decay. Ye treasure the voices of long -vanish’d ages ; Like our time-honour’ d towers, in beauty ye stand ; Ye bring us the bright thoughts of poets and sages, And keep them among us, old songs of our land. The bards may go down to the place of their slumbers, The lyre of the charmer be hushed in the grave, But far in the future the power of their numbers Shall kindle the hearts of our faithful and brave. It will waken an echo in souls deep and lonely, Like voices of reeds by the winter- wind fanned ; It will call up a spirit of freedom, when only Her breathings are heard in the songs of our land. For they keep a record of those, the true-hearted, Who fell with the cause they had vowed to maintain ; They show us bright shadows of glory departed, Of love unrewarded, and hope that was vain ; The page may be lost, and the pen long forsaken, And weeds may grow wild o’er the brave heart and hand But ye are still left when all else hath been taken, Like streams in the desert — sweet songs of our land. Songs of our land, — to the land of the stranger Ye followed the heart-broken exile afar ; Ye went with the wanderer through distance and danger, And gladdened his desolate path, like a star ; The breath of his mountains, in summers long vanished, And visions that passed like a wave from the strand, And hope for his country — the joy of the banished, Were borne to him oft in the songs of our land. When spring-time is come, with its fresh burst of glory, To bid the green heart of the forest rejoice ; The pine of the mountain, with age growing hoary, In lofty solemnity gives forth its voice. So, tuneful thro’ ages, the harp of our nation Hath answered with pride to the bard’s gifted hand, And, breaking the silence of dark desolation, Bids us love and exult in the songs of our land. APPENDIX SINCE (XELIA’S Mr FOE, p. 33. Song to “the Ihish Tune.” 354 APPENDIX. — g — g ir = - g 5--h-g Z— g — g H- g — ^=~ 1 — * I :d — i rf f -i- >■ lent-ing than her, In the morn - ing a - dorn - ing each -I-? - ~ ^ « S S 1 - 3 - 33 = — y ^ ~ 9 i leaf with ~'zd~ tear. :3 i — ^ — a| ~[ When I make my sad wil - low will fol - low some pi - ti - ful groan; But with si - lent dis - dain she re-quites all my pain, To my APPENDIX. 355 In this setting of the air those conversant with Irish music will perceive that the two last bars, in each part, were Anglicized, to suit the taste of the time. The air should conclude with a triple repetition of the tonic — a charac- teristic feature of Irish tunes. Since writing the introductory note (p. 38), I have ascertained that in a manuscript of Music for the Viol de Gramba, formerly in the possession of Mr. Andrew Blaikie, of Paisley, hearing date 1692, the tune is entitled “King James’s March to Ireland .” In another, dated 1706, which was recently in the possession of Mr. David Laing, (and now in that of Doctor Rimbault,) it appears as King James’s March to Dublin .” Now, it is most probable that King James, at a time when it was so im- portant to him to excite Irish feeling, would employ Irish airs on his Irish marches ; and I think it may be said, that, when the earliest known Scottish settings of the air have Ireland and Dublin as essential points of the title, Scottish editors might have paused before they so confidently claimed it. This remark is not unworthy of notice as collateral evidence — if collateral evidence were needed, — which it is not ; for the fact of the air being popular in London, as “The Irish Tune,” long before there is any provable trace of it in Scotland, conclusively invalidates the Scottish claim, and establishes, beyond all cavil, the right of Ireland to this charming melody. THE WOODS OP CAILLINO, p. 161. See curious note to — p. 162. Here follow the notes of the Shakspearian commentators. Prom Malone's Shakspeare. Edited by Boswell. Pistol. Quality? Callino, castore me ! art thou a gentleman?* * Quality, call you me ? — Construe me.] The old copy reads “ Quallitie calmie custure me.” — Steevens. We should read this nonsense thus : “ Quality, cality — construe me, art thou a gentleman ?” i.e. tell me, let me understand whether thou be’st a gentleman.