ERKELEY >^ BRARY IIVERSI'Y OF lALlFORNlA RECONJ POEMS OF IKELAxXi). EDITED AND ANNOTATED S A M U E L LOVE E, AUTHOK OF •■'candy ANDY," "kORY O'MOEE," ETC. TO "WniCH rs ADDED, LOVER'S JIETRICAL TALES." liih ilumcrous fUuc^rations. WARD, LOCK, AND CO., LONDON: AVAEWICK nOUSE, SALISBURY SQUAPwE, E.C NEW Y01:K: bond STREET LOAN STACK P E E F A C E . 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 of 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 coald not resist, that overcame my reluctance to engage in editorial duty — a duty quite new to me — and if T 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, and having un- dertaken what the judgment of others intrusted 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 jud^^ment be on the other hand, it will conduce the more to her 316 PREFA CE. honour. I will ask it, then, to be remembered, going no further back than the time of Elizabeth, that England, in the fulness of prosperit}^, 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 thos( horrors, deprecating the charge of inefficiency made against th( Eno-lish 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 compete 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 re- cently ; 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- 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— PREFACE. vii but 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, suflBcient for her glory is the name of Thomas Moore. Why, then, fear to meet any poetic rivals in the field ? AVhy 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 sufter, 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 tlie series, which classes the songs under different heads; and tin's created 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 m.y "labour of love" (for such the editing of this book became, after my being some time engaged in it) liad its reward: for, in dis- PREFACE. tributing the contents into sections, I found a remarkable and rather interesting coincidence between the Scottish Songs and the Irish, in three particuhirs — namely, that while in the Look 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 botli pastoral countries, 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 names of Corydon and Amintor to their Sylvias and Daphnes ; kings and queens were represented on canvas as Eudymions and Dianas; while dukes and duchesses took the humbler forms of shepherds and shepherdesses. This was unreal ruralism, whereas the pastoral feeling of both Scot- land and Ireland was genuine, and is manifested not osten- tatiously, but accidentally and naturally, as may befit or illustrate the subject of the lyric ; and as regards the Songs of Ireland, 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 in- herited by their descendants ; and yet we do not find the 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 tlie chase only appears incidentally. Again, I asked myself, "Why is this?" And memory gave me the answer, by calling up be- fore me that charming scene in the Lady of the Lake, where PREFACE. u Douglas on meeting his daughter, who had been anxiously awaiting his return, accounts for his absence by s'\ying — " My child, the chase I fnllowed far: — 'Ti3 mimicry of noble war." And this, I think, is the answer to the question. The Colt 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, ^Vith 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 '* Paile 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, bv Carolan, being very shabbily purloined by W. Shield. " The Mid AVatch,'' by Sheridan, is of the first mark ; Cherry's " Bay of Biscay, ! " achieved great popularity ; " The Boat- man's Hymn " (a translation from the Irish), is full of spirit and 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 lar^^cr, but that the nature of the subject ren- X PREFACE. 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, exemjolifying 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 efifusions of one party ; those of both are given, arranged in succession, according to their date, or, at least, according to the succetision 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 natiu'e of our start in the race of literature, we cannot aflbrd 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 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 PRE I- A CE. xi of the Waters," " The Last Rose of Summer," and scores of others, 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. Xo 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 Xot," by the Honourable Mrs. Norton. Who can say that Ireland is not as srell 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 are adapted to Irish music : Colman's " Savoumeen Deelish," and Campbell's far- famed lyi'ic, "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 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, shillelah?5, 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, arc 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 number are of pure metal ; and xii PREFACE. 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 paraphrase 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 church- man 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, de- scribed 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 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 I 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 PREFACE. on the music, but the words of Irish songs. The complaint, as far as the music goes, lias 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 tliat any people will be prone to believe that a beautiful melody had its birth among them, if editors and publishers will go on tellin*-- them so. "What makes this raore inexcusable is, that Scotland has enough of beautiful songs of her own without wronging other lauds by appropriating theirs; and having al- ready in this 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 sym- xiv PREFACE. piitliy. Tlic use of the Celtic alphabetical character mingled in the text with the Roman 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 Roman 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 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 sympathy : 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. Barnes, London*, January, 1858 PREFACE. XV P.S. — I beg to return tlianks to all friends who aflforded nic assistance in the compilation of the following pages, cither 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 particularise one, W. Chappell, Esq., F.S.A., who, from his extensive knowledge in ballad literature, was enabled to offer me some useful suo-- o gestions, and to him I am indebted for pointing out Duffett's song, "Since Coelia's mj Foe,''* which clears up, definitively, a disputed musical claim between Ireland and Scotland. * Page 3S. COiNTENTS, INTRODUCTIONS TO Page Songs of the Affections 1 Convivial and Comic Songs 7o Moral, Sentimental, and Satirical Songs l-'S Patriotic and Military Songs 1^7 Historical and Political Songs 235 Miscellaneous Songs 305 SONGS AND ODES. A Bumper of Good Liquor Rt. Hon. T.. B. Sheridan 88 Ah Cruel Maid Fd. Hon. R. B. Sheridan 34 ^illeen John Banim 35 Alas ! thou hast no Wings, Oh ! Time Rt. Hon. R. B. Sheridan 179 Annie, Dear Thomas Davis 22 A place in thy Memory, Deraest Gerald Griffin 13 A Prospect Edward Lysayht 298 A Sigh for Knockmany William Carlcton 232 A Soldier to-mght is our Guest Gerald Griffin 226 As panting flics the hunted Hind Oliver Goldsmith 103 A Spinning- Wheel Song J- F. Waller, LL.D. ... 311 ASup of Good Whiskey 1-^3 Avondhu Cailanan C31 Bad Luck to this Marching Charles Lever 206 Banish Sorrow Rirjht Hon. Geo. Oyle ... 123 Barney Brallaghan's Courtship 117 Beauty and Time Samuel Lover 191 'BeN-EirinnI {From the Irish) 21 Boatman's Hymn {From the Frish) 321 Biidget Cruise Carolan 46 Bridget Cruise to Carolan {From the Irish) 48 Bumper, Squire Jones Baron Dairson 114 By Co-lia's Arbour Ft. Hon. R. B. Sheridan 54 xviii CONTEXTS. rago Caitrin, the Daughter of John 330 Can I again that Look recall? Moore 23 Gate of Araglen Domhnall Gleannach G9 Cease, oh, cease to tempt 3Ioore 27 Come, all you pale Lovers Thomas Duffett .. 41 Cormac Oge ^'-^ Could I her Faults remember Bt. Hon. R. B. Sheridan 157 QQ^]in Car oil Mai one 239 Corinua Dean Swift 191 Cruiskin Lawn 131 Cupid's AViug Samuel Lover 178 Cushla ma Chree {From the Irish) 50 Cushla ma Chree Rt- Hon. J. P. Gurran 223 Dance light, for my Heart it lies under yoiuM ^ ^ Waller, LL.D. 187 Feet, Love ) Diirk Rosaleen [From the Irish) 245 Dear Land 301 Ddirdre {From the Irish) 342 Dairdre's Lament for the Sons of Usnach {From the Irish) 344 Deserter's Meditation 320 DrimminDhu {Irish Jacobite Relic) ... 25G Dry be that Tear Rt. Hon. R. B. Sheridan 32 EileenAroon Gerald Grifm 61 Epigram— As Thomas was cudgelled Dean Swift 190 Bpieram on the Busts in Richmond Hermi- i ^ „ .^, ioa ^° > Dean Swift 189 tage ) Epitaph on Dr. Parnell Oliver Goldsmith 160 Epitaph on Edward Purdon Oliver Goldsmith 1 87 Fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland {From the Irish) 209 Farewell Callanan 50 Farewell, Bessy Thomas Moore 9 Forgive, but don't forget Samuel Lover 17 For I am Desolate Gerald Griffin 320 Fragment from the Irish John Dalton {Trans.) ... 51 Fragment from the Greek Thomas Moore {Trans.) 51 From that cold Sod that's o'er you {From the Irish) 29 Garryoweu ^-^ GillemaChree Gerald Griffin 28 Glenfinnishk Joseph O'Leanj 318 Go, Forget me Rev. Charles Wolfe 13 CONTENTS. XIX Page Gougaune Barra CaUanan .... 1()7 Grace Nugent (Jarolan SKJ Grainne Maol and Queen Elizabstli [From, the Irish) 247 Green were the Fields G.N. Reynolds 288 Had I a Heart for Falsehood framed Pd. lion. R. B. Sheridan 4G Had I the Tun which Bacchus used R. A. Milliken 112 Hark ! hark ! the soft Bugle Gerald Griffin 184 Harry's Sword 205 He was famed for Deeds of Arms Andreio Cherry 341 Hope Oliver Goldsmith 174 Hours like those I spent with you CaUanan 19 How oft, Louisa Rt. Hon. R. B. Sheridan 37 Hy-Brasail — the Isle of the Blest Gerald Griffin 1G5 I love ray Love in the Morning Gerald Griffin IG I m a ranting, roving Blade Samuel Lover 128 I ne'er could any Lustre see Sheridan 03 Inspiring Fount of cheering "Wine {From the Irish) 100 It's little for Glory I care Charles Lever — 131 I was the Boy for bewitching them 145 I \vish I might a Rose-bud grow Moore 51 John O'Dwyer of the Glen {From the Irish) 241 Joys that pass away Moore 34 Kate of Garnavilla Edicard Lysaght 176 Kathaleen Xy-Houlalian {Irish Jacobite Relic) ... 2GG Kathleen O'More Geo. Nugent Reynolds ... 20 Katty Mooney Ill King James's Welcome to Ireland 253 Know ye not that lovely River ? Gerald Griffin 175 Lament of the Irish Emigrant Lady Duffer in 6 Larry M' Hale Charles Lever 132 Last AYish Francis Davis 347 Leading the Calves {From the Irish) 33G Leave us a Lock of your Hair J. F. Waller, LL.D. ... 142 Let the Toast pass Rt. Hon. R. B. Sheridan 78 LilliBurlero 254 Lines written on a "Window Pane at Chester... Dean Sicift 192 Loony INIact wolter George Colman 148 Love Not Hon. Mrs. Norton 8 XX CONTENTS. Page Mairgrcad Ni Chealleadh Edioard Walsh 327 Mark'd you her Cheek? Rt. Hon. R. B. Sheridan 185 INIary Draper Charles Lever 134 Mary Le More George Nugent Reynolds 294 ]\Iary of Tipperary Samuel Lover 334 Mauryeen 339 Mild Mable Kelly Carolan 10 Molly Astore Rt. Hon. Geo. Ogle 43 Molly Astore {From the Irish) 64 Molly Bawn Samuel Lover 55 Molly Carew SamuelLover 94 Mother, he's going away SamuelLover 18 Mr. Barney Maguire's Account of the Corona- i ,• > Rev. John Barham 150 My Connor 59 My Friend and Pitcher O'Keefe 96 My Love's the fairest Creature Ladi/ 3forgan 68 My Mother Dear SamuelLover 14 My Native Land 207 My Native Town SamuelLover 195 Ned of the Hvll SamuelLover 324 Now can't you be easy ? Charles Lever 14/ O'Byrne's Bard to the Clans of Wicklow {From the Irish) 227 Ode to the Minstrel O'Connellan {From the Irish) 42 Oh, don't you remember ? Samuel Lover 31 Oh! Erin! John Dalton 213 Oh! once we were illigant People Charles Lever 149 Oh, tell me, sweet Kate Lady Morgan 68 Oh yield. Fair Lids Sheridan 53 O, Judith, my dear {From the Irish) 12 Old Times Gerald Griffin 173 O, Memory Oliver Goldsmith 158 One Bottle more 146 On Mrs. Biddy Floyd Dean Sivift 190 On Eeturning a Ring to a Lady Rt. Hon. J. P. Curran 156 O ! say, my Brown Drimmin {Irish Jacohite Relic) . . . 257 O ! the Days when I was young ! Sheridan 118 Our Island Edward Lysaght 285 Over the Hills and far away {Irish Jacohite Song) ... 264 Paddy the Piper 136 Peggy Browne Carolan 21 cox TEXTS. xxi Page Petrarch's Inkstand ^^iss Edgeicorth 186 Phelira O'Neill Carolan .., 135 Potteen, good Luck to ye, Dear Charles Lever 93 Party Molly Brallaghan ^^ RoisinDubh {From the Irish) 244 EoryO'More Sarauel Lover 108 Savourneen Deelish George Colman 36 See the ripe Fruit John D' Alton 51 Serenade J. J. Callanan 351 Since Ccelia's my Foe Thomas Duffett 38 Sleep on John O'Keefe 15 Sleep, that like the couched Dove Gerald Griffin 181 SmalQou 1^1 Soggarth Aroon Banirn 214 Song— " O'er the clear quiet "Waters " Mrs. S. C. Hall 322 Song of the Streams Mrs. Lfowninrj 317 Song (Thyrsis) Dr. Parnell 192 Songs of our Land '^^-' St. Patrick's Day in my o\ni Parlour J. F. Waller, LL.D. ... 230 St. Patrick was a Gentleman "' Such was the Eye ^'^ Sweet Chloe Lysaght 185 Sweet Seducer Moore 37 Sympathy Mrs. Tighe 57 Terence's Farewell Lady Dv^erin 5 Thady 0*Brady 89 The Angel's Whisper Samuel Lover 24 The Banks of Banna I^t. Hon. George Ogle ... 73 The Banshee's Wail Mrs. Downing 220 The Battle of the Boyne [The later Ballad) 259 The Battle of the Boyne Colonel Blacker 261 The Battle of Dundalk 239 The Bay of Biscay, 01 Andreio Cherry 342 The Be- s of Shandon Rev. Francis Mahony ... 169 The Birth of St. Patrick Samuel Lover 110 The Bivouac Charles Lever 218 The Blackbird 207 The Blarney S.C.Hall 84 The Blarney Samuel Lover 85 The Blush of Morn {From the Irish) 62 The Bowld Sojer Boy Samuel Lover 219 Tlie Boyne "STater {Fragments of old Ballad) 25S xxu CONTENTS. rage The Boys of Kilkenny lOG The Boys of the Irish Brigade Mrs. Gore 217 The Bridcal Wake Gerald Griffin 308 The Burial of Sir John Moore Rev. Charles Wolfe 210 'Tis a Bit of a Thing that a Body may sing 124 The Chain of Gold Samuel Lover 243 The Convict of Clonraell {From the Irish) 310 TheCroppyBoy Caroll Malone 292 The Dawning of the Day 325 The Dear Irish Boy 58 The Deserter's Meditation 320 The Exile of Erin Campbell 289 The Fairy Boy Samuel Lover 58 The Fetch Banim 331 The First Cuckoo in Spring J. F. Waller, LL.D. ... 337 The Flower of Finae Thomas Davis 269 The Forester's Complaint S.Ferguson, M.R.I. A.. 307 The Forging of the Anchor S. Ferguson, M.R.I. A.. 312 The Four-leaved Shamrock Samuel Lover 180 The Girl I love {From the Irish) 12 The Girls of the West Charles Lever 208 The Grave of M'Caura Mrs. Downing 229 The Groves of Blarney R. A. Milliken 79 The Green Spot that blooms Curran 66 The Haunted S])ring Samuel Lover 338 The Hero of Ballinacrazy 140 The Irish Dragoon Charles Lever 204 The Irish Duel 147 The Irish Maiden's Song John Banim 223 The Irishman James Orr 202 The Island of Atlantis Rev. Dr. Croly 164 The Jug of Punch 105 The Lamentation of Hugh Reynolds {Street Ballad) 348 The Land of Potatoes, O ! 92 The Land of the West Samuel Lover 205 The Leaves so Green 323 The Lost Path Thomas Davis 332 The Love -sick Maid 71 The Low-backed Car Samuel Lover 137 The Maiden City Charlotte Elizaheth 250 The Maid of Ballyhaunis {Fromthe Irish) 26 The Man for Galway Charles Lever 141 The Man who led the Yan of the Irish Volun- ) , , , „^ , , > Edward Lysaght 2H The Memory of the Dead 297 cox TEXTS. xxiii Page The Mid-Watch Sheridan 329 Tlie Monks of the Screw Bt. Hon. J. P Ctn-ron... 102 The Mother's Lament Gerald Griffin oO The Mother to her Son Mrs. Doicniiifj 225 The Mountain Dew Samuel Lover 15 TheMghtCap 127 The Xight was still Callanan 26 The Patriot Mother 296 The Picquets are fast retreating, Boys Charles Lever 224 The Plaint of the Exile J. O'Donofjhve 203 The Pope he leads a happy Life Charles Lever 12(3 The Eakes of Mallow 340 The Reconciliation Banirn 300 The Eoad of Life Samuel Loverr 183 The Sea 3Irs. Downing 335 The Shan Tan Vogh (1796) 276 The Shan Tan Tough [Street Ballad) 278 The Siege of Carrickfergus 272 The SUveryLee 171 The Snow Samuel Lover 160 The Soldier Samuel Lover 268 The Song of the Glass John F. Waller. LL.D. 129 The Sprig of Shillelah Edward Lysayht 138 The Town of Passage Father Prout 82 The Triumphs of O'XeiU W. H. Maxwell 216 The Twisting of the Rope [From the Irish) 319 The Wake of the Absent Gerald Griffin 315 The White Cockade [From the Irish) 263 The Wild Geese Lr. Drennan 265 The Wind and the Weathercock Sevnuel Lover 189 The Woman of Three Cows {From the Irish) 103 The Woods of CailHno L.X.F. 161 Thou hast sent me a Flowery Baud Moore 55 Tom Moody Andreio Cherry 340 To the Battle, Men of Erin Campbell 212 49 True Love can ne'er forget Samuel Lover Twelve Articles Dean Swift 190 Up for the Green 280 Tirtue Oliver Goldsmith 172 Toices of the Past Miss Herbert 234 Waiting for the May Clarence Manyan 1S2 xxiv CONTENTS. Page War Song of O'Driscoll Gerald Griffin 205 A\'e Two Sheridan 53 What ])ai(l, O Time, discover Sheridan 179 Wlieu Erin first rose 283 When fill'd with Thoughts of Life's young » ■T) > Gerald Griffi It. 15G AN'hcn lovely Woman stoops to Folly Goldsmith 178 AVhen Sable Niglit Sheridan 07 AVhcn this Old Cap was New S. Ferguson, M.n.I.A.. 221 "\Micn your Beauty appears Dr. Parnell 159 Whiskey, Drink divine ! Joseph O^Leary 109 Why, Liquor of Life ! Carolan 90 Widow ma Chree Samuel Lover 113 Widow Malone Charles Lever 120 Who'er she be, I love her [From the Irish) 332 Willy Eeilly [Provincial Ballad) 349 Would you choose a Friend Gerald Griffin 86 Young Kate of Kilcummer 25 Yovi never bade me hope Gerald G^nffin 52 Young Tyrant of the Bow I ev. Dr. Croly 187 METRICAL TALES. The Fisherman 357 Father Roach 3G4 The Blacksmith 370 The Dew-drop, a Metrical Fantasy 379 The Crooked Stick 389 To Mary 390 The Flooded Hut of the Mississii^pi 391 Nymph of Niagara 392 The Flower of Night 393 The Forsaken 394 Yearning . . 394 Love and Death 3U5 Appendix , 397 Notes 405 ILLUSTRATIOXS. Designed by Eugraved by Tage niuminated Introduction, Songs of the Affec- ) jy^j-i^^i | Dalziel, ) ^ tions ^ ~ ^ Brothers^ 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 in ^ the Morning " ) The Angel's ^Miisper do do. ... 24 Portrait of Pvight Hon. Pvichard Brinsley i 7 S-^ Sheridan i True Love can ne'er forget Phiz do. ... 40 Farewell Dalziel do. ... 5G Sympathy do do. ... 57 Portrait of Et. Hon. John Philpot Curran do do, ... CG Illuminated Introduction to Convivial and i , ^_ > do do. ... iO Comic Songs ) Groves of Blarney do do. ... 79 Cromwell and Ireton at Luncheon Anonymous ... do. ... 80 My Friend and Pitcher Phiz do. ... 00 Reception at the Convent Dalziel do. ... 104 Good-feUowship do do. ... 112 Portrait of Charles Lever do do. ... 120 Toll-free Phi'^ do. ... 137 Illuminated Introduction to jMoral, Scnti- ) ^ . . , , . _„ ,^ ,.. , c. > Dalziel do. ... lo3 mental, and Satirical Songs ) Portrait of Oliver Goldsmith do do. ... 158 The ^Voods of Caillino do do. ... 