— Warburton. Mr. Edwards, in his MS. notes, proposes to read : “ Quality, call you me ? construe me,” &c.— Steevens. 356 APPENDIX. The alteration proposed by Mr. Edwards has been too hastily adopted. Pistol, who does not understand French, imagines the prisoner to be speaking of his own quality. The line should therefore have been thus : “ Quality !— calmly j construe me, art thou a gentleman ?”— Ritson. The words in the folio (where alone they are found) — “ Qualitee calmie custure me,” appeared such nonsense, that some emendation was here a matter of necessity, and accord- ingly that made by the joint efforts of Dr. Warburton and Mr. Edwards has been adopted in mine and the late editions. But, since, I have found reason to believe that the old copy is very nearly right, and that a much slighter emendation than that which has been made will suffice. In a book entitled “ A Handful of Plesent Delites, containing sundrie m w Sonets, newly devised to the newest Tunes,” &c., by Clement Robinson and others, 16mo, 1584, is “ a Sonet of a Lover in the Praise of his Lady, to Calen o custure me , sang at every line’s end — When as I view your comely grace, Calen o, &c. Pistol, therefore, we see, is only repeating the burden of an old song, and the words should be undoubtedly printed — “ Quality ! Calen o custure me. Art thou a gentleman ?” &c. He elsewhere has quoted the old ballad beginning — “ Where is the life that late I led ?” With what propriety the present words are introduced, it is not necessary to inquire. Pistol is not very scrupulous in his quotations. It may also be observed, that construe me is not Shakspeare’s phraseology, but— construe to me. So, in Twelfth-Night : — “ I will construe to them whence you come,” &c. — Malone. Construe me, though not the phraseology of our author’s more chastised characters, might agree sufficiently with that of Pistol. Mr. Malone’s discovery is a very curious one, and when (as probably will be the case) some further ray of light is thrown on the unin- telligible words, Calen , &c., I will be the first to vote it into the text. — Steevens. “Callino, Custore me” is an old Irish song, which is preserved in Playford’s Musical Companion, 673: — Cantus Primus. ~7T k/js — ! ~) 3 — E — Zl d d — 3— a— iJ3t- 5 'Ezjjp - f # - jja-: ihp-Ak Cal - li - no, cal - li - no, cal - li - no cas - to - re me. 1 1-] t 1 1 — — — — ! |-r . _~q~ q~~n ' KJ _ Lcji E - va ee, e - va - ee, loo, loo, loo, loo, lee. Cantus Shcondus. ’ZV 4 0 — — e — o £ ^P — f-® o — — tRt- Cal - li - no, cal - li - no, cal - li - no cas - to - re me. loo, loo, loo, lee. APPENDIX. 357 Medius. - p— ^-f :e=e— ^ j:j=i=* = p j£»=< — irjfjiz Cal - li - no, cal - li - no, cal - li - no cas - to - re me. ~ - j| - create both surprise and laughter. It is impossible to read the volume through, without feeling, not only that you have been well entertained, but well instructed. EK5"* Copies of either of the above books sent to any address in the United States or Catiada, free of postage. Send cash orders to DICK & FITZGERALD, 18 Ann Street, New York. The Reason Why: GENERAL SCIENCE. A CAREFUL COLLECTION OF Some Thousands of Reasons FOR THINGS WHICH, THOUGH GENERALLY KNOWN. ARE IMPERFECTLY UNDERSTOOD. §1, IjJoroh of (ftcohmscb Scientific fvnolnlcbge for the fftillion. BY THE AUTHOR OF “INQUIRE WITHIN.” “ What ‘ Haydn’s Dictionary of Dates' is in regard to historical events, this wonderful hook is in ! respect to scientific facts. The plan of the book, and its execution, leave nothing to he desired.” | ^Church of England Monthly Review. This Work assigns Reasons for the thousands of things that daily fall under the j eye of the intelligent observer, and of which he seeks a simple and" clear explana- tion. EXAMPLE. Why does silver tarnish when exposed to light? Why do some colors fade, and others darken, when exposed to the sun ? What develops electricity in the clouds ? Why does lightning sometimes appear red, at others yeilow, at others white ? Why does dew form round drops on the leaves of plants ? » AVhy is the sky blue ? This volume answers 1,325 similar questions. “ The Reason Why” is a handsome 12mo. volume, of 356 pages, printed on fine paper, bound in cloth, gilt, and embellished with a large number of Wood Cuts, illustrating the various subjects treated of. PRICE OISTE DOLLAR. Copies Mailed to any address in the United States or Canada, free of postage. Live and Learn; A GUIDE TO ALL WHO WISH TO SPEAK AND WRITE CORRECTLY, Particularly intended as a book of reference for the solution of difficulties connected with Grammar, Composition, Punctuation, &c., with explanations of Latin and French words and phrases of frequent occurrence in newspapers, reviews, periodi- cals, and books in general; containing examples of ONE THOUSAND MISTAKES Of daily occurrence, in Speaking, Writing, and Pronunciation, together with de- tailed Instructions for Writing for the Press, and forms of articles in the various departments of Newspaper Literature. “ Such a hook as this has long been wan ted by those who entertain the wish alluded to in the title. It is suitable for all classes. We have attentively conned its pages, andean recommend it as one of the best works of reference for the young student, or even the ripe scholar, and as deserving to be generally consulted. The work is altogether useful and indispensable.” I Tribune. GIG Pages, LoancL in. Clotli, 12mo. PRICE F I F T "'ST CENTS. And sent to any address free of postage. Send Cash Orders to DICK & PITZGERALD, 18 Ann Street, N. Y. A Book of Never-Ending Entertainment. THE SOCIABLE; OR, One Thousand and One Horae Amusements. CONTAINING ACTING PROVERBS, DRAMATIC CHARADES, ACTING CHARADES, OR DRAWING-ROOM PANTOMIMES, MUSICAL BURLESQUES, TABLEAUX YIVANTS, PARLOR GAMES, GAMES OF ACTION, FORFEITS, SCIENCE IN SPORT AND PARLOR MAGIC, AND A CHOICE COLLECTION OF CURIOUS MENTAL AND MECHANICAL PUZZLES, &c. Ey the author of “The Magician’s Own Book.’’ Illustrated with nearly 300 Engravings and Diagrams, THE WHOLE BEING A FUND OF NEVER-ENDING ENTERTAINMENT. Nearly 400 pages, 12mo., Cloth, gilt side stamp, $1.00. “ The Sociable” will be found one of the most extensively popular family hooks ever issued from the press. As its title implies, it is a collection— a com- plete repertoire — of the AMUSEMENTS OF HOME, E nbracing a large and comprehensive list of recreative pastime, arranged as follows : Parlor Theatricals, including Acting Proverbs, Acting Charades. Dramatic C harades and Tableaux V ivants ; Gam cs of Action; Games requiring Memory and Attention; Games requiring Wit and Intelligence ; Ruses, or Catch Games ; Forfeits ; Puzzles ; Fireside Games forWinter Evenings, and Science in. Sport, and Parlor Magic, Many of these Games— the majority of them — are entirely new, as are, also, the PARLOR THEATRICALS AND TABLEAUX YIVANTS, Which were prepared expressly for this WORK. Everything in the book is superior of its kind— the greatest care having been taken to exclude everthing that was not above the standard of me- diocrity in interest and ingenuity. It is Price only One Dollar, bound in- cloth, address in the United States, free ofposta THE ONLY BOOK OF THIS KIND Ever Published in America, And as it will be invaluable to Families, Schools, Social Clubs, etc., as a hook of reference on all matters of Amusement and Recreation, there must be a steady and permanent demand for it at all sea- sons and in all years, although few of the so-called “Holiday Books” are as appropriate for Gifts as The Sociable. Each department is amply illus- trated with BEAUTIFUL WOOD ENGRAVINGS Which render the Text clear, and fully explain all the Puzzles, the Mechanical Contrivances mentioned, and other things difficult to describe in writing. It is elegantly bound, so as to he an ornament to any center-table, and its typographical execution is a specimen of the highest excellence. The need of such a collection of HOME GAMES has long been felt, and the pub- lishers believe that this endeavor on their part, to supply that want, must meet with the fullest success. They have spared neither trouble nor expense to render it a complete and invaluable vade mecum of Domestic Amusements, so that its name may be familiar as a “Household Word” in all families, north, south, east and west, where the value of wholesome and innocent recreation is recognized. with gilt side and back stamp, sent to any *e. Send