101 Gougaune Barra do. .. 107 Bells of Shandon, Tailpiece Dalziel do. ... 170 Four-leaved Shamrock do do. ... 180 Petrarch's Inkstand do do. ... 180 Dance light, Tailpiece do do. ... 188 Woman of Tliree Cows HaMson Weir do. IMS xxvi CONTENTS. Designed by Engraved by I'uge \Dalzid Dahicl 197 Illuminated Introduction to Patriotic and Military Songs Biu'ial of Sir John Moore Phiz do. ... 210 Portrait of John Banim Dalzicl do. ... 214 The Bivouac Phiz do. ... 218 The Mother to her Son do do. ... 225 Illuminated Introduction to Historical and » ^ ,.^. , c< \DaJziel do. ... 235 Political Songs j The Forest Ambuscade Phiz do. ... 211 King James at the Gates of Londonderry do do. ... 250 The Soldier do do. ... 2G8 Landing the French Troops at Carrickfergus... Dalziel do. ... 272 Medallion Head of the Eight Hon. Henry ) ^ ,, > do do. ... 274 Grattan ) Colour-grinding do do. ... 286 The Exile of Erin do do. ... 289 The Reconciliation do do. ... 300 Illuminated Introduction to Miscellaneous ) c, > do do. ... 305 Songs I Forging the Anchor do do. ... 312 Riding at Anchor, Tailpiece do do. ... 314 The Stream Harrison Weir do. ... 317 OntheTideTop Dcdzicl do. ... 321 TheMidWatch do do. ... 329 A Tipperary Toilet W.Harvey ... do. ... 334 The Whipper-in Harrison Weir do. ... 340 METRICAL TALES. Designed liy " He cut the strong lashings that held liis rich prize, He was deaf to the calls of his own heart's wild cries."' P. Skclfon ... 357 '• She would gather the flowers from the dark cliff, and pass Round some pebble a primitive tie of wild grass, And, attaching her nosegay, would fling it from high, And the fiow'rs fell on Dermot, as though from the sky," F. Skill 359 " .\nd now, under Heaven, my arm shall bring Thy felon neck to the hempen string ! " P. Skelton ... 3G4 CONTENTS. xxvii Designed by I'ai;e " A search Yov the fire-arms conceal'd, tore up many a perch Of the poor Blacksmith's garden." U. K. Broicne 370 " For the barrel grows red— the charge ignites— Explodes ! — and the guilty Squireen bites The dust where he falls." H.K.Brovme 370 " A dew-drop, once, 'Was touched by the wand In a summer's night, Of a faithless sprite." W, Harvey ,. 378 '• To the desolate earth, But grasses so humble, "Where no lovers remain And brambles so plain,"... W. Horcaj .. 381 " When "Winter his silvery And the fern in the wood, Banner unfurled, And the rush by the stream, "Were sparkling with gems In the morning beam." W. Hici'iry .. 384 " ' My child,' .said the father, ' that dovecot of thine Should enliven our faith in the Mercy Divine.' " P. Skelton ... 301 Tailpiece ^^2 " Oh Cupid !— how sadly grotesque is the view Of white gloves and favours To Death, for his labours, A.nd hat-bands to you 1 ■' K. Meadows 395 ^' V. OVERS are given to Poetry. " — So says '^ -^^ Shakspeare, with that truthfulness Zjl , y J that pervades all his representations of human thought or action, and -with til at pithiness and conciseness that make his sayings so well remembered and so often quoted. JMuch of what can be said in an intro- duction of songs of the affections is expressed in this one short sentence : "Lovers are given to poetry." No wonder then in the abundance of love songs, see- ing that all mankind must love — must pass through that fever of the heart incidental to their existence, and A 2 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. in that fever rave in rhyme ; no "svonder such songs have had a favourable acceptance, seeing that all womankind catch the sweet infection, and, in the fe\er state, would listen to the wildest ravings of the lover with more delight than to the sublimest sen- tences 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 small-pox — it leases 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, sympathise 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 Qgg contains a hidden life, to be revealed only by the fond wings that enfold it, so the heart has a dormant existence within it that we know not of, till the brooding wing of love awakes it. And what a waking ! — " Oh, 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 afi'ects our nature is graciously granted to us — love which, if less dominant and en- trancing 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 tlie "girl of his soul. " Let Moore speak in eloquent evidence. SOXGS OF THE AFFECTIOXS. 3 " Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wihl 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 h'^ar The one-lov'd name." Even among tlie dullest there is hardly one who has not, some tunc or other, inscribed " A woeful 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 shall rule over generations yet nnborn, and that she who awoke and rewarded his lays shall share in his immortality. INIany 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. Yayne 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 wrj-te 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 these Irish love-songs. I have no desire to coax the reader, by a pathway of preliminary praise, into one of those laudatory labyrintlis in which both readers and editors so often lose their way, or, at least, get confused. I believe the following songs are good enough 4 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. not to need any editorial enconium, and I leave the reader to discover and enjoy their beauties, uninfluenced and undisturbed by any re- mark 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 interesting information, or current remark properly belonging to it is given, that I put myself in the reader's way, and then, I hope, not intrusively. TERENCE'S FAREWELL. Lady Dufferin. 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 Eichard 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) th-e authoress of the two following songs. She has written many (though only two are selected here), all of great excellence, but 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 hia 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. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Though England's a beautiful city, Full of illigant boys, oh what then — You wouldn't forget 3''our poor Terence, You'll come back to ould Ireland again. Och, those English ! deceivers by nature. Though maybe you'd think them sincere. They'll say you're a sweet charming creature, But don't you believe them my dear. No, Kathleen, agra!^ don't be minding The flattering speeches they'll make, Just tell them a poor boy 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 back to me, Kathleen, None the better will I be off, then — You'll be 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 bid ye, — Can I talk if ye bother me so 1 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 mornin' 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 lo\e-light in your eye. * My love. SOXGS OF THE AFFECTIOXS, The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the com 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, ^lary, I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest— For I've laid you, darling 1 do^ra to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends, But, oh I they love the better still, The few our Father sends ! And you were all I 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, ^Nlarj^, 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, Marj^, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, Wlien the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it, for my sake I I bless you for the pleasant word. When your heart was sad and sore — Oh 1 I'm thankful you are gone, IMaiy, Where grief can't reach you more ! I'm biddin' you a long farewell, IVIy Marj' — kind and true ! But 111 not forget yon, darling! In the land I'm goin' to ; SONGS OF THE 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. LOVE NOT. Hon. Mrs. Noeton. 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. TuoMAS Moore. Bom, 1779. Died, 1852. In making the record in the line above, I have noted a birth and death the most brilliant 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. S^VEETE.ST love, I'll ne'er forget thee, Time shall only teach my heart Fonder, warmer, to regret thee, Lovely, gentle, as thou art I Farewell, Bessy I We may meet again. 10 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Yes, oh ! yes, again we'll meet, love, And rej^ose 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 from thee, Round 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 MABLE KELLY.* Cauolan. Born, 1670. Died, 1738. Translated by Samuel Ferguson. Turlogh O'Carolan, born at Nobber in the county of Westmeath, maybe 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, whicli bereft him of the use of books, it is surprising 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 wrote about him, that he said " his songs may be compared to those of Pindar, they having the same flight of imagination." Theworks of Carolan, taken altogether, display a wonderful fertility of invention, and, being the last of tte 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, we 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 " Eeliques of Irish Poetry," and another in " Hardiman's Minstrelsy : " but, as in many other instances, Mr. Ferguson's translation is far the beat. SOXGS OF THE AFFECTIOXS. W Whoe\t:r the youth wlio, by heaven's decree, Has liis happy right hand 'neath that bright head of tliine, '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. Mikl :Mable >'i Kelly, bright coolun"^ of curls 1 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 stram 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 Fall 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 de^\-y blue blossom that hangs on the spray, T^Iore blue than her eyes human eye never saw ; Deceit never lurked in its beautiful ray — Dear lady, I drmk to you, daxrdt go braghH To ccaze on her beauty the young hunter lies "Mong the branches that shadow her path in the grove ; But, alas I 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 honour I am. To boast such a theme for a song so unmeet. The lady, thus celebrated, was of the family of Castle Kelly in the county 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 makea 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" Coolun, or ci(i?('n— head of hair. * Coolun, or cKum— neaa oi nair. t Pronounced softly, Slawn-iha' go Ira, meaning " Save you, or health to you fol ever." 12 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 0, JUDITH, MY DEAR 1 From Hardiman's Minstrelsy. Translated from the Irish by Edtvarb Walshe. O, Judith, my dear, 'tis thou that has left me for dead ; 0, Judith, my dear, thou'st stolen all the brain in my head ; O, 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 ! GO ! FORGET ME. Eev. Charles Wolfe. Born, 1791. Died, 1823. Go, forget me — why should sorrow O'er that brow a shadow fling ? 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 thee, That they nothing seem without thee, By that pure and lucid mind Earthly things were too refined. 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 IMEMORY, DEAREST. Gerald Gkiffix. Born, 1803. Died, ISiO. Though the foUo-n-ing 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 ic was not produced on the stage until after his death ; but though he tasted not the triumph of that success, Ills 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 devotedness of affection, delicacy, unselfishness— in short, a chivalrous adoration. A PLACE in thy memory, dearest, Is all that I claim ; To pause, and look back, when thou hearest The sound of my name. Another may woo thee, nearer, Another may win and wear ; 1 care not though he be dearer, If I am remembered there. 14 SOiVGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Remember me — not as a lover Whose hope was cross'd ; AVhose 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 I 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. Hemember me then — 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. Sajiuel Lover, 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. Joax OKeeffe. Born, 1743. Dublin was the birthplace of O'Keefife. The O'KeefiFes, 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 profes- sional painter ; turned actor next, and, finally, dramatist of prolific pen, he having produced forty-nine pieces. He lost his sight in ISOO. Many of his songs are graceful, though never rising to any great excellence ; they were never intended, however, to be more than incidental 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 duhh oh I given in Bunting's "Ancient Music of Ireland." To the same air Moore wrote " Weep on, weep on I " Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen 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 fled, poor Dermot wakes To none but love and thee. THE MOUXTAIX 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 flow'rs are hid, And where bounds the nimble kid. There we wandered both together through the mountain dew I 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 — For a wliile 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 tofjether throucrh the mountain dew 1 I LOVE MY LOVE IN THE MORNING. Gerald Griffin. I LOVE 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 de^vy 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 noon : 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. SO\GS OF THE AFFECTIONS U I love my \o\q 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 higli, I loved her when he rose ; But best of all when evening's sigh Was murmuring at its close. FORGIVE, BUT DOX'T FORGET. From " Songs and Ballads," by Samuel Lover, 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 IVIight sometimes teaze — but ne'er offend; That mirtlif ul friend is sad the wliile : Oh, Jessie ! give a parting smile. Ah ! why should friendship harshly cliide 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 comer in thy heart For absent friend a place might be — All, 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 doiLt 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 parting hour. The lecturer then glanced at the various ways in which the same natural sensations 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 foUowiug one, the contrast of the cottage. B 18 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. MOTHER, HE'S GOING AWAY. Sam Lover. Mother, Now wliat 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. Walking round my bedpost — Oh, mother, he's going away ! SOXGS uF THE AFFECTIOXS. 19 HOURS LIKE THOSE. Callanan. Born, 1795. Died, 18-9. James Joseph Callanan was bora in the county, if not in the city, of Cork. Being destined 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 his 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 possessor 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 fascination, 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 1S29 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 vear. HouES like those I spent with you, 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, v:ilh an amjd's voice, The heart, that knew no joy— rejoice." 20 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Too late we met — too soon we part ; Yet dearer to my soul thou art Than some whose love has grown with years, Smiled with my smile, and wept my tears. Farewell ! but, absent, thou slialt 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 Reynolds. 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 Katlileen 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, ]\Iy 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 boAv'r, It chill'd my poor Kathleen, she droop'd from that hour ; And I lost my poor Kathleen, my OAvn little Kathleen, My Kathleen O'JMore ! The bird of all birds that I love the best Is the robin, that in the churchyard 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. This song is still popular, I believe, in Ireland. It "S'as once extremelv "o. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 21 PEGGY BROWNE.* Cabolan. Translated by Thoma3 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 doA\Ti, Oh ! shield me, and save me, my lov'd Peggy Browne. I dreamt that at evening my footsteps were bound To }on 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 sootliing, sweet maiden, thy accents to hear, For, like wild fairj^ music, they melt on the ear, Thy breast is as fair as the swan's clothed in down ; Oh, peerless, and perfect's my ow^l Peggy Browne. Dear, dear is the bark to its own cherished tree. But dearer, far dearer, is my lov'd one to me :t In my dreams I draw near her, unchecked by a frown, But my arms spread in vain to embrace Peggy Bro^vne. 'BE N-EIRINN I. J 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, 'he n-Eirinn \ I * 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.— xVould'st cull me from the bower. To place me on that breast of snow, Where I should bloom, a wintry flower. 62 sonCjS of the affections. THE GIRL I LOVE. 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, Tlie 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 greon tree- Oh, dear one ! I drink a fond deep health to thee ! YOU NEVER BADE ME HOPE. Gkiffin. You never bade me hope, 'tis true, I asked you not to swear ; But I looked m 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 ! SONGS OF THE ArPECTIOXS. 53 OH YIELD, FAIR LIDS. From an unfinished MS. Drama. Shehid.^n. Oh, yield, fair lids, the treasures of my heart, Release those beams, that make this mansion bright ; From her sweet sense, Slumbei ! though sweet thou art, Begone, and give the air she breathes in light. Or whUe, oh, Sleep ! thou dost those glances liide, Let rosy slumbers still around her play, Sweet as the cherub Innocence enjoy'd. When in thy lap, new-born, in smiles he lay. And thou, oh, Dream I 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, TiU 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 occasiorvally, to confidential friends, "Ah 1 wait tUl my Foresters comes out !" WE TWO. Shekidan. (( We two, each other's only pride, Each other's bliss, each other's guide, Far from the world's unliallow'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 be. To court thy smile and torture me. No proud superior there be seen. But nature's voice shall hail thee, queen. " 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 S0^^GS OP THk AFPECTIONS. BY CCELIA'S ARBOUR. Sheridan. By Coelia's arbour, all the niglit, 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 intrusted 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 intrusted 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 influxerit humor Dicite noil roris sed pluvia hcec lacrimcc." Whether Sheridan was likely to have been a reader of Angerianus is, I think, doubtful — at all events the coincidence is curious."— il/oore's Life of Sheridan, vol. i. p. 50 Now, what is still more "curious," is that Moore, who accuses Sheridan of borrowingi is again (as in his foregoing aongs) a borrower himself, from Sheridan. Let us refer to the following verses. SOJVGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 65 THOU HAST SENT ME A FLOWERY BAND. Moore. Thou hcost sent me a flowery band, And told me 'twas fresh from the field ; Tliat the leav€s 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 aflfection 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 rrom» theos all steal the spark wherever they find it." MOLLY BA^^. Samuel Lover. Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining, All lonely, waiting here for you ? Wliile the stars above are brightly shining, Because they've nothing else to do. The flowers late were open keeping. To tr\' 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 Fd f«teal you, Molly, darling. And then transported I should be. Oh, Molly Ba^vn, etc. FAREWELL. Callanan. Though dcark fate hcatli '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 ; No word was there spoken, But the stifled adieu ; My lips o'er thy cold cheek All raptureless pass'd, *Twas the first time I press'd 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 Now sounds, like a knell ; My fond one — my dear one, For ever — farewell ! SYiVIPATHY. Mrs. TiGHE. Born, 1773. Died, 1810. "Wep.t 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 bid 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, IVIine, alas I were also floAvn. 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 "Pscyhe" exhibits woman's nature in its most beauti- ful form in these verses— only a woman could have written them : a man never could have thought of them. 68 SONGS OP TUB AFFECTIONS. THE FAIRY BOY. Samuel I.over. "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, Wailing 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, Wherefore steal my baby boy ? *' O'er the mountain, through the wild wood, Where his childhood loved to play ; Where 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. Fare 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 find my angel boy ! " THE DEAR IRISH BOY. My Connor, his cheeks are as ruddy as morning, The brightest of pearls do but mimic his teeth ; While nature with ringlets his mild brows adorning. His hair Cupid's bow-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 all day to my dear Irish boy. SO^f7S OF THE 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 mouniuig, The dark-screaming ovrl 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, ttc. The war being over, and he not returned, I fear that some dark envious plot has been laid ; Or that some cruel goddess has liim 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 "dorfc screaming 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 sometliing pleasing in this song. The note of the lark " changed to mourning " is good, and the words are, generally, well suited to yocalisation — a great merit ; the successive ringing of rhymes, too, in the refrain — " Smiling, beguiling, Cheering, endearing." falls plea.santly 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. IMT CONNOR. Ou 1 weary's on money, — and wear\-'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 chrce.* Smiling, beguiling. Cheering, endearing, Oh I dearly I lo\'d him, and he loved me. By each other delighted — And fondly united — My heart's in the grave with my cnsl/la ma chrce. Vein, cr pulse, of my heart. 60 SONGS OF THlL APPnCTJOMS. My Connor was handsome, good-liumoured, 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 chree. 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 ; Not 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. In this song there is more simplicity and greater truth of feeling, than in the fore- going. 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 tho illustration, is a truthful characteristic of a confiding nature. My darling. SOXGS OF THE AFFECTIOXS. CI EILEEN AROON.* Gerald Griffin. When, like the early rose, Eileen aroon ! Beauty in childhood blows ; Eileen aroon ! AMien, like a diadem, Buds blush around the stem, Which is the fairest gem ? Eileen aroon ! Is it the laughing ej^e ? 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 ! Wlien, like the rising day, Eileen aroon ! Love sends his early ray, Eileen aroon ! Wliat 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 ! Far in that valley's sliade, I knew a gentle maid, Flower of the hazel glade, Eileen aroon 1 WTio 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 na/i— 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. 62 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. Dear were her cliarms 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 Far 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 ;" is very ancient and of great beauty. The Scotch claim it under the title of " Hobin Adair ;" 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, Avgust, 1793. Now the Irish air, in its original purity, is as smooth as an unbroken ascending and descending scale can make it; it is anything but the "cursed, cravip, 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 Balfouk. 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 ; SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 63 The swelling breeze, with balmy breath, Wafts fragrance from the purple heath ; And warbling woodlarks seem to say, Sweet Anna 1 'tis the dawn of day ! Ah 1 didst thou Love's soft anguish feel, No sleep thy weaiy eye would seal ; But to the bank 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 ^aceful air in " A General Collection of the Ancient Music of Ireland," bv Edward Bunting. The melody is entitled " The Dawning of the Day ;" but there is another and finer Irish melody of the same name. I NE'ER COULD ANY LUSTRE SEE. SHEBIDAIf. I i^te'er could any lustre see In eyes that could 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, untouclied by art ? I will o^vn 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. G4 SO A us 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 Ealeigh'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 tlie 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 ASTORE.* From the Irish. Translated by S. Ferguson, M.r^ 1 A, Oir, Mary dear — oh, 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. 50.VGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 65 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. AVhere'er my feet have gone, My Mary, one to equal thee I never looked upon : I live in darkness and in doubb Whene'er my love's away^ But were the gracious sun put out, Her shadow would make day. 'Tis she, indeed, young bud of bliss, And gentle as she's fair — Though lily-white her bosom is, And sunny briglit 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 a;?ain. 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, "\>Mien, o'er the strings, it lain would stray ; Deserted steed, and idle brand. All tell me that my love's away. E THE GREEN SPOT THAT BLOOMS ON THE DESERT OF LIFE, Et. 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 SocUU, 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 sudden- ness 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, Avliere you vainly pursued Those phantoms of hope, which tlieir 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 1 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 AFFECTIOXS. 67 Does she love to recall the past moments, so dear, ^\lien the sweet pledge of faith was confidingly given, When the lip spoke the voice of affection sincere, And the vow was exchanged, and recorded in heaven ? Does she wish to re-bind, what already was bound, And draw closer the claims of the friend and the wife ? Tlien make her the pulse of your heart ; for you've found The green spot that blooms on the desert of life. WHEN SABLE NIGHT. Sherida>-. 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 I as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow INIy 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 fcar'd my treach'rous heart might grant him more. Curns, in bis 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'tTrfej's. It begins — ' When sable night, each drooping plant restoring.' The air, if I urde.-stand 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 mom 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, ia but the repetition of Sheridan's idea of "sable night" weeping over herflowtrs. 03 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. OH TELL ME, SWEET KATE. Lady LIorgan. 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. Eeynolds, 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 of the 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 M'Carthy " is among the most freedom-loving and spark- ling of the Irish novelists. Oh tell me, sweet Kate, by what magical art, You seduced ev'iy 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. Oh whence, dangerous girl, was thy sorcery, tell. By which you awaken'd love's tear and love's sigh ? — In thy voice, in thy song, lurks the dangerous spell ? In the blush of thy cheek, or the beam of thine eye ? MY LOVE'S THE FAIREST CREATURE. Lady Morgan. My love's the fairest creature. And round her flutters 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 cuU'd ; Her cheek is like a May rose In dewy freshness newly puU'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. SO.VGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 69 GATE * OF ARAGLEN. Air — "An Cailin Kuadh." These sweet stanzas appeared in "The Spirit of the Nation" under the signature of Domhnall Gleannach, and tlie 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 a<;centuation of the lines, and therefore, to insure his pleasure in enjoying their harmony, I venture to point it out. — Let tlie accent be laid on the fourtli syllable of every line. When first I saw thee, Gate, That summer evening late, Down at tlie orchard gate Of Araglen, I felt I ne'er before Saw one so fair, a-sfor,t I fear'd I'd never more See thee again. I stopp'd and gazed at thee, JMy footfall, luckily Reach'd not thy ear, the' we Stood there so near ; AVliile 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 delight. 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 spelled in the original. Caitlin is the true spelling of the name which m re frequently appears in Anglo-Irish songs as " Kathleen." t Oh, treasure. J Killarney. 70 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. And when some rustling, dear, Fell on thy list'ning ear. You thought your brother near. And nani'd his name, I Cf)uld not answer — though, As luck would have it so, His name and mine, you know, Were both the same — Hearing no answ'ring sound, \()u 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 fled 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 cJirec,"^ 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 kno^vIl A flame 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. SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 71 Thine is my ev'ry tow ! For ever dear, as now ! Queen of my heart be thou ! My Colleen rhu* THE LOVE SICK MAID. The winter it is past, And the summer's come at last, And the smaU birds sing on every tree ; The hearts of those are glad, Whilst mine is verj' sad ; Whilst my true love is absent from mo. I'll put on my cap of black, And fringe about my neck, And rings on my fingers I'll wear ; AlHhis 111 undertake. For true lover's sake. For he rides at the Curragh of Kildare, A livery I'U wear, And I'U comb down my hair, And I'U dress in the velvet so green ; Straightways I wUl repair To the Curragh of Kildare \ And 'tis there I wiU get tidings of him. With patience she did wait. Till they ran for the plate, In thinking young .Johnston to sec ; 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, Wliilst in tears do I spend the whole night. • In the original mo cailin niadh-thsit is to say, "my red girl,' meaning red-haired girl. De gnstilnis, kc. 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." Tlie Scotch ladv who so profoundly admired the late eloquent Doctor Irving, reconciled herself "to his -quint by declaring, "he fjUye.1 na vxair than a mon o' geniui ruld." 72 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. My love is like the sun, That in the firmament doth run, Wliicli 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. And you that are in love, And cannot it remove, For you pitied are by me : Experience makes me know That your heart is full of woe, Since my true love is absent from mo. Farewell my joy and heart. Since you and I 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 "Eoxburgh Collection " (Vol. iii, No. CSO) 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 arc full of woe, A woe that no mortal can cure. A still more remarkable appropriation of an Irisli song may be noticed ia " The Banks of Banna," which follows. ' SO.VGS OF THE AFFECTIOXS. 73 THE BANKS OF BANNA. Et. Hon. George Ogle, Shepherds, I have lost my love, Have you seen my Anna ? Pride of every shady grove Upon the banks of Banna. I for her my home forsook, Near yon misty mountain, Left my flocks, my fnpe, 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 mournhig. Whither has my charmer flown ? Shepherds, tell me whither ? Ah ! woe for me, jjerhaps she's gone, For ever and for ever ! le It is very little short of a ceniiuy since this song was written by Mr. Ogle, to tl beautiful melody generally known as " The Banks of Banna," but whose ancient title is " Down beside me." It is, one may say, notoriously Irish, yet it has been published in Wood's " Songs of Scotland," 1S51, 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, Burns thus writes to ilr. George Thomson : " You are quite right iu inserting the last five in your list, thomjh they are certainly Irish. 'Shepherds, I have lost my love ' (Banks of Banna), is, to me, a heavenly air. TVTiat would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it ?****** Set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow."— £ums to Tficm^on, April, 7, 1793 Here Bums honestly confesses the air (as well as four others Mr. Thomson set down for appropriation) to be Irish. The beauty of the air inspires him with the desire to adapt words to it ; but, he adds, "let the Irish verses follow." Bums did not want to defraud Ireland of any honour to which she was entitled, but 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 mins 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 74 SONGS OF THE AFFECTIONS. George Tliomron was too keen a readier to let his game escape him, so, in 1824, h took a shot at the Irish melody himself, but missed it, decidedly. Here are his lines :— " Dearest Anna grieve not so, Tho' we're doora'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 AVithout 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 Tliose 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 1810, 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, AVhen 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 1824— 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 18-24 was a failure ; but the publisher of 1351 gets over the difficulty fcy ajyproiiriating the Irish song altogether, both words and music. This is Scottish song-making-made-easy, with a vengeance X a country that has a reputation for hiospitality 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 wliich 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 modem t^'iste, 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 i:)eriod of society lias happily gone by, when a man was scarcely considered to It a man until he had learned how to become a beast ; when excessive drinking was looked upon as a social virtue — a thing to be proud of. Addison well remarks in the '* The Spectator " (No. 5G9), " No vices 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 yield- ing, 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 comj^anion for your drinking-bout (a rare case of default), still you must drink ; and, in such a case, a certain Galway gentleman's ingenuitj^ was displayed by " his drinking his rifdit 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 con- vivial 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 degreere deemed the Bacchanalian lyric from what was censurable, not only excluding all that was offensive, but wreathing the wine-cup with some of the briglitest flowers of poesy. What an admirable image is this in the third verse of "One bumj^er at parting," — " How brilliant the sun look'd in sinking ! The waters beneath him how bright ! Oh 1 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 tlien ? 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 : — CONVIVAL AND COMIC SONGS. Tt " Fill the bumper fair I Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of care Smooths away a wrinkle." Tliis is followed up -vrith the brightest invention and most spark- ling wit throughout. Among other witty tilings, asking why we inherit " tlie ennobling thirst from wine's celestial spirit," he says, it chanced upon a day " ^Vhen, as bards inform us, Prometheus stole away The living fires that warm us :" Prometheus having forgotten to bring anytliing with liim to steal the fire 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 speUs to win us : Hence its mighty power O'er that flame within us.' This, I venture to say, is the wittiest Bacchanalian song ever written. With respect to the comic, the choice has also been limited by considerations of truth and propriety. Allusions ha\ang 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 re- presentative 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 coarse 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 wiU regret it ; and wliile those who will tolerate a certain licence of expression for 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. Sheridan. 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 liousewife that's thrifty : Chorus, Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass. Here's to the charmer, whose dimples we prize, Now to the maid who has none, sir, Here's to the girl witli 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, iVnd 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 : GJiorus. 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 " x>iii-t 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 hon vivant of the last cen- tury, 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 jier 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. E. A. ^[iLLiKEX. Born, 17G7. Died, 1315. R. A. Milliken was born in the county of Cork. The late Thomas Crofton 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 school- masters, who delighted in dealing with gods and goddesses and high historic person- ages, and revelled in the " Cambyses vein." " Dick," as Milliken was familiarly called by his friends in Cork, was a most convivial soul, 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 beinj up so early." The groves of Blarney They look so charming, Down by the purling Of sweet silent streams : so CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS, 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 JefTers* 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,t 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 Jefferyes family, t That Blarney Castle was battered is true ; but not by Cromwell, though Cromwell, as the grand lucjgahoo of the Irish songster, is most properly made the assailant of the ill-used Lady Mers. Lord Broghill in reality took the castle in 1646, and a published letter of his exists, dated " Blaimey " CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SOXGS. 