cash orders to DICK & FITZGERALD, Publishers, 18 A-tin Street, Nw "Vorlz. The Secret Out; OR, 1,000 TRICKS WITH CARDS AND OTHER RECREATIONS. ILLUSTRATED WITH OVER 300 ENGRAVINGS, And containing clear and comprehensive explanations how to perform with ease all the Curious Card Deceptions and Sleigh t-of-Hand Tricks extant. With an endless variety of Entertaining Experiments in Drawing-Room or White Magic, including the Celebrated Science of Second Sight. Together with a choice collection of Intricate and Puzzling Questions, Amusements in Chance, Natural Magic, etc., etc., etc. By the Author cf “The Sociable,” “The Magician’s Own Book,” “Parlor Theatricals,” etc. Large 12mo, Cloth, Gilt Side and Back. Price One Dollar. A Book which explains all the Tricks and Deceptions with Playing Cards, ever known or invented, and gives, besides, a great many new and interesting ones — the whole being described so accurately and carefully, with engravings to illustrate them, than anybody can easily learn how to practice these Tricks. This book contains, in addition to its numerous Card Tricks above described, full and easily understood explanations of some Two Hundred and Forty of the most Curiou?, Amusing & Interesting Sleight-of-Hand & Legerdemain Tricks Ever invented, and which are illustrated by Engravings to make each trick understood with ease. The Magician’s Own Book OR, THE WHOLE ART OF CONJURING. Being a Complete Hand-book of Parlor Magic, containing over One Thousand Optical, Chemical, Mechanical, Magnetical, and Magical Experiments, Amusing Transmutations, Astonishing Sleights and Subtleties, Celebrated Card Deceptions, Ingenious Tricks with Numbers, Curious and Entertaining Puzzles — Together with all the most Noted Tricks of Modern Performers. The whole Illustrated with over 500 "Wood Cuts, And intended as a sohree of Amusement for ONE THOUSAND AND ONE EVENINGS. 12mo, cloth, 400 pages, gilt side and back stamp. PRICE ONE DOLLAR, sent free of postage. I Here is a book for the long winter evenings, and one that will make all merry and | happy. It contains over a THOUSAND TRICKS, of every description ; and the’y are ; all explained so clear and explicitly, that any person can comprehend and perform them ! with ease. It also contains numerous CURIOUS PUZZLES, with patterns showing how they are done, any one of which will afford amusement enough for a whole evening. Copies sent to any address free of Postage. Send Cash Orders to DICK & FITZGERALD, 18 ANN STREET, NEW YORK. THE BOOK OF 1,000 Tales & Amusing Adventures. Containing over 300 Engravings, and 450 pages. Price $1. This is a magnificent book, and is crammed full of the narratives and ad- ventures of travelers, the romantic tales of celebrated warriors, amusing | stories in Natural History, besides a thousand things relating to curious ji ' tricks, entertaining sports, pastimes and games. In this capital work we i: ' have our old friend Peter Parley again, and he tells his stories as well as ;j j ever. This book is worth ten times the price we ask for it. Every Woman Her Own Lawyer: A PRIVATE GUIDE IN ALL MATTERS OE LAW, Of Essential Interest to Women, and by the aid of which every Female may, in whatever situation, understand her Legal Course and Redress, and be her own Legal Adviser ; containing the Laws of the different States rela- tive to Marriage and Divorce, Property in Marriage, Guardians and Wards, Rights in Property of a Wife, Rights of Widows, Arrest of Females for Debt, Alimony, Bigamy, Voluntary Separations, Suits by and against Mar- ried Women, Discarded Wives, Breach of Promise, Deserted Wives, Clan- destine Marriages, Adultery, Dower, Illegitimate Children, Step-Fathers and Step-Children, Seduction, Slander, Minors, Medical Maltreatment, Just Causes for leaving a Husband, A Wife’s Support. Property in Trust, Trans- fers of Property, Deeds of Gift, Annuities, Articles of Separation, False Pretenses in Courtship, &c., &c., &c. By George Bishop. Large 12mo, nearly 400 pages, bound in half leather. Price $1. This book should be in the hands of every woman, young or old, married or single, in the United States. Now-a-davs, especially, when women are be- ginning