81 'Tis there the courtier He may transport her Into some fort, or All under crround. For 'tis there's a cave wlicre ISTo 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 ISicodemus, All standing naked In the open air ! So now to finish 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 " Keliques of Father riout,"— that most diverting divine— an adilitional 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," — wliich it is strange Milliken left unsung, is eulogised, 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 wlioever kisses, Oh ! he never misses To grow eloquent ; 82 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONG'i. 'Tls he may clamber To a lady's chamber, Or become a member Of parliament ; A clever spouter He'll soon turn out, or An out-and-outer, " To be let alone." Don't hope to hinder him, Or to bewilder him, Sure he's a pilgrim From the Blarney stone ! * THE TOWN OF PASSAGE. *• Father Prout." Air, "Groves of Blarney." So great was the popularity of the " Groves of Blarney " (the foregoing), that several Bongs 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 &n 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 t 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. * An English friend of mine was much amused by an answer he received from a peasant at Blarney, when he inquired what was the particular virtue of the Blarney Stone. "Sure, it taiches you policy," says Pat. " AVhat do you mean by policy?" asked my friend. "Why saying one thing, and mayning another." This definition of policy I offer as a tribute to the shade of Talleyrand, and make a present of to diplom- matists in general. t Now called Queenstown, in coramemeration of her Majesty's visit to the noble harbour of Cork. CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. 83 Mud cabins swarm in This place so cliarmin' 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 * Dead sprats and herrings, And oyster-shells ; Nor any lack, oh ! Of good tobacco. Though what is smuggled By far excels. There are ships from Cadi;:, 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 COyriC SONGS. From til' Em 'raid Island, Ne'er to see dry land Until they spy land In sweet Bot'ny Bay."* THE 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 toucliing tales of her country, and sunny and shadowy sketches of its peasantry, have made her name celebrated and admired abroad, and beloved at home. On, 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 liaK afraid, Yet loses no word that her lover can say. What is 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 whisi)ers 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 ! * 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 ; bvit redundancy is better tlian 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 the 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 Muse aaid Justice included. CONVIVIAL AXD COMIC SOXGS. 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 tlirough a ring, The charm will prevent all the ill it can do, And maids have no fear of the Blarney, Nor the peril that lies in the Blarney ! THE BLARNEY. Samuel Lover. Air, " Kate Kearney." Truly the gift of language, to which tradition holds the " Blarney Stone" entitled, eeems not to be 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 a girl thinks you're there — tho' you leave her, And never finds out 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 infiuence 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. T 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 8G CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. all Lord Macaulay says in praise of his rule in Ireland. The song is loo long for, and not worth quotation at length, but I will give as much of it as I think maybe amusing and not inappropriate here. The bard opens with a burst of lament — " Oh ! Blarney Castle, my darling, you're nothin' at all but cowld 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 Sassenachs down ! And you sheltered the Lord of Clancarty who then lived in Dublin town." He then describes " that rohhcr, Ould Cromwell ! " loading a battering-ram xvith 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 hall, And the fellow that married his daughter, a chawing grape-shot in hisjaiv; 'Twas bowld I-R:VY-xon they called him, and he was his brother in law." Further space must not be trespassed upon here in quotation from this wonderful ballad, but if Lord Macaulay should happen, in the course of his researches, to alight upon it, I hope he will use it more tenderly than he does CLAEENDON. WOULD YOU CHOOSE A FRIEND? Griffin. Would you choose a friend 1 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 bad company. COXVJVIAL AXD COMIC SOXGS. 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 sjiarkling eye, The wine god revels cloudilj', Him you must flee ; — 'Tween you and me, That man is very bad company. But he who takes liis wine in measure, Mingling wit with sense and pleasure, "SVho likes good ■nine for the joy it brings. And merrily laughs and gaily sings, With heart and bumper always full, Never maudlin, never dull, Your friend let him be ; — 'TAveen you and me, That man is excellent company. This song, though of a Bacchanalian character, has all the merits of Griffin's reflneJ nature within it. He takes his wine— as he did everything else— like a gentleman. PURTY MOLLY BIIALLAGHAN. 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 character 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 then, ]\Iam dear, did you never hear 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, Its the size of all Dublin, and from Dublin to the Divil'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 the milking time was past and gone, We 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 rowled her in my frize coat, tho' the divil a waistcoat I had on. And my shirt was rather fine-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, Avliat could he mean. Mam? or what would you advise me to? INIust my corduroys to Molly go ? in troth, I'm bother'd what to do. I can't aftbrd 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 for 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, \^ hen I go my long meander, Mam 1 * Oh ! I'll feel myself as valiant as the famous Alexander, Mam, When I hear yiz crying round me "Arrah, Avhy did you die ?" A BUMPER OF GOOD LIQUOR. Sheridan. From the "Duenna." A BUMPER 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 he's mellow. A bumper, &c. * 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 the 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 uUcaii in Ireland, prorvounced xxWcawn, often falsely written and pronounced "hullagone." CONVIVIAL AXD COMIC SOXGS. 89 THADY O'BRADY. Ye lasses and bucks, leave off your sly looks, While I sing of one Tliacly 0"Brady, Who courted INIiss Reilly so snug and so slyly, Determined to make her his lady. But before he'd begin to commit that great sin ^^^lich 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 comer 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 hemngs ciaJore* 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 fire on, A pair of pot hooks, and two little crooks To hang up the salt box and gi-idiron. 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 beetlet 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 tenn of their vitality in England.— Thii fact might open an interesting course of inquiry to the philologist. 90 CONVIVIAL AND 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-«mall metal skillet ; For a lump of fat bacon you'll not be short taken, With some cabbage to put Avliere the meat is, A pair of new brogues, and two osier skillogues * To draw water from off the boiled praties. Some flax and a'rdieel, some wool and a reel, And a besom to keep the house snug, A few buiidles 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. Roar out without any more bother, For an Irishman's pride 'tis, whatever betide, To keep his poor wife in good order. WHY, LIQUOR OF LIFE ! Cajiolan. Translated by John Dalton, M.K.I. A. This Ode to Whiskey, in its way, is amongst the finest things ever written. How eloquent— how inventive — how graphic and suggestive in illustration !— and let me add, in deserved tribute to my esteemed friend, Mr. Dalton — how admirably translated 1 T/ie hard addresses Whiskey : — Why, 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 ! \. * A shallow oval-shaped basket, the use of which the foUb^ing line in the song indi- cates. A sort of rustic colander. CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. 91 Tatter'd and torn you've left my coat, I've not a cravat — to save my throat, Ytit I pardon you all, my sparkling doat 1_ If you'd cheer me again m the morning. Wl I ishe if replies: — AVhen you've heard prayers on Sunday next, "SVith 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 millefaulte."'^ The lard resumes Ms 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 vam, love ! My barley ricks all turn to you — ISIy 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 I— 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, AVhen you smile at me full on the table ; Surely you are my wife and brother I\Iy only child — my father and mother — My outside coat — I have no other 1 Oh ! I'll stand by you— while I am able. If family pride can aught avail, I've the sprightliest kin of all the Gaelt — 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 millefaulU-A hundred thousand welcomes. t CoeZ-The ancient Irish. 92 CONVIVIAL AMD COMIC SONGS. THE LAND OF POTATOES, ! Air, " Morgan Eat tier." If I had on the clear But five hundred a year, 'Tis myself would not fear Without addmg 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, O 1 I'd ne'er to them come, Nor abroad ever roam, But enjoy a sweet home In the land of potatoes, O ! Hospitality, All reality. No formality. There you ever sea ; But free and easy 'TAVOuld so amaze ye. You'd think us all crazy. For dull we never be ! If my friend honest Jack, Would but take a small hack. And just get on his back. And with joy gallop full to us ; He, throughout the whole year, Then should have the best cheer. For taith none so dear As our brother John Bull to us ! And we'd teach him, when there. Both to blunder and sAvear, And our brogue with him share, Which both genteel and neat is, ! And we'd make him so drink, By St. Patrick, I think, _ That he never would shrink From the land of potatoes, ! Hospitality, &c. COXVIVIAL AXD COMIC SOXGS. Thou-h I freely agree I sliould more happy be If some lovely she From Old England would favour me ; For no spot on earth Can more merit bring forth, If with beauty and worth You embellish'd would have her be : Good breeding, good nature, You find in each feature, That nought you've to teach her— ^ So sweet and complete she's, O . Then if Fate would but send Unto me such a friend, What a life would I spend In the Land of potatoes, I Hospitality, &c. 93 POTTEEX, GOOD LUCK TO YE, DEAR. Cha.ei.e3 Lever. Av I was a monarch in state, Like Romulus or Julius Caysar, \Yith the best of fine victuals to eat. And drink like great ^Tebuchadnezzar, A rasher of bacon I'd have, And potatoes the finest was seen, sir : \nd for drink, it's no claret I'd crave, _ ^ But a keg of old Mullen's potteen, sir With the smell of the smoke on it stiU. Thev talk of their Romans of ould, _ Y^liom they say in their own times was fnsky But trust me to keep out the cowld. The Romans* at home here like whiskey. Sure it warms both the head and the heart, It's the soul of all readin' and writm ; It teaches both science and art, ^ And disposes for love or for hghtin . Oh, potteen, good luck to ye, dear. . An a..e.aUon o. -.an Ca^jc^ ^ ^^ -^j ^ ^^X^^r^; m contradishnction to .^f °^ f^^f^^^, ..^ ^ore, man 1 111 prove to ye mine is with a Scotchman, said Ah. don t ^^^«J^^ ^ ^^ to ^e Bir of the Countess 0/ Pembroke, MS. 134 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. MARY DRAPER. Charles Lever. Don't talk to me of London dames, Nor rave about your foreign flames, That never lived — except in drames, Nor shone, except on paper ; I'll sing you 'bout a girl I knew, Who lived in Ballywhackmacrew, And, let me tell you, mighty few Could equal Mary Draper. Her cheeks were red, her eyes were bhTO, Her hair was brown of deepest hue, Her foot was small, and neat to view, Her waist was slight and taper ; Her voice was music to youv ear, A lovely brogue, so rich and clear, Oh, the like I ne'er again shall hear As from sweet Mary Draper. She'd ride a wall, she'd drive a team, Or with a fly she'd whip a stream. Or may be sing you " Rousseau's dream," For nothing could escape her ; I've seen her, too — upon my word — At sixty yards bring down her bird — Oh ! slie charmed all the Forty-tliird ! Did lovely Mary Draper. And, at the spring assizes ball, The junior bar would, one and all. For all her fav'rite dances call, And Harry Deane'" would caper ; Lord Claret Avould then forget his lore ; King's counsel voting law a bore. Were proud to figTire on the floor For love of Mary Draper. * Harry Deane Grady, a distinguished lawyer on the Western Circuit. t Lord Chancellor of Ireland, celebrated for his hatred of Curran. He carried this feeling to the unjust and undignified length of always treating him with disrespect in Court, to the gi-eat injury of Curran's practice. On one occasion, when that eminent man was addressing him, Lord Clare turned to a pet dog beside him on the bench, and gave all the attention to his canine favourite which he should have bestowed on the counsel. Curran suddenly stopped. Lord Clare, observing this, said, "You may go on, Mr. Curran— I'm listening to you." "I beg pardon for my mistake, my Lord," replied Curran. ' ' I stopped, my Lord, because I thought your Lordships were consulting.' CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. 135 The parson, priest, sub-sherifl' too, Were all her slaves, and so would you, If you had only but one view Of such a face or shape, or Her pretty ankles — but, alone. It's only west of old Athlone Such girls were found — and now they're gone - So, here's to ]Mary Draper 1 PHELIM O'NEILE. Caeolan. Translated by Thomas Ftjkloxo. At length thy bard is steering. To find thy gay hearth again ; Thy hand, thy voice so cheering. Still soothes him in grief or pain : Thy sires have shone in stor}". Their fame with friendly pride we hail ; But a milder, gentler, glory Is thine, my belov'd O'Neile 1 Still cheerful have I found thee, All changless in word or tone ; Still free when friends were round thee, And free with thy bard alone ; Fill up the bowls — be drinking — "Tis cheering still, in woe or weal ; Come pledge with lips unslu-inking, The dear the belov'd O'Neile ! Of blameless joy the centre, Thy home thro' eacli niglit hath been, There might the wanderer enter, And there the blind bard was seen ; There wit and sport came blended In careless song or merry tale ; But let thy praise be ended — Who loves not my lov'd O'Neile » " Time has not handed down any particulars of Phelim O'Neile, here commemorated, except that he was descended from that powerful family which so long ruled Ireland with sovereign sway. The violent commotions of the seventeenth century struck to tlio topmost liranch of tlii.1 great Milesian ixtz." —Uardlman s Mimtvelsy. K{6 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS, PADDY THE PIPER. When I was a boy in my father's mud edifice, Tender and bare as a pig in a stye, Out of the door as I look'cl with a steady phiz. Who but Pat Murphy, the piper, came by I Says Paddy " But few j^lay This music — can you play ? " Says I, " I can't tell, for I never did try." He told me that he had a charm To make the pipes prettily speak ; So he squeez'd a bag under his arm, And sweetly they set up a squeak. With my farala, larala-la ; Oh hone, how he handled the drone, And then such sweet music he blew — 'Twould have melted the heart of a stono. " Your pipe," says I, " Paddy, so neatly comes over me, Naked I'll wander wherever it bloAvs And if that my father should try to discover me. Sure it won't be by describing my clothes ! For the music I hear now, Takes hold of my ear now. And leads me all over the world by the nose." So I followed the bagpipes so sweet, And sung as I leap'd like a frog, *' Adieu to my family seat. So pleasantly plac'd in a bog.'' With my, &c. Full five years I followed him, nothing could sunder us, Till he one morning had taken a sup. And slipp'd from a bridge in a river, right under us. Souse to the bottom, just like a blind pup : I roar'd and I bawl'd out And lustily called out, " Oh, Paddy, my jew'l ! don't you mean to come up ?" He was dead as a nail in a door. Poor Paddy was laid on a shelf. So I took up his pipes on the shore, And now I've set up for myself. With my farala, larala-la ; Ocli, may be I haven't the knack To play farala, larala-la. Aye, and bubberoo, dideroo, whack. This was a popular song some half-century ago, and I have heard that it was a favourita one among those of the once-celebrated "Jack Johnson," or, as he was often called, " Irish Johnson." THE LOW-BACKED CAR. Samuel Lover. From " Songs and Ballads." V/iiEN first I saw sweet Peggy, 'Twas on a market day, A low-backed car she di'ove, and sat Upon a truss of hay ; But when that hay was blooming grass, And decked with flowers of Sjjring. No flow'r was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-backed car — The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll, But just rubbed his owld poll And looked after the low-backed car. In battle's wild commotion, The proud and miglity Mars, With hostile scythes, demands his tithes Of death — in warlike cars ; Wliile Pegg}', peaceful goddess. Has darts in her bright eye, That knock men down, in the market town, As right and left tliey fly — 138 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. While she sits in her low-backed car, Than battle more dangerous far — For the doctor's art Cannot cure the heart That is hit from that low-backed car. Sweet Peggy, round her car, sir. Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far out-number these ; While she among her poultry sits, Just like a turtle dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming god of love ! While she sits in her low-backed car. The lovers come near and far. And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin'. As she sits in the low-backed car. 0, I'd rather own that car, sir. With Peggy by my side, Than a coach-and-four and goold cialon And a lady for my bride ; For the lady would sit foreninstf me, On a cushion made with taste, While Peggy would sit beside me With my arm around her waist — While we drove in the low-backed car, To be married by Father Maher,t Oh, my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh — Though it beat in a low-backed car. THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH. Edward Lysaght. Oh ! love is the soul of a neat Irishman, He loves all that is lovely, loves all that he can, With his sprig of Shillelah and shamrock so green ! * In plenty. t Before. t In defence of my rhyme, I must tell English readers that this name is pronounced as if written, Mar. CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS, 133 His heart is good-humoured, 'tis honest and sound, No en\y or malice is there to be found ; He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights, For love, all for love, for in that he delights, "With his sprig of Shillelah and shamrock so gvcf.i I AVho has e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook Fair ? An Irishman, all in his glory, is there, "NVith his sprig of Shillelah and shanu'ock so grec:\ I His clothes spick and span ne\v, without e'er a speck, A neat Barcelona tied round his white neck ; He goes to a tent, and he spends half-a-cro"\vn. He meets with a friend, and for love knocks liim dowr.. With his sprig of Shillelah and shamrock so green 1 At evening returning, as homeward he goes, His heart soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows, From a sprig of Shillelah and shamrock so green ! He meets with his Sheelah, who frowning a smile. Cries, "Get ye gone, Pat," yet consents all the while. To the priest soon they go, and nine months after that, A baby cries out " How d'ye do, father Pat, With your sprig of Shillelah and shamrock so green ? " Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak, and its neighbouring earth. Where grow the Shillelah and shamrock so green ! ;May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon, Drub the foes who dare plant on our confines a cannon ; United and happy, at Loyalty's shrine. May the Pose and the Thistle long flourish and twine Pound the sprig of Shillelah and shamrr)ck so gi'een I This song was once verj- popular ; and Sir Jonah Barrington, in his amusing " Per- sonal Sketches of His Own Times," thinks it worthy of this especial notice : — "It is admirably and truly descriptive of the low Irish character, and never was that class so well depicted in so few words." This praise the song certainly does not deserve. It is based rather on the conventional Irish songs of the time, than drawn from life — but, as having enjoyed a certain reputation, within the memory of the living, it must appear in a national collection of this present time. But there are many in this volume more comic, more witty, and more Irish in every respect; and it is pleasing to find that the true comic character of the Irish people has been, since Lysaght's time, much better given, and much better received. As Mr. Lysaght elsewhere gets full credit for his merits, there ia the less hesitation in saying, here, that this song is not worthy of his reputation. 140 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. THE HERO OF BALLINACRAZY. When I lived in sweet Ballinacrazy, dear, The girls "vvere all bright as a daisy, dear ; When I gave them a smack, they whispered, good lack ! And cried, Paddy, now can't you be aisy, dear. First I married Miss Dolly O'Daisy, dear. She had two swivel eyes, wore a jazey, dear ; Then to fat Miss Malone, weighing seventeen stone ; Then to lanthorn-jaw'd skinny O' Crazy, dear. Then I married Miss Dorothy Taisy, dear, A toast once in Ballinacrazy, dear ; Her left leg was good, but its fellow was wood, And she hopped like a duck round a daisy, dear. Then I married her sister. Miss Taisy, dear. But she turned out so idle and lazy, dear ; That I took from the peg my deceased lady's leg, For to leather the live one when lazy, dear. Then I picked up rich old Mother Hazy, dear, She'd a cough, and employ'd Dr. Blazy, dear, But some drops that he gave dropp'd her into her grave, And her cash very soon made me aisy, dear. Then says I to old Father O'Mazy, dear, " Don't my weddings and funerals plase ye, dear ? '^ Oh !" says he, "you blackguard, betwixt church and church- yard. Sure, you never will let me be aisy, dear." t( Oh, ladies, I live but to plase ye, dear, I'm the hero of Ballinacrazy, dear ; I'll marry you all, lean, fat, short, and tall, One after the other to j)lase ye, dear. The name of the author of this lively lyric is unknown to fame. "What a capacity for matrimony he invests his hero with ! Such a fellow must have died of enlargement of the heart. Moore, in one of his early lyrics, says — " I'm going to toast ev'ry nymph of my soul to you. And, on my soul, I'm in love with them all ! " But the Ballinacrazy lad goes far beyond— he marries them all. Colman, in "Blue- beard," makes Ibrahim say, " Praise be to the wholesome law of Mahomet, which Btinted a Turk to four at a time ; " Ballinacrazy outdoes Constantinople and the Grand Signior. This fellow was not on the best terms with his wives either ; matri- COSVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. 141 mony, with him, seems to have been a sort of domestic "war of succession." He appears somewhat in the predicament of that man brought up before the magistrate on a charge of pol.vgamy, who, when asked by his worship what could have induced him to marry so many women, replied that " he was looking for a good one, and didn't find her after all." THE MAN FOR GALWAY. Chables Lever. To drink a toast, A proctor roast, Or bailiff, as tlie case is ; To kiss your wife. Or take your life At ten or fifteen paces ; To keep game cocks, to hunt the fox, To drink in punch the Solway, With debts galore, but fun far more ; Oh, that's "the man for Gahvay.'' With debts, &c. The King of Oude Is mighty proud. And so were onest the Caysars ; But ould Giles Eyre Would make them stare, Av he had them with the Blazers.* To the divil I fling ould Runjeet Sing, He's only a prince in a small way. And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall ; Oh, he'd never " do for Gal way." With debts, &c. Ye think the Blakes Are no "great shakes ;" They're all his blood relations ; And the Bodkins sneeze At the grim Chinese, For they come from the Phenaycians. So fill to the brim, and here's to him Who'd drink in punch the Solway ; With debts galore, but fun far more ; Oh ! that's "the man for Galway." With debts, &c. • This generally implies the arbitrement of the "duello," blazers being a figurative term for pistols ; but in the present case, if I remember rightly, the Blaztrs allude to a very break-neck pack of hounds, so called. 142 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. LEAVE US A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR. J. F. Waller, LL.D. Air—" The Low-Backed Car." ' ' The night is fresh and clear, love, The birds are in their bowers, And the holy light Of the moon falls bright On the beautiful sleeping flowers. Oh ! Nora, are you waking ? Or don't you hear me spaking? You know my heart is breaking For the love of you, Nora dear. Ah ! why don't you speak, Mavrone ! Sure I think that you're made of stone. Just like Venus of old, All so white and so cold, But no morsel of flesh or bone. " There's not a soul astir, love. No sound falls on the ear, But that rogue of a breeze That's whispering the trees Till they tremble all through with fear Ah ! them happy flowers that's creeping To your window where you're sleeping, Sure they're not chid for peeping At your beauties, my Nora dear. \ ou've the heart of a Turk, by my sowly To leave me perched here like an owl : 'Tis treatment too bad For a true-hearted lad, To be sarved like a desolate fowl. *' You know the vow you made, love — You know we fixed the day ; And here I'm now To claim that vow. And carry my bride away ; So, Nora, don't be staying For weeping, or for praying — There's danger in delaying — Sure maybe I'd change my mmd ; For you know I'm a bit of a rake. And a trifle might tempt me to break— ^ Faix, but for your blue eye, I've a notion to try What a sort of ould maid you'd make. " CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. 143 '' Oil I Demiot, win me not, love, To be your bride to-night : How could I bear A mother's tear, A father's scorn and slight ? So Dermot cease your sueing — Don't work your Nora's ruin, 'Twould be my sore undoing. If you're found at my window, dear, " " Ah ! for shame with your foolish alarms — Just drop into your own Dermot's arms : Don't mind looking at all For your cloak or shawl — They were made but to smother your charms. " And now a dark cloud rising Across the moon is cast, The lattice opes. And anxious hopes Make Dermot's heart beat fast : And soon a form entrancing, — With arms and fair neck glancing, — Half shrinking, half advancing, Steps light on the lattice sill ; ^Vhen — a terrible arm in the air Clutched the head of the lover all bare, And a voice with a scoff, Cried, as Dermot made off, *' Won't you leave rs a lock of your hair ?" A SUP OF GOOD WHISKEY. A SUP of good whiskey will make you glad ; Too much of the creatur' will make you mad ; If you take it in reason, 'twill make you wise ; If you drink to excess, it will close up your eyes : Yet father and mother, And sister and brother, Tliey aU take a sup in their turn. Some preachers will tell you that whiskey is bad ; I think so too, — if there's none to be had ; Teetotalers bid you drink none at all ; But, while I can get it, a fig for them all : Both layman and brother, In spite of this pother, Will all take a sup in their turn. 144 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. Some doctors will tell you, 'twill hurt your healtli : The justice will say, 'twill reduce your wealth ; Physicians and lawyers both do agree, When your money's all gone, they can get no fee. Yet surgeon and doctor, And lawyer and proctor, Will all take a sup in their turn. If a soldier is drunk on his duty found, He to the three-legged horse is bound, In the face of his regiment obliged to strip ; But a noggin will soften the nine-tailed whip, For sergeant and drummer, And likewise His Honour, Will all take a sup in their turn. The Turks who arrived from the Porte sublime, All told us that drinking was held a great crime ? Yet, after their dinner away they slunk, And tippled so sly till they got quite drunk. For Sultan and Crommet, And likewise Mahomet, They all take a sup in their turn. The Quakers will bid you from drink abstain, By yea and by nay they will make it plain ; But some of the broad-brims will get the stufF, And tipple away till they've tippled enough. For Stiff-back and Steady, And Solomon's lady, Will all take a sup in their turn. The Germans do say they can drink the most. The French and Italians also do boast : Ould Ireland's the country (for all their noiso) For generous drinking and hearty boys. There each jovial fellow Will drink till he's mellow, And take off his glass in his turn. COXriVIAL AND COMIC SOXGS. 145 1 WAS THE BOY FOR BEWITCHING THEM- I WAS the boy for bewitching them, A\niether good-humour'd or coy ; All cried, when I was beseeching them, " Do what you will with me, joy." *' Daughters be cautious and steady," i\ [others would cry out for fear — *' Won't you take care now of Teddy, Oh ! he's the divil, my dear." For I was the boy for bewitching them, Wliether good-humour'd or coy ; All cried when I was beseeching them, " Do what you will with me, joy." From every quarter I gather'd them, Very few rivals had I ; If I found any I leather'd them, And that made them look mighty shy. Pat ]\Iooney, my Shelah once meeting, I twigg'd him beginning his clack — Says he " at my heart I've a beating," Says I "then have one at your back." For I was the boy, &c. Many a lass that would fly away When other wooers but spoke, Once if I looked her a die-away There was an end of the joke. Beauties, no matter how cruel, Hundreds of lads though they'd cross'd, When I came nigh to them, jewel. They melted like mud in the frost. For I was the boy, &c. NOW CAN'T YOU BE AISY? Charles Lever. From " Charles O'Malley." Air—" Arrah, Katty, now can't you be aisy?" Oh 1 what stories I'll tell when my sodgering's o'er. And the gallant fourteenth is disbanded ; Not a drill nor parade will I hear of no more, When safely in Ireland landed. With the blood that I spilt— the Frenchmen I kilt, I'll drive all the girls half crazy ; And some 'cute one will cry, witli a wink of lier eye, *' Mr. Free, now— why cau't you be aisy ? " l46 CONVIVIAL ANb COMIC SONGS. I'll tell how we routed the squadrons in fight, And destroyed them all at ' ' Talavera, " And then I'll just add how we finished the night, In learning to dance the ' ' Bolera ; " How by the moonshine we drank raal wine, And rose next day fresh as a daisy ; Then some one will ciy, with a look mighty sly, " Arrah, Mickey — now can't you be aisy ? " I'll tell how the nights with Sir Arthur we spent, Around a big fire in the air too, Or maybe enjoying ourselves in a tent, Exactly like Donnybrook fair too ; How he'd call out to me — "Pass the wine, Mr. Free, For you're a man never is lazy ! '' Then some one will cry, with a wink of her eye, *' Arrah, Mickey dear— can't you be aisy ?" I'll tell, too, the long years in fighting we passed. Till Mounseer asked Bony to lead him ; And Sir Arthur, grown tired of glory at last, Begged of one Mickey Free to succeed him. But, " acushla," says I, " the truth is, I'm shy ! There's a lady in Ballynacrazy ! And I swore on the book — " she gave me a look, And cried, " Mickey — now can't you be aisy ?" ONE BOTTLE MORE. Assist me, ye lads, who have hearts void of guile, To sing out the praises of ould Ireland's isle ; Where true hospitality opens the door, And friendship detains us for one bottle more — One bottle more, arrah, one bottle more ; And friendship detains us for one bottle more. Old England, your taunts on our country forbear ; With our bulls and our brogues we are true and sincere ; For if but one bottle remains in our store, We have generous hearts to givt» that bottle more. One bottle more, &o. At Candy's, in Church-street, I'll sing of a iet Of six Irish blades who together had met ; Four bottles a-piece made us call for our score. And nothing remain'd but just one bottle more One bottle more, &c. CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. 147 Our bill being paid, we were loth to depart, For friendship had grappled each man by the heart, Where the least touch, you know, makes an Irishman roar, — And the whack from shillelah brought six bottles more. Six bottles more, &c. Swift Phcebus now shone through our window so bright, Quite happy to view his glad cliildren of light ; So we parted with hearts neither sorry nor sore. Resolving next night to drink twelve bottles more. Twelve bottles more, &c. I have reason to believe this song to be the best part of a hundred years, if not quite a century old. It belongs to the deep-drinking days of our grandfathers. THE IRISH DUEL. Potatoes grow at Limerick, and beef at Ballymore, And buttermilk is beautiful — but that you knew before ; And Irislimen love pretty girls, and none could love more true Than little Paddy Whackmacrack lov'd Kate O'Donohoe, ^yith his fal de ral, fal de ral, de ral de ral, de ra. Now Katty was as neat a lass as ever tripp'd the sod, And Paddy bore with equal grace a musket or a hod ; With trowel and with bayonet, by turns the hero chose, To build up houses for his friends, and then to charge his foes, With his fal de ral, &c. Wlien gentlepeople fall in love, Love's never at a loss To find some ugly customers their happiness to cross ; And Paddy, too, some trouble found, all from a rival swain, Who kept the Cat and Cucumber in Cauliflower-lane ; With his fal de ral, &c. Tliis youth was named Mackirkincroft, a very dapper elf, Whose clothes they fitted nately, for he made them all himself : A tailor blade he was by trade, of natty boys the broth. Because he always cut his coat according to his cloth. With his fal de ral, &c. But Paddy knew the feelings of a gintleman it hurts, To find another ungenteelly sticking to his skirts ; So sent a challenge without fear ; for though he was not rich, He call'd liiinself a gintleman, and still behav'd us sich. With his fal de ral, i.\^c. 148 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. INIackirky, too, good manners kneAv, for lie, as it appears, To Paddy wrote for leave that he might cut off both his ears ! Says Pat to that, in style polite, as well you may suppose, " My ears you're veiy welcome to, but first I'll pull your nose.' With his fal de ral, &c. The when and where were settled fair, when Pat, as bold as brass, Cried, " you know what we fight about ; " Mackirky cried, "a- las!" And then in haste, and not to waste such very precious time, One prim'd without a loading, t'other loaded without prime. With his fal de ral, &c. Then back to back they stood, good lack, to measure yards a score ; Mackirkincroft such honest measure never gave before ; He walk'd so light, that out of sight full fairly he was seen, And Paddy shot a finger-post some half-a-mile between. With his fal de ral, &c. Now Pat and Kate, soon after that, in wedlock's bands were johi'd, Mackirky he kept walking on and never look'd behind ; And, till this day, his ghost, they say (for he of love expir'd), Keeps walking round the finger-post at wliich bold Paddy fired. With his fal de ral, &c. LOONEY MACTWOLTER. from the farce of " The Review." George Colman, " the younger." Oh, whack ! Cupid's a manikin : Smack on the back he hit me a poulter ; Good luck ! Judy O 'Flanagan, Dearly she loves nate Looney Mactwolter, Judy's my darling, my kisses she suffers. She's an heiress, that's clear, For her fattier sells beer ; He keeps the sign of the Cow and the Snuffers. Oh ! she's so smart, From my heart I can't bolt her ! Oh, whack ! Judy O 'Flanagan ; She is the girl for Looney Mactwolter. Ochone ! good news, I need a bit ; We'd correspond, but learning would choke her 1 Mavrone ! I cannot read a bit ; And Judy can't tell a pen from a poker. CONVIVIAL AXD COMIC SONGS. 