to be so universally recognized as competent to attend to all sorts of business matters which relate to themselves, such a work is invaluable. It is compiled from the very best and most reliable authorities, and the legal advice, forms, and information it contains, are for all the States of the Union. THE BOOK OK One Thousand Comical Stories ; Ott, ENDLESS REPAST OK FT JKT_ 1 A RICH BANQUET FOR EVERY BAY IN THE YEAR, WITH SEVERAL COURSES, AND A DESSERT. “ Gems of Wit, of Mirth and Fun, Sunbeams shed from Pleasure’s sun ; Joke’s from Laughter’s plenteous store, To set the table in a roar.” j BILL OF FARE : Comprising Tales of Humor, Laughable Anecdotes, Irre- ! sistible Drolleries, Jovial Jokes, Comical Conceits, Puns and Pickings, Quibbles and Queries, Bon Mots and Broadgrins, Oddities, Epigrams, &c., &c.; Merry Songs for Merry Moments; Conundrums for the Million; an -i Inexhaustible Store of Nuts to Crack, and Sports and Pastimes for all Seasons ; forming a Welcome Guest for Spring, a Cheerful Friend for Sum- mer, a Jovial Host for Autumn, a Pleasant Companion for Winter, and a varied Feast of Mirth for Everybody’s Enjoyment. Appropriately Illus- trated with 300 Comic Engravings. By the author of “ Mrs. Partington’s Carpet-Bag of Fun.” Large 12mo, cloth. Price $1. THE LADY’S MANUAL OF FANCY WORK : A COMPLETE INSTRUCTOR IN EYEEY VARIETY OF ORNAMENTAL NEEDLE-WORK. Including Applique, Bead-Work, Berlin-Work, Braiding, Bobbin-Work, Cro- ; chet, Embroidery, Golden Tapestry, Knitting, Knotting, Lace-Work, Muslin-Work, French Embroidery, Netting, Orne-Work, Patch-Work, Point- Lace, Potichomanie, Taps’e D’Auxerre, Tape-Work, Tatting, Transferring, Velvet Balls, Wire- Work, Shading and Coloring, Printers’ Marks, Explan- atory Terms, &c., &c. With a list of materials and hints for their selection ; advice on making up and trimming ; a catalogue of articles suitable for Wedding, Birthday, and New-Year Gifts ; and a glossary of French and German terms used in needle-work, not to be found in any dictionary. The whole being a complete Lexicon of Fancy Needle-Work. By Mrs. Pullan, Editor of the London and Paris Gazette of Fashion, and Director of the Work-Table of Frank Leslie’s Magazine, Illustrated Magazine, &c.,&c. Illustrated with over 300 Engravings, by the best artists, with eight large pattern plates. Elegantly printed in colors, on tinted paper. Large octavo, beautifully bound in line cloth, with gilt side and back stamp. Price $1.25. There is no imaginable species of fancy needle-work, knotting, knitting, netting, lace-work, embroidery, crochet, &c., &c., which may not be found fully illustrated in this volume, and here are complete instructions for the in- experienced, from the pea of one of the ablest of needle-women of the present age. ANECDOTES OF LOVE: Being a True Account of the Most Remarkable Events connected with the History of Love in all Ages, and among all Nations. By Lola Montez, Countess of Landsfeldt. Large 12mo, cloth. Price $1. These romantic and surprising anecdotes really contain all of the most tragic and comic events connected with the history of the tender passion among all nations, and in all ages of the world. It is precisely the kind of book which a man will find it impossible to relinquish until he has read it through from the first to the last chapter. And besides the exciting love his- tories embraced in this volume, it really contains a great deal of valuable historic lore, which is not to be found except by reading through interminable j volumes. The subject of Love is one of those which has deeply interested mankind in all ages. History overflows, therefore, with the romance and reality of Love, which only needs a judicious pen to place them modestly before the mind, to arrest the general attention and admiration. That accomplished lady, Madame Lola Montez, with the tact which belongs peculiarly to the feminine nature, especially when imbued with the necessary information and resources, has seized upon this circumstance with the happiest effect in the volume before us. Her acute perception of the proprieties of language is here as wonderfully exhibited as her delicate taste in selecting those features in the sensation side of love life, which most deserve the immortalization of literarv embalmment. 