149 Judy's so constant I'll never forsake her I She's as true as the moon, Only one afternoon I caught her a coorting a humpback'd shoemaker, Oh ! she's so smart, From my heart I can't bolt her ; Oh, whack ! Judy OTlanagan ; She is the girl for Looney INIactwolter. Here is one of the many stage songs made for that extraordinary caricature, the stage Irishman, by one not " native to the manner born." With all Colman's talent, he makes poor work of the character of an Irishman, or of an Irish song— always excepting his song of "Savoumeen Deelish" (given in this collection); but, in that, he does not attempt peculiarity of national character, or national idiom ; and confining himself, merely, to the expression of natural emotion, he produced a song of great excellence. OH ! ONCE WE WERE ILLIGANT PEOPLE. From " Charles O'Malley," by Charles Levek. Oh I once we were illigant people, Though we now live in cabins of mud ; And the land that you see from the steeple Belonged to us all from the flood. My father was then king of Connaught, JNIy grandaunt viceroy of Tralee ; But the Sassenach came, and, signs on it ! The divil an acre have we. The least of us then were all earls, And jewels we wore without name ; We drank punch out of rubies and pearls — Mr. Petrie* can tell you the same. But, except some turf mould and potatoes, There's notliing our own we can call : And the English — back luck to them ! — hate us, Because we've more fun than them all It • Now Dr. Petrie. The song was written by my esteemed friend, the author, before my other esteemed friend, the distinguished antiquary alluded to, had the academic honour of LL.D. appended to his name— a name which has laid the alphabet under many more contributions of the same sort. t This is a capital idea, and most characteristic of the queer fellow that utters it. Mister " Mickey Free," J to whose acquaintance I would recommend the reader— i/ there be any who does not know him already. For my own part I will add a wish that all the rivalries between the sister isles, for the future, may be in the pursit of happiness —in obtaining what shall give cause to laugh the most. \ Vide " Charles O'Malley." ir,0 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. My grandaunt was niece to St. Kevin, That's the reason my name's Mickey Free 1 Priest's nieces — but sure he's in heaven, And his failins is nothin' to me. And we still might get on Avithout doctors. If they'd let the ould island alone ; And if purplemen, priests, and tithe-proctors Were crammed down the great gun of Athlone. MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT of the CORONATION.^ Air — " The Groves of Blarney." OcH ! the Coronation ! what celebration For emulation can with it compare % When to Westminster the Royal Spinster, And the Duke of Leinster, all did repair ! 'Twas there you'd see the New Polishemen Making a scrimmage at half -after four, And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O'Gradya All standing round before the abbey door. Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning. Themselves adorning, all by candle-light. With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies. And goold, and jewels, and rich di'monds bright. And then approaches five hundred coaches. With General Dullbeak.— Och ! 'twas mighty fine. To see how aisy bould Corporal Casey, With his swoord drawn, prancing, made them keep the line. Then the Gun's alarums, and the King of Arums, All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes. Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors, The Prince of Potboys and great haythen Jews : 'Twould have made them crazy to see Esterhazy, All jewels from his jasey to his di'mond boots, With Alderman Harmer, and that sweet charmer, The female heiress, Miss Anja-ly Coutts. And Wellington walking with his swoord drawn, talking To Hill and Hardinge, heroes of great fame ; And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey (They call'd him Sowlt afore he changed his name), Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair, And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello, The Queen of Portingal's Chargy-de-fair. * From " The Ingoldsby Legends. CONVIVIAL AXD COMIC SONGS. 151 Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Russians, In fine laced jackets with their goolden cuff's, And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians, And Eveiythingarians all in furs and muffs. Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays the Quaker, All in the Gallery you might persave ; But Lord Brougham was missin', and gone a fishin', Only crass Lord Essex would not give him lave. There was Baron Alten himself exaltin', And Prince Von Swartzenberg, and many more, Och ! I'd be bother'd and entirely smother'd To tell the half of 'em was to the fore ; With the sweet Peeresses, in their crowms and dresses. And Aldermanesses, and the Board of Works ; But Mehemet Ali said, quite ginteelly, "I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks ! " Tlien the Queen, Heaven bless her 1 — och ! they did dress hei In her purple garmints, and her goolden Crown ; Like Yenus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby, With eight young ladies houlding up her gown. Sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar The big drums bating and the trumpets blow, And Sir George Smart ! Oh ! he played a Consarto, With liis four-and-twenty fiddlers all in a row 1 Tlien the Lord Archbishop held a goolden dish up, For to resave her bounty and great wealth. Saying, " Plase your Glory, great Queen Yict-ory I Ye'U give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health ! " Tlien his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating, " Boys 1 Here's your Queen 1 deny it if you can 1 And if any bould traitor, or infarior craythur. Sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man ! " Then the Nobles kneeling to the Powers appealing, "Heaven send your ^Majesty a glorious reign I " And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her. All in his scarlet gown and goolden chain. The great Lord May'r, too, sat in his chair, too, But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry, For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry Throwing the thirteens, hit him in the eye. Then there was preachin', and good store of speechin', With Dukes and INIarquises on bonded knee ; And they did splash her with raal Macasshur, And the Queen said, " Ah I then, thank ye all for me I '' 1.-2 CONVIVIAL AND COMIC SONGS. Then the trumpets brayin', and the organ playin', And sweet trombones with their silver tones, But Lord Rollo was rolling — 'twas mighty consoling To think his Lordsliip did not break his bones. Then the crames and custhard, and the beef and mustliard, All on the tombstones like a poultherer s shop, With lobsthers and Avhite-bait, and other sweet-mate, And wine, and nagus, and Impayrial Pop 1 There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels, With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears ; Och ! the Count Von StrogonofF, sure he got prog enough, The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs. Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd, Crying, "God save Victoria, our Royal Queen ! " Och ! if myseK should live to be a hundred, Sure it's the proudest day I've ever seen ! And now I've ended, what I pretended, This narration splendid in sAveet poe-tliry, Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher, Faith, its myself that's getting mighty dhry ! This admirable imitation of an Irish rigmarole, after the manner of " The Groves ol Blarney," is from the pen of a distinguished Englishman, the late Kev. John Earham, whose facility of rhyming reminds one of that great master of rhymes, Butler. The " Ingoldsby Legends," whence the above is extracted, abound not only with rhymes of equal and even superior merit ; but with strange odds and ends of queer information, given with a racy humour and felicity of expression of high mark indeed. His death caused a blank in the social circle that must long continue to be felt by all those who had the privilege of enjoying his society. V- OME songs in this section might have appeared, ^nthout question, in that devoted to the Songs of the Affections ; for so much of sentiment occurs, of necessity, in songs whose theme is love, that it is not always an easy matter to discriminate between the absolute love-song and the song sentimental. The choice thus devolving on the editor, often made him feel the full meaning of that phrase of wliicli disputants sometimes avail themselves — "a dis- tinction without a difference ; " and he makes this remark to anticipate any critical objection his choice may be open to, believing, at the same time, that as longaa the songs are good, no fault will be found witli tlicir location. 154 MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. Among songs of sentiment are to be found, in many languages, some of the most charming productions of the lyre. The amatory strain is more obvious to, and is probably alvrays the earliest effort of, the lyric poet — the sentimental song requires a higher and riper power ; for it may be affirmed that the feelings which awake and are awakened by a love-song, having their root in passion, are more readily excited, and therefore more within the reach of the poet than those responding to the expression of sentiment. Such feelings lie deeper, or are more mysteriously interwoven in our nature, and hence it may be predicated that the power which evokes them is more subtle. And this power has been evinced, in a high degree, by the Irish. Moore owes his brightest fame to songs, and other writings, of the sentimental class, and though we cannot present any of them in this volume, their celebrity is sufficient to satisfy the reader that too much is not claimed in the assertion, as regards Moore ; and some specimens that follow from Griffin, Mahony, and Mangan, bear most winning evidence in support of the assertion as regards Ireland. ''- Old Times," " The Bells of Shandon," and " Waiting for the May," are of the highest mark, in this class of composition. I think the general reader would expect to find many satirica sallies in the works of Irish writers ; but fact will not fulfil the expectation. It is commonly remarked how ready-witted are the Irish — how quick of repartee — and hence might arise the idea that they must be satirical. The truth, however, is that Irish vnt is fonder of moulding itself into mirthful than angry forms ; but, if in angry mood, the Irish are fonder of sarcasm and irony than satire. Of the former they are great masters, of the latter they have shown themselves capable, by cultivating the art ; but it does not seem to me to be indigenous, and the few examples that follow support this view. Swift, who handled satire dexterously, lived much in England, was the intimate friend of Pope, that great master of the art, and whose power, in this respect, influenced the literary fashion of the day, to which even so powerful and original a mind as Swift's might not have been insensible. Goldsmith, who sometimes indulged in a satirical vein, was also open, for the greater part of his life and the entire of his literary career, to exterior influence and example. In later days, Moore displayed much satirical power, but satire was not his forte ; and it must be confessed that personal feeling and party spirit sometimes lured him from the polished height of satire to betray him into the lampoon— but how often are they not con- founded 1 MORAL, SENTIMENTAL. AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 155 Touching the moral portion of the text, it may be remarked that moralising, in the common acceptation of the word, is not often the vein of lyric \niters, and a people of a temperament notoriously lively as the Irish, would be less expected than others to abound in lyrics of that fashion — it would almost seem out of nature. Shake- speare makes the reflective Jaques say — "When I did hear The motley fool thus moral on the time, My lungs began to caw like chanticleer, That fools should be so deep contemplative." He looks upon it as ridiculous that a jester (for that is the sense in which the term fool must be taken here) should turn moralist ; and, if that view be correct, we should not look for a preponderance of the moralising quality among the sportive l}Tists of Ireland. Nevertheless, a deep tone of morality will be found in some of the following examples, suggested rather than preached ; and it ia thus that it should be in compositions of the lighter kind. But, for that matter, why should we talk specially of moral songs ? A moral may be extracted from songs and other poetic compositions of various classes. As Nature provides the flower, and the bee extracts the honey, so the poet gives forth forms of beauty and store of sweets and the office of the bee lies in the reader ^<^^ l.-iG MORAL. SENTIMENTAL, AND SA TIRICAL SONGS. WHEN FILLED WITH THOUGHTS OF LIFE'S YOUNG DAY. Gerald Griffix. When filled witli thonc^^hts of life's young day, Alone in distant climes v/e roam, And year on year has rolled away, Since last we viewed our own dear home ; Oh, then, at evening's silent hour. In chamber lone or moonlight bow'r, How sad on memory's listening ear Come long lost voices sounding near ; Like the wild chime of village bells Heard far away in mountain dells. But, oh ! for him let kind hearts grieve, His term of youth and exile o'er. Who sees in life's declining eve With altered eyes his native shore ! With aching heart and weary brain. Who treads those lonesome scenes again ! And backward views the sunny hours When first he knew those ruined bow'rs. And hears in every passing gale Some best afiection's dying wail.* Oh, say, what spell of power serene Can cheer that hour of sharpest pain, And turn to peace the anguish keen. That deeper wound, because in vain ? 'Tis not the thought of glory won, Of hoarded gold or pleasure gone, But one bright course, from earliest youth, Of changeless faith — unbroken truth. These turn to gold, the vapours dun. That close on life's descending sun. ON RETURNING A RING TO A LADY. Eight Hon. John Philpot Cubran. Thou emblem of faith — thou sweet pledge of a passion By Heaven reserved for a happier than me, — On the hand of my fair go resume thy lo\'d station. Go bask in the beam that is lavish'd on thee ! * The sadness of spirit breathed in this verse seems a reflex of his own emotions, when we remember that he returned to Ireland (after having made a high reputation) not in " life's declining eve," but in the prime of manhood, and retired into monastic seclusion. MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. i:.7 And if, some past scene thy remembrance recalling, Her bosom shall rise to the tear that is falling. With the transport of love may no anguish combine, Be her's all the bliss, and the suffering all mine !* Yet say (to thy mistress ere yet I restore thee). Oh, say ■vrhy thy charm so indifferent to me '. To her thou art dear, — then should I not adore thee ? Can the heart that is lier's be regardless of thee ? But the eyes of a lover, a friend, or a brother, Can see naught in thee but the flame of another ; On me then thou'rt lost ; as thou never could'st prove The emblem of faith, or the token of love. But, ah ! had the ringlet thou lov'st to surround — Had it e'er kissed the rose on the cheek of my dear. What ransom to buy thee could ever be found, Or what force from my heart thy possession could tear ? A mourner, a sufi''rer, a wand'rer, a stranger — In sickness, in sadness, in pain, and in danger, iXext my heart thou should'st dwell till its last gasp were o'er. Then togeth-er we'd sink — and I'd part thee no more. COULD I HER FAULTS REMEMBER. Sheridajt. Could I her faults remember, Forgetting every charm, Soon would impartial Reason The tyrant Love disarm. But when, enraged, I number Each failing of her mind. Love, still, suggests each beauty, And sees, while Reason's blind. • "We are reminded here of a line of Byron's — " Oh 1 thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt I" These lines, with all their blemishes of execution, particularly in the four first lines of the second verse, are so tender, so passionate, so hopeless, 'that they touch the heart. They acquire an additional interest when it is remembered how cruelly the writer's married life was embittered. O, MEMORY! From the Oratorio of "The Captivity." Goldsmith. Born, 1731.* Died, 1774. Oliver Goldsmith was born at Pallas.t in the county of Longford, Ireland, November 29, 1731, and died in London, April 4, 1774. It is to be regretted that few extracts can be gathered from his works, suited to this volume ; but, happily, there are a few, which afford the opportunity of enriching our register of bright names with one of the brightest in the annals of literature ; and as his slightest productions justify the celebrated "nul- um quod tetigit non ornavit," these few would adorn any collection ; but still they are far from sufficiently representing the intellectual power of the author of " The Travel- ler," '• The Deserted Village," " The Vicar of Wakefield," and "She Stoops to Conquer." 0, MEMORY ! thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain ; To former joys recurring ever, And turning all the past to pain. Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe ! And he who wants each other blessing, In thee must ever find a foe. * Mr. Forster, in his Life of Goldsmith, names the year 1728. f Three odd mistakes are made in a tninslation of Doctor Johnson's Latin epitaph on MORAL, SEXTIMEXTAL, AXD SA TIRICAL SOXGS. 159 WHEX YOUR BEAUTY APPEARS. The Rev. Dr. Parkell. Born, li)79. Died, 1717. "When your beauty appears, In its graces and airs, All bright as an angel new dropped from the sky ; At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears, So strangely you dazzle my eye ! But -when -without art, Your kind thoughts you impart ; When your love runs in blushes through every vein ; When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heait. Then I know you're a woman again. " There's a passion and pride In our sex," she replied, " And, thus (might I gratify both), I would do : Still an angel appear to each lover beside, And still be a woman, to you." This graceful trifle of Dr. Pamell gives but the occasion of noticing another bright name among the poets of Ireland. His poem of ' ' The Hermit," alone, would have made his name remembered with admiration. His poetical works were considered of suffi- cient value to be collected and published by Pope In 1721. Doctor Johnson praises Par- nell for the " easy sweetness of his diction ;" and though he does not allow that he " ravishes," he admits that "he always delights." Dr. Lempriere classes him "among the most pious and useful poets in the English language," and Goldsmith seems to have had a similar sense of his excellence, by the eloquent epitaph which follows. Goldsmith, given in one of the numerous small editions of Goldsmith's Life and Works — one of them particularly so — the lines in the original stand thus : — ^Natus Hibernid Forneia Lonfordiensis, In loco cui nomen Pallas." The translation given, is — "He was bom in the Kingdom of Ireland, At Ferns, in the Province Of Leinster, Where PaUas had set her name." The translator calling Forney Ferns, Longford Ltinster, and strangely mistaking tha name of the little Irish village, Pallas, for that of the goddess of wisdom and patroneifi of learning. IGO MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. Goldsmith. This tomb,* inscribed to gentle Parnell's name, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way 1 Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid. And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. Needless to him the tribute we bestow. The transitory breath of fame below : More lasting rapture from his work shall rise, While converts thank their poet in the skies. THE SNOW. Samuel Lover. From " Songs and Ballad*. An old man sadly said " Where's the snow That fell the year that's fled — Where's the snow ? " As fruitless were the task, Of many a joy to ask, As the snow ! The hope of airy birth, Like the snow. Is stain'd on reaching earth, Like the snow : While 'tis sparkling in the ray 'Tis melting fast away — Like the snow. A cold deceitful thing Is the snow. Though it come on dove-like wing- The false snow ! 