8 Let those now laugh who Dever laughed before, And those who always laughed now laugh the more." The Harp of a Thousand Strings; OB, LAUGHTER FOR A LIFETIME. Contains more than a Million Laughs, is crowded full of Funny Stories, and is illustrated with over Two Hundred Comical Engravings. Bound in fancy gilt covers, suitable for the library or the center-table. Price $1.25. This curious book combines the elements of fun, pathos, and rare entertain- ment, with the most laughable conceits imaginable — the whole being inter- larded with rich and ludicrous incidents, pertaining to every-day life. In short, if you want something to “ drive away dull care,” this is just it. If you are one whose disposition’s sour, Look at this book — ’twill cure you in an hour ; You’ll laugh so loud, so heartily and jolly, That you’ll forget you e’er was melancholy. The pictures are all original, designed by some of our best artists (including Darley), and the collection of droll conceits and queer stories is unsurpassed, having been several years in preparation. It is a book of nearly four hundred pages, with tinted frontispiece, by Darley. THE DICTIONARY OF LOVE: Containing a Definition of all the Terms used in the History of the Tender Passion, with Rare Quotations from the Ancient and Modern Poets of all Nations ; together with Specimens of curious Model Love-Letters, and many other interesting matters, appertaining to Love, never before pub- lished ; the whole forming a remarkable Text-Book for all Loves, as well as a Complete Guide to Matrimony, and a Companion of Married Life. Trans- lated, in part, from the French, Spanish, German and Italian, with several Original Translations from the Greek and Latin. By Theockatus, Junior. 12mo, gilt side and back. Price $1. The Bordeaux Wine and Liquor Dealers’ Guide : A TREATISE ON THE MANUFACTURE AND ADULTERATION OF LIQUORS. By a Practical Liquor Manufacturer. 12mo, cloth. Price $1.50. In this work not one article in the smallest degree approximating to a poi- son is recommended, and yet the book teaches how Cognac Brandy, Scotch and Irish Whisky, Foreign and Domestic Rum, all kinds of Wines, Cordials, &c., from the choicest to the commonest, can be imitated to that perfection that the best judges cannot dectect the method of manufacture, even by chemi- cal tests of the severest character ! The author, after telling what each liquid is composed of, furnishes a formula for making its exact counterpart — exact in everything ! Each formula is comprehensive — no one can mis- understand it. The ingredients are specifically named, and the quantity ! required of each, distinctly set forth. With this book in his hand, any dealer , j can manufacture his own liauor, at a saving of from 500 to 600 cent. I | JUDGE HALIBUMM’S WORKS. “ Tne writings oi Judge Haliburton have long been regarded as the produc- tion of the finest humorist that has ever attempted the delineation of Yankee character, and these entertaining works before us show that he has lost none of his original wit and humor. It will be difficult to find volumes so full of fun and good sense as those which chronicle the experience of Sam Slick.”— Commercial Advertiser. SAM SLICK’S Sayings and Doings. Since Sam Slick’s first work, he has written nothing so fresh, racy, and gen- uinely humorous as this. Every line of it tells, some way or other — instruc- tively, satirically, jocosely or wittily. Admiration at Sam’s mature talents, and laughter at his droll yarns, con- stantly alternate as with unhalting avidity we peruse this last volume of his. In every page the Clockmaker proves himself the fastest time-killer a- going. We give the titles of some of the articles in this capital work : The Duke of Kent’s Lodge ; Playing a Card ; Behind the Scenes ; The Black Brother ; The Great Unknown ; Snub- bing a Snob ; Patriotism, or, The Two Shears; Too Knowing by Half; Matri- mony; The Wooden Horse; The Bad Shilling ; Trading in Bed ; Knowing the Soundings, or, Polly Coffin’s Sandhole ; An Old Friend with a New Face ; The Unburieu One ; Definition of a Gentle- man ; Looking Up ; The Old Minister ; The Barrel Without Hoops ; Facing a Woman ; The Attache.* THE SAYINGS & DOINGS Of tho Yankee Clockmaker are issued in one elegant volume, neatly bound in muslin. Price $1 00 ; in Paper, 50 cents. Sent Free of Postage. Buy it, and if you don’t laugh, then there is no laugh in you. SAM SLICK IN SEARCH OF A WIFE. Everybody has heard of “ Sam Slick, the Clockmaker,” and he has given his opinion on almost everything. This book ci ntains his opinion about COURTIN THE GALS, And his laughable adventures after tho petticoats. Buy this book if you want many good hearty laughs. There is a book called “ The Horse,” and another “ The Cow,” and “ The Dog,” and so on ; why should’nt there be one on “ The Gals !” They are about the most difficult to choose and to manage of any created critter, and there ain’t any de- pendable directions about pickin’ and choosin’ of them. Is it any wonder then so many fellows get taken in when they go for to swap hearts with them. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents. Cloth, $1 00. SAM SLICK’S Nature and Human Nature. This is the most amusing and witty collection of the Opinions, Sayings, and Doings of the famous Sam Slick, that has been published. It gives the expe- riences of the Yankee Clockmaker, and the incidents that occurred in his jour- neyings over the world, together with his Observations on Men and Things in General ; also containing his Opinions on Matrimony. Paper, 50 cents. Cloth, $1 00 . THE ATTACHE ; OR, SAM SLICK IN ENGLAND. “ Since Sam Slick’s first work, he has written nothing so fresh, racy and genu- inely humorous as this. Every line oi it tells, some way or other— instructive- ly, satirically, jocosely, or wittily.”— London Observer. “We sincerely pity the man who can- not find in it the 'materials for the loosening of several of his coffin nails. It is full of oddity and fun, and must sell like new tomatoes .” — Buffalo Ex- press. Large 12mo. Paper, price 50 cents. Cloth, $1 00. Copies of either of the above popular books sent to any address, free of postage. Send cash orders to DICK & FITZGERALD, Ko. 18 Ann Street, New York. DICK & FITZGERALD’S LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. Judge Halibur ton’s Works. Sam Slick in Search of a Wife. 12mo., Paper - $0 50 Cloth, price 1 00 Everybody has heard of “Sam Slick, the Clockmaker,” and he has given his opinion on almost everything. This book contains his opinion about il Cour- tin the Gals !” and his laughable ad- ventures after the petticoats. Buy this book if you want many good he irty laughs. There is a book called ‘‘The Horse,” and another “The Cow,” and “The Dog,” and so- on j why ... shouldn’t there be one oh ‘"‘The Gals ?” They are about the most difficult to choose and to manage of any created critter, and there aint any dependable directions ahgiLt^|ial|u^aiidM6bASSW’ of them. inriRR < Mnrr m many fellow!?gefl®TOWm go for to swap hearts with them ? Sam Slick’s Nature and Human Nature. Large 12mo., Paper - 50 Cloth .... price 1 00 The Attache ; or, Sam Slick in Eng- land. Large 12mo., Paper - - 50 Cloth price 100 Sam Slick’s Savings and Doings. Paper - - - - - - 60 Cloth ----- price 1 00 This is the most amusing collection of the Opinions, Sayings and Doings of the famous Sam Slick, that has ever been published. It gives the experi- ences of the Yankee Clockmaker, and the incidents that occurred in his jour- neyings over the world, together with his observations on men and things in general; also containing his opinions on Matrimony. Miscellaneous Books. Courtship Made Easy ; or, the Mysteries of Making Love Fully Explained. With specimen Love Letters. Containing also a Treatise on the general qualifications neces- sary for Marriage, and the proper age and condition for Wedlock, &c. By Harry Hazen, Jr., a widower who has been thrice married, but is still young enough to be an especial favorite of the ladies. - - price 13 The Ladies’ Love Oracle ; or, Coun- selor to the Fair Sex. Being a com- plete Fortune Teller and Interpreter to all questions upon the different events and situations of life, but more especially relating to all cir- cumstances