'Tis but rain disguis'd appears : And our hopes are frozen tears — Like the snow. * Mr. Teter Cnnninghani, in liis edition of tlie Life and Writings of Goldsmith, says the tomb, here, issuppositional— a mere poetic privilege, as a means of recording admiration. THE WOODS OF CAILLINO, Song of the Irish Emigrant in North America. By L. N. F. My heart is heavy in my breast — my eyes are full of tears, My memory is wandering back to long departed years — To those bright days long, long ago, When nought I dreamed of sordid care, of worldly woe — But roved, a gay, light-hearted boy, the woods of Caillino. There, in the spring time of my life, and spring time of the year, I've watched the snow-drop start from earth, the first young buds appear ; The sparkling stream o'er pebbles flow, The modest violet, and the golden primrose blow, Within thy deep and mossy dells, beloved Caillino ! 'Twas there I wooed my Mary Dhuv, and won her for my bride, Who bore me three fair daughters, and four sons, my age's pride ; Though cruel fortune was our foe, And steeped us to the lips in bitter want and woe, Yet cling our hearts to those sad days we passed near Caillino ! L 162 MOkAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. At length, by misery bowed to earth, we left our native strand — And crossed the wide Atlantic to this free and happy land ; Though toils we had to undergo. Yet soon content — and happy peace 'twas ours to know. And plenty, such as never blessed our hearth near Caillino ! And heaven a blessing has bestowed, more precious far than wealth, Has spared us to each other, full of years, yet strong in health ; Across the threshold, when we go. We see our children's children round us grow. Like sapling oaks within thy woods, far distant Caillino. Yet sadness clouds our hearts to think that when we are no more, Our bones must find a resting-place far, far from Erin's shore. For us — no funeral sad and slow Within the ancient abbey's burial-ground shall go — Ko, we must slumber far from home, far, far from Caillino ! Yet, oh ! if spirits e'er can leave the appointed place of rest. Once more will I revisit thee, dear Isle that I love best. O'er thy green vales will hover slow, And many a tearful parting blessing will bestow On all — but most of all on thee, my native Caillino ! In the recently-printed copies of these beautiful lines they are headed with the title " The Woods of Kylinoe ; " but many years before they appeared in print they were in my possession in the handwriting of the fair and gifted authoress, and were entitled "SONG OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT IN NORTH AMERICA." Air — "The woods of Caillino." And this name, " Caillino," imparts to it a literary interest which I am not only un- willing to abandon, but upon which I think it worth enlarging. Those who are familiar with Shakspeare wiU remember how much the speech of Pistol, in the fourth scene of the fourth act of Henry the Fifth, disturbed the repose of the annotators, and what strange hash was made of the imperfect text, until Mr. Malone had the sagacity to perceive that Pistol was "repeating the burden of an old song," and that burden was Calen o custure me. That Mr. Malone was right in his conjecture indubitable proof exists, though Mr. Steevens rejected his emendation. In the first place, we have evidence that Irish music was held in favour in Elizabeth's Court, by the following extract from " The Talbot Papers," vol. M., fol. 18 ; given in Lodge's Illustrations of British History, vol. 2, p. 578, 8vo : — "We are frolic here in Court: much dancing in the Privy Chamber of Country Dances before the Queen's Majesty, who is exceedingly pleased therewith. Irish tunes are at this time most pleasing ; but, in winter, Lullaby, an old song of Mr. Bird's, will be more in request, I think." — Letter of the Earl of Worcester to the Earl of Shrewsbury dated Sevtember 19, 1602. AfORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 163 In the next place, the burden is Irish (Shakspeare moulding his matter to the "form and pressure" of the time), and easily translatable when properly spelt ; and it is strange that Mr. Malone, having got so far into the truth, did not clear the question up com- pletely. Mr. Steevens, in rejecting his emendation, says — "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 unintelligible words, Calen, kc, I will be the first to vote it into the text." Xow, this "ray of light" I should not wonder if my "farthing candle" can supply. Mr. Boswell, in his edition of Shakspeare, says, in noticing Mr. Malone's emendation, that Mr. Finnegan, master of the school established in London for the education of the Irish poor, says the words mean " Little girl of my heart, for ever and ever." Now, this is not the meaning, and I cannot but wonder that, with so much literary discussion as has taken place on the subject, the true spelling, and, consequently, the meaning of the burden, have remained until now undiscovered. The burden, as given in the " Handfull of Plesent Delites," and copied by Malone, is Calen o custure me, which is an attempt to spell, and pretty nearly represents, the sound of Colleen oge astore, (me being expletive, or possibly a corrupt introduction), and those words mean " Young girl, my treasure." Should it be acknowledged that I have thus completed the discovery of the truth of this long-debated question, I confess it would give me pleasure. That " Caillino "—fconeen oge)— ■was a favourite burden of songs, we may infer from the fact that it is to be found to different tunes : one in Playford's Musical Companion, C73 ; another in Wm. Ballett's Lute Book, D. 1. 21. in Trin. Coll. Dub. The music of both, and the entire discussion of this vexed question by the Shakspearian commenta- tors, are given in full in the Appendix. SOXG. Goldsmith. From the Oratorio of " The Captivitj. As panting flies the hunted hind, Where brooks refreshing stray, And rivers through the valley wind, That stop the hunter's way. Thus we, O Lord, alike distrest, For streams of mercy long ; Those streams which cheer the sore opprest, And overwhelm the strong. Goldsmith, in this song (supposed to be sung by an israelitish woman), with great propriety imitates the style of the sacred writings : the two first lines of the foregoing cannot fail to remind the reader of Psalm XLIL 164 MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SA TIRICAL SONGS. THE ISLAND OF ATLANTIS. The Eev. Dr. Croly. " For at that time the Atlantic Sea was navigable, and had an island before that mouth which is called by you the pillars of Hercules. But this island was greater than both Lybya and all Asia together, and afforded an easy passage to other neighbouring islands, as it was easy to pass from those islands to all the continent which borders on this Atlantic Sea. * * * * But, in succeeding times, prodigious earthquakes and deluges taking place, and bringing with them desolation in the space of one day and night, all that warlike race of Athenians was at once merged under the earth ; and the Atlantic island itself being absorbed in the sea, entirely disappeared."— Ptofo's Timoeus. Oh ! thou Atlantic, dark and deep, Thou wilderness of waves, Where all the tribes of earth might sleep In their uncrowded graves ! The sunbeams on thy bosom wake, Yet never light thy gloom ; The tempests burst, yet never shake Thy depths, thou mighty tomb ! Thou thing of mystery, stern and drear, Thy secrets who hath told ? — The warrior and his sword are there, The merchant and his gold. There lie their myriads in thy pall, Secure from steel and storm ; And he, the feaster of them all. The canker-worm. Yet on this wave the mountain's brow Once glow'd in morning's beam ; And, like an arrow from the bow, Out sprang the stream : And on its bank the olive grove, And the peach's luxury, And the damask rose — the night-bird's love — Perfumed the sky. Wliere art thou, proud Atlantis, now ? Where are thy bright and brave 'i Priest, people, warriors' living flow ? Look on that wave ! Crime deepen'd on the recreant land. Long guilty, long forgiven ; There power upreared the bloody hand. There scoff'd at Heaven. MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. IGo Tlie word went forth — the word of woe — The judgment-thunders pealed ; The fiery earthquake blazed below ; Its doom was seal'd. Now on his halls of ivory Lie giant weed and ocean slime, Burying from man's and angel's eye The land of crime. This is not a song, it is true, but it partakes sufficiently of the character of an ode to justify its insertion ; besides, as some have supposed Ireland to be a fragment of the lost Atlantis, it is the more admissible. Such a trifle cannot display the powers of so distin- guished a writer, but it enables me to claim him for our country, and that country, I am delighted to say, has not ceased to be loved by him amid all his successes in England. I witnessed this on a recent occasion of honour done to Dr. Croly by his parishioners of St. Stephen's, Wallbrook, when Sir Francis Graham Moon, then Lord Mayor, opened the Mansion-house to the parishioners as the most fitting place for this demonstration, and with his accustomed good taste and liberality, invited a distinguished company, among whom were many literati, to be present at the ceremonial of honour, and to partake after- wards of the hospitality for which the civic palace of London has ever been famous. On that occasion Dr. Croly alluded to his native land with much affection, and put forward her claims to honourable recognition in arts, letters, and arms, in a strain of impassioned panegyric ; and the generous spirit which prompted that patriotic effusion was met by a spirit as generous on the part of his English auditors. The English love their own land too well not to respect the Irishman who loves his. HY-BRASAIL— THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. Gekald Gkiffut. " The people of Arran fancy that at certain periods they see Hy-Brasail elevated far to the west in their watery horizon. This had been the universal tradition of the ancient Irish, who supposed that a great part of Ireland had been swallowed by the sea, and that the sunken part often rose, and was seen hanging in the horizon ! Such was the popular notion. The Hy-Brasail of the Irish is evidently a part of the Atalantis of Plato, who, in his ' Timasus,' says that that island was totally swallowed up by a prodigious earthquake. Of some such shocks the isle of Arran, the promontories of Antrim, and some of the western islands of Scotland, bear evident ma.r)s.&."—0' Flaherty's Sketch of the Island of Arran. On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell ; Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, And they called it Hy-Brasail^ the isle of the blest. From year unto year, on the ocean's blue rim. The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim ; The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay, And it looked like an Eden, — away, far away ! 1G6 MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS, A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail ; From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west, For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail was blest. He heard not the voices that called from the shore — He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar ; Home, kindred, and safety he left on that day, As he sped to Hy-Brasal(, away, far away ! Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle, O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile ; Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore — Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before ; Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track, And to Ara again he looked timidly back ; Oh 1 far on the verge of the ocean it lay, Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away ! Rash dreamer, return ! O, ye winds of the main, Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again. Rash fool ! for a vision of fanciful bliss To barter thy calm life of labour and peace. The warning of reason was spoken in vain ; He never revisited Ara again ! Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, And he died on the waters, away, far away ! The above, as a matter of course, is placed in succession to Dr. Croly's " Atlantis." The coincidence between Plato's mysterious story and an Irish tradition cannot fail to strike the reader as remarkable, and might well awake many a curious speculation. I have seen several ballads on the subject, but Griffin's is the most poetical by far, and not only embodies the tradition, but inculcates a moral. In this it resembles Moore's lovely legendary ballad of " The Indian Boat ;" and in the third verse of Griffin's, the passing of the different stages of the day without the desired object being reached re- minds one of the end of the second verse of Moore's— " Thus on, and on Till day was gone, And the moon thro' heav'n did hie her, He swept the main. But all in vain, That boat seem'd never the nigher." Popular fancy has a sort of barnacle quality of encrusting tradition with odd figments, and a very strange one has stuck to Hy-Brasail — viz., that, if a stone or piece of earth from the sacred sod of Ireland could be thrown on the fugitive island, it would settle the matter at once. Thus says a verse in one of the many ballads on the subject : — '* They also say, if earth or stone From verdant Erin's hallow'd land Were on this magic island thrown, For ever fix'd it then would stand," There is something exceedingly amusing in this getting ivithin stone's-throw of so shy a bird as this flying island. GOUGAUNE BARRA. J. J. Caxla>-a>-. Gougaune Barra, sublime in the loneliness of its deep lake, shadowed into reflected darkness by the overhanging mountains of the ancient district of " The Desmonds "(now South Cork), is a spot, of all others, to inspire poet or painter with admiration ; and Callanan, in the following noble lines, shows how deeply his soul was under the spell of the local influence. In Gougaune Barra the river Lee has its source— the Lee, whose "pleasant waters " have been so celebrated in the exquisite song, "The Bells of Shan- don." Truly, it must be a witching water to fascinate two such poets— to inspire two such lyrics. Eare are the rivers that can claim as much :— well may this be called " Allu of songs." There is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra, \Vhere Allu of songs rushes forth like an arrow ; In deep-valley'd Desmond a thousand wild fountains Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains ; There grows the wild ash ; and a time-stricken willow Looks cliidingly down on the mirth of the billow. As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning, It lightly lauglis back to the laugh of the morning. 188 MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. And its zone of dark hills — oli ! to see them all bright'ning, "NATien the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning, And the waters rush down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle, Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle ; And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming. And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming. Oh ! where is the dwelling in valley, or highland, So meet for a bard as this lone little island ? How oft, when the summer sun rested on Clara,* And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera, Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean, And trod all thy wilds with a Minstrel's devotion ! And thought of thy bards, when assembling together In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather. They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter, And waked their last song by the rush of thy water ! High sons of the lyre, oh ! how proud was the feeling, To think, while alone through that solitude stealing, Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number, I fearlessly wak'd your wild harp from its slumber. And glean'd the grey legend that long had been sleeping Where oblivion's dull mist o'er its beauty was creeping, From the love which I felt for my country's sad story, When to love her was shame — to revile her was glory ! Last bard of the free ! t were it mine to inherit The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit — With the wrongs which, like thee, to our country have bound me — Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me. Still, still in those wilds might young liberty rally. And send her strong shout over mountain and valley ; The star of the west might yet rise in its glory. And the land that was darkest be brightest in story ! I soon shall be gone ! — but my name may be spoken When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken ; Some Minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming. When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming. To bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion. Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean, And plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river, O'er the heart, and the harp, that are silent for ever. J * Cape Clear. t He must have meant Moore, from the context. t This melancholy aspiration of the patriot poet was not realised ; his grave is in a foreign land. MORAL, SEXTIMEXTAL, AND SA TIRICAL SOXGS. 169 THE BELLS OF SHAXDOX.* Eev. Fraxcis Mahoky. Here, as a matter of course, follows the lyric alluded to in the initiatory note to the foregoing song. Like the fabled jewel in the head of the toad, or the garnet in some uncouth lump of granite, great beauty may be concealed where we least expect it ; and no one looking at Shandon church would imagine it could inspire such exquisite lines as these that follow. But it was not the church, after all : the inspiration lay in "the bells " and the " pleasant waters " over which their chimes were wafted. An editor must be excused in dilating, somewhat, on the best bits in his mosaic work; and there is so much to admire in this, that he might be open to the charge of insensibility if he had passed by in silence its numerous beauties ; the charming sentiment — the felicitous versification — the variety of illustration so indicative of scholarship without pedantry —the bold and ingenious rhymes ringing in attractive triple succession, so appropriate to the subject, and so peculiarly Irish. With deep aflfection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childliood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder. Sweet Cork, of thee ; With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I've heard bells chiming, Full many a clime in. Tolling sublime in Cathedral slirine ; While at a glibe rate Brass tongues would vibrate ; But all their music Spoke naught like thine. For memory, dwelling On each proud swelling Of thy belfiy, knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. ' Shandon Church is an odd-looking old structure in the City of Cork. 170 MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. I've heard bells tolling Old " Adrian's Mole " in And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame ; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly. Oh ! the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow, While on tower and kiosk 1 In Saint Sophia The Turkman gets. And loud in air Calls men to prayer From the tapering summit Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them ; But there is an anthem More dear to me — 'Tis the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 171 THE SILVERY LEE. The Lee has had the power of inspiration over her neighbouring poets. Here are some very pretty lines by an anonymous votary of the Muses and the Lee. It is seldom such good lines are to be found in a broadside, whence this was taken, bearing date, Cork, islS. Rivers are there great and small, Romantic, too, the course of many, With coated crag and foamy fall ; But never river saw I any Half so fair, so dear to me As my own, my silvery Lee. Much I've heard about the Rhine, With vineyards gay, and castles stately ; But those who think I care for wine Or lofty towers, mistake me greatly : A thousand times more dear to me Is whiskey by the silvery Lee. The Tagus, with its golden sand, The Tiber, full of ancient glory, The Danube, though a river grand. The Seine and Elbe, renowTied in storj^ Can never be so dear to me As the pure and silvery Lee. 