connected with Love, ! Courtship and Marriage. By Madam Le Marchand. Illustrated cover, printed in colors. - - price $0 25 Chesterfield’s Art of Letter-writing Simplified. A Guide to Friendly, Affectionate, Polite and Busines Cor- respondence. - - - price 13 Containing a large collection of the most valuable information relative to the Art of Letter- Writing, with clear and complete instructions howto begin and end Correspondence, Rules for Punctuation apd Spelling, &c., together with numerous examples of Letters and Notes on every subject of Episto- lary intercourse, with several Impor- tant Hints on Love Letters. The Laws of Love. A Complete Wmm* 12m °' 25 Containing concise rules for the con- duct of Courtship through its entire progress, aphorisms of love, rules for telling the characters and dispositions of women, remedies for love, and an Epistolary Code. Gamblers’ Tricks with Cards Ex- posed and Explained. By J. H. Green, Reformed Gambler. 12mo. Paper. - - - - price 25 This work contains one hundred tricks with cards, explained, and shows the numerous cheats which Gamblers practice upon their unwary dupes. The uninitiated will stare when they here see how easily they can be swin- dled by dealing, cutting, and shuffling cards. How to Win and How to Woo ; Containing Rules for the Etiquette of Courtship, with directions show- ing how to win the favor of Ladies, how to begin and end a Courtship, and how Love Letters should be written. - - - price 13 Bridal Etiquette; A Sensible Guide to the Etiquette and Observances of the Marriage Ceremonies ; contain- ing complete directions for Bridal Receptions, and the necessary rules for bridesmaids, groomsmen, send- ing cards, &c., &c. - - price 13 How to Behave ; or, The Spirit of Etiquette : A complete guide to Polite Society, for Ladies and Gentle- men ; containing rules for good be- havior at the dinner table, in the parlor, and in the street; with im- portant hints on introduction, and the art of conversation. - price 13 Any Book on this List will be sent to any address in the United States or Canada, Free of Postage. Seqd Cash Orders to DICK & FITZGERALD, 18 Ann St., N. Y. DICK & FITZGERALD’S LIS? The Everlasting Fortune-Teller, and Magnetic Dream Book, price $0 25 Containing the science of foretell- ing events by the Signs of the Zodiac Lists of Lucky and Unlucky Days, with Presages drawn therefrom; the science of Foretelling Events by cards, dice, dominoes, &c. ; the art of Fore- telling Future Events by charms, spells and incantations, to be resorted to at certain seasons of the year, by which dreams, tokens, and other insights into futurity may be obtained, but more particularly with regard to Courtship and Marriage. How to Dress taining hints on colors, the theory complexion, shape or height, &c. This little volume forms a most suit- able companion for the toilet table ; and every lady and gentleman should possess a copy. - - - price Blunders in Behavior Correct. Price $( A concise code of deportment for both sexes. — “It will polish and refine either sex, and is Chesterfield super- seded.” — Home Companion. Five Hundred French Phrases. Adapted for those who aspire to speak and write French correctly. price The phrases here given are selected for their general usefulness, and will greatly assist the learner in his first efforts to converse in French. Nobody should be without a copy of this useful 13 13 on in our Daily Food and Drink. - price A complete analysis of the frauds and deceptions practiced upon articles of consumption, by storekeepers and manufacturers; with full directions to Aatar-t carmine from spurious, by sim- 13 am wc “I shou | the [ tion. Cou vi l m I N; A | tion , mys :. TEN b boo Mo a I I I C BOSTON COLLEGE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY HEIGHTS CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. Books may be kept for two weeks and may be renewed for the same period, unless re- served. Two cents a day is charged for each book kept overtime. I If you cannot find what you want, ask the Librarian who will be glad to help you. J The borrower is responsible for books drawn on his card and for all fines accruing on the same.