'Tis not the voice that tongues the stream. In winter hoarse, in spring-time clearer — That makes my o\\w. sweet river seem Above all other rivers dearer ; But 'tis her voice, who whispers me, — " How lovely is the silver}^ Lee ! " But it is not merely for its beauties, which appeal to the eye and touch the spiritual nature of the poet, that the Lee is famous : the creature considerations of the gour- mand may be tickled by the thought of the unseen stores within its depths-though not unseen either, if we trust an Irish poet, who sings— " Of salmon and gay speckled trout It holds such a plentiful store. That thousands are forced to leap out, By the multitude jostled on shore." Think o'that ! ye Cockney punters, who spend your days on the Tliames, and feel yourselves lucky if you get a nibble. In another version of this old Irish ballad, en- titled "Cormac Oge," the river is celebrated as '"the trout-loving Lee;" and the hyperbole gracing the foregoing verse is given in this high-sounding Une— •• The fish burst their banks and leap high on the shore." 172 MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SA TIRICAL SONGS. CORMAC OGE. From the Irish. The pigeons coo — the spring's approaching now, The bloom is bursting on the leafy bough ; The cresses green o'er streams are clustering low, And honey-hives with sweets abundant flow. Hich are the fruits the liazely woods display — A slender virgin, virtuous, fair, and gay ; With steeds and sheep, of kine a many score, By trout-stor'd Lee whose banks we'll see no more, The little birds pour music's sweetest notes. The calves for milk distend their bleating throats ; Above the weirs the silver salmon leap, While Cormac Oge and I all lonely weep ! The above is the ballad alluded to in " Hardiman's Irish Minstrelsy," as noticed in the " Silvery Lee," and translated by Mr. Edward Walshe. A sufficient resemblance exists among all the versions to show they have been derived from the same original source, and all go to establish the fame of the river for the plenteousness of its finny tribes. In this last version it is true they do not " Play such fantastic tricks before high heaven," as the former one quoted — but there they are. Having given so many poetic notices of this very lovely river, it would argue care- lessness if I failed to notice that it has been celebrated by another poet, and that poet, " though last," most certainly " not least." The " divine " Spenser has celebrated the Lee, as he has many other natural beauties and qualities of Ireland, in his undying verse ; and his notice is topographically correct to minuteness. The Lee divides as it approaches Cork, and after sweeping round the insular point on which the greater part of the city stands, reunites and forms that far-famed estuary, the Cove of Cork. Spenser gives but two lines — but even two line? from Spenser confer fame : — " The spreading Lee, that, like an island fair. Encloseth Cork with his divided flood.' VIRTUE. Goldsmith. Virtue, on herself relying. Every passion hush'd to rest, Loses every pain of dying, In the hope of being blest. Every added pang she suffers Some increasing good bestows Every shock that malice offers Only rocks her to repose. MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SA TIRICAL SONGS. 173 OLD TIMES. Gekald Gr.iFFiy. Old times ! old times ! the gay old time3 1 When I was young and free, And heard the merrj' Easter chimes Under the sally tree. My Sunday palm beside me placed,* My cross upon my hand ; A heart at rest within my breast, And sunshine on the land ! Old times ! old times 1 It is not that my fortunes flee, Nor that my cheek is pale ; I mourn whene'er I think of thee, jNIy darling native vale ! A wiser head I have, I know. Than when I loitered there ; But in my wisdom there is woe. And in my knowledge, care. Old times ! old times ! I've lived to know my share of joy, To feel my share of pain, To leam that friendship's self can cloy. To love, and love in vain ; To feel a pang and wear a smile, To tire of other climes. To like my own unhappy isle, And sing the gay old times ! Old times I old times ! And sure the land is nothing changed, The birds are singing still ; The flowers are springing where we ranged. There's sunshine on the hiU ; The sally waving o'er my head Still sweetly shades my frame, But ah, those happy days are fled, And I am not the same ! Old times ! old times ! ♦ In celebration of Palm Sunday, small sprigs of yew (as representative of palm) ar« worn by the Roman Catholics in Ireland, and their places of worship dressed with branches of the same. The sprig of palm is reverently preserved throughout the week, as the lines imply ; for the Palm Sunday is past-it is the Easter chimes he listens to. 174 MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. Oh, come again, ye merry times ! Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm ; And let me hear those Easter chimes, And wear my Sunday palm. If I could cry away mine eyes, My tears would flow in vain ; If I could waste my heart in sighs, They'll never come again ! Old times ! old times ! In these beautiful lines we see the first appearance of that melancholy which darkened the poet's worldly path. He says — •' It is not that my fortunes flee." No ; it is that the world-experience of a sensitive man brought more of pain than pleasure, "—in my wisdom there is woe, And in my knowledge, care." The tint of melancholy colours all he thinks of. When he speaks of his own isle, it is — " my own unliappy isle." Yet still, in the last verse, there is the "longing, lingering look behind" to past pleasure ; " Oh, come again, ye merry times 1 " He was not quite tired of the world ; but, ere long, the past was nothing to him — he retired, as stated elsewhere, to a monastery, and thought and lived but for the future. Even in this retirement, however, there were times of recreation, when Brother Joseph (the poet's monastic title) was asked to sing a song ; and I confess it is a great pleasure to me to know that at such a time one of mine found favour in that en- lightened mind and affectionate heart, as the following extract will show. " At eight he joined in recreation, during which he seemed a picture of happiness. He conversed freely and livelily, and often amused us with a song ; ' Those Evening Bells ' and ' The Baby lay sleeping ' (The Angel's Whisper) being great favourites."— Li/e of Gerald Griffin, by his hrotlier, p. 460. HOPE. Goldsmith. From the Oratorio of " The Captivity." The wretch condemned with life to part. Still ! still ! on hope relies ; And every pang that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, Adorns, and cheers the way : And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter ray. MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SA TIRICAL SONGS. 175 KNOW YE NOT THAT LOVELY RIYER ? Gerald GKirny. The following exquisite verses were written at the request of the author's sister, then living in America. The Scotch air " Eoy's ^Vife," was a favourite of hers, and she wished for some lines to sing to it, not liking any that had been adapted to that very sweet melody. It is not an easy air to write to, being, from its peculiarly Scottish structure, more suited to instrumentation than vocalisation. I do not mean this re- mark to apply to Scotch airs in general, all the flowing ones being as fine as any in the world for the purposes of song; but in " Roy's Wife " there is something of a UUxnQ character unfavourable to song. Even Bums, that great master of musical measure, was not as happy as usual in his verses to this melody. The melody is often called "Garnavilla" in the south of Ireland, from a song called "Kate of Garna^-illa," very popular some half century ago, and though of no great literary merit, perhaps it sings better than any other to the melody. In point of poetic beauty and intensity of feeling. Griffin's verses far surpass any ever written to the air, but they partake of the character of an ode rather than of a song. The river thus dearly remembered is the Ovaan, or White River, which sports in great variety of character through a romantic glen, where the poet loved to wander. Know ye not that lovely river ! Know ye not that smiling river ? WTiose gentle flood, By cliff and wood, With 'wildering sound goes ^vinding ever. Oh I often yet -n-ith feeling strong, On that dear stream my memory ponders, And still I prize its murmuring song, For by my childhood's home it wanders. Know ye not, tSrc. There's music in each wind that blows Within our native valley breathing ; There's beauty in each flower that grows Around our native woodland wreathing. The memory of the brightest joys In childhood's happy mom that found us, Is dearer than the richest toys, The present vainly sheds around us. Know ye not, &c. Oh, sister I when 'mid doubts and fears That haunt life's onward journey ever, I turn to tliose departed years. And that beloved and lovely river ; 176 MORAL, SENTIAfENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. Vfith sinking mind and bosom riven, And heart with lonely anguish aching, It needs my long-taught hope in heaven, To keep that weary heart from breaking ! Know ye not, &c. The following remarks from Dr. Griffm, iu his interesting memoir of his brother, seem to me too worthy of quotation to be omitted here : — " The exquisite tenderness and depth of the feeling conveyed in these lines rendered them, like those touching ones addressed by the late Eev. C. Woolfe to "Mary," but badly adapted to be sung to any air, however beautiful. It is evident they were written after that change had come over his mind to which I have already slightly alluded, and which took away entirely his early and strong thirst for literary fame. Howevei people in general may regret such an alteration, there are few persons who have arrived at that period of life when reflection begins to prevail, and enables them to perceive clearly the fleeting destiny of every temporal interest, who have not themselves at one time or another been under the visitation of those ' doubts and fears' they so beauti- fully express, and who will fail, therefore, to sympathise with that serious cast of thought which was so prevalent in his later writings, though it lessened their interest by depriving them of that character of passion which is such a jewel with the multi- tude." — Lift of Gerald Griffin, by his brother, Daniel Griffin, M.D., p. 68. KATE OF GARNA VILLA. Edward Lysaqht. Here is the song alluded to in the leading notice of the foregoing verses. To any one of musical ear it will be apparent I have not said too much in giving it the preference to Burn's "Canst thou leave me thus my Katy?" It has more variety and greater sweetness, even in the refrain — or chorus, as Burns has it. Let comparison be made by speaking — to say nothing of singing — the two following lines, and "Canst thou leave me thus my Katy ?" sounds rather harsh and sibilant ; while "Have you been at Garnavilla?" is almost as musical as Italian. In short, the song throughout is very happy in syilabla structure and choice of suitable and musical words. Have you been at Garnavilla ? Have you seen at Garnavilla Beauty's train trip o'er the plain With lovely Kate of Garnavilla 1 Oh ! she's pure as virgin snows Ere they light on woodland hill ; O Sweet as dew-drop on wild rose Is lovely Kate of Garnavilla ! MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 177 Philomel, I've listened oft To tliy lay, nigh weeping willow ; Oh, the strain's more sweet, more soft, That flows from Kate of Garna villa 1 Have you been, ttc. As a noble ship I've seen Sailing o'er the swelling billow, So I've marked the graceful mien Of lovely Kate of Garnavilla. Have you been, &c. If poets' prayers can banish cares, Ko cares shall come to Garnavilla ; Joy's bright rays shall gild her days. And dove-like peace perch on her pillow. Charming maid of Garnavilla ! Lovely maid of Garnavilla ! Beauty, grace, and virtue wait On lovely Kate of Garnavilla ! •' Fair play is a jewel "—an old saying I honour ; and, wishing to act np to it, I give the entire of Bums's song, that any reader who may not have a volume of Burns to refer to at the moment, may compare the two songs here : — "CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY? Tune, ' Eoy's Wife.' " Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? "Well thou know'st my aching heart, And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? " Is this thy plighted fond regard, Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? Is this thy faithful swain's reward — An aching, broken heart, my Katy ? Canst thou, S:c. " Farewell ! may ne'er such sorrows tear That fickle heart of thine, my Katy : Thou may'st find those will love thee dear— But not a love like mine, my Katy. Canst thou, &c." It is a curious coincidence that each of these three songs begins with a question. Perhaps the note of interrogation infected me with the inquiring spirit of criticism in which I have ventured to indulge. 178 MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. CUPID'S WING. Samuel Lover. The dart of Love was featlier'd first From Folly's wing, they say, Until he tried his shaft to shoot In Beauty's heart one day ; He miss'd the maid so oft, 'tis said, His aim became untrue, And Beauty laugh'd as his last shaft He from his quiver drew ; ** In vain," said she, " you shoot at me, You little spiteful thing — The feather on your shaft I scorn, When pluck'd from Folly's wing." But Cupid soon fresh arrows found, And fitted to his string. And each new shaft he featlier'd from His own bright glossy wing ; He shot until no plume was left. To waft him to the sky. And Beauty smiled upon the child When he no more could fly : *' Now, Cupid, I am thine," she said, " Leave off thy archer play; For Beauty yields — when she is sure Love will not fly away." WHEN LOVELY WOMAN. Goldsmith. From the " Vicar of Wakefield." When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray ; What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away 1 The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye. To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is — to die. MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 170 WHAT BARD, TIME, DISCOVER. Sheridan. What bard, Time, discover With wings first made thee move ! Ah ! sure he was some lover Who ne'er had left his love ! For who that once did prove The pangs which absence brings, Tho' but one day He were away. Could picture thee with wings ? These sweet and ingenious lines are from "The Duenna." The song does not ap- pear in the late edition of the opera. I obtained it from an old Dublin edition, dated 178G — where the piece is entitled, " The Duenna, or double elopement ; a comic opera, as it is acted at the Theatre, Smoke Alley, Dublin." (Properly called Smock Alley.) In this edition most outrageous liberties have been taken with the original text. ALAS ! THOU HAST XO WIXGS, OH ! TIME. Sheridan. In the lines that follow will be found the original form of the idea which the author 80 much improved in the foregoing. Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, gives numerous instances of the extreme care with which he filed and polished up his shafts of wit to bring them to the finest point. In this practice no one could better sympathise than Moore. Alas ! thou hast no wings, oh I time ; It was some thoughtless lover's rhyme, Who, writing in his Cliloe's view. Paid her the compliment through you. For had he, if he truly loved. But once the pangs of absence proved, He'd cropp'd thy wings, and in their stead, Have painted thee with heels of lead. A four-leaved Shamrock is of such rarity that it is sup- posed to endue the finder with magic power. 'LL seek a four-leaved shamrock in all the fairy dells, \^ And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I'll }r^ weave my spells ! I would not waste my magic might on dia- mond, pearl, or gold. For treasure tires the weary sense — such triumph is but cold ; But I would play the enchanter's part in casting bliss around, — Oh ! not a tear nor aching heart should in the world be found. To worth I would give honour ! — I'd dry the mourner's tears. And to the pallid lip recall the smile of happier years ; And hearts that had been long estrang'd and friends that had grown cold, Should meet again— like parted streams — and mingle as of old ! Oh ! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, thus scatter bliss around, And not a tear nor aching heart should in the world be found 1 MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. 181 Tlie heart that had been mourning o'er vanish'd dreams of love Should see them all returning, — like Noah's faithful dove, And Hope should launch her blessed bark on Sorrow's dark'ning sea, And Mis'ry^'s children have an Ark, and saved from sinking be ; Oh! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, thus scatter bliss around. And not a tear nor aching heart should in the world be found. SLEEP THAT LIKE THE COUCHED DOVE. Gerald Griffin. Sleep that like the couched dove, Broods o'er the weary eye. Dreams, that with soft heavings move The heart of memory — Labour's guerdon, golden rest, "Wrap thee in its downy vest ; Fall like comfort on thy brain, And sing the hush-song to thy pain ! * Far from thee be startling fears, And dreams the guilty dream ; No banshee scare thy drowsy ears,t "With her ill-omened scream. But tones of fairy minstrelsy Float, like the ghosts of sound o'er tliee, 1; Soft as the chapel's distant bell, And lull thee to a sweet farewell. Ye, for whom the ashy hearth The fearful housewife clears — § Ye, whose tiny sounds of mirth, The nighted carman hears — • To English readers it may be as well to state that the hush-song, or the more familiar Irish word " hush-o," is lowly murmured by every Irish nurse as she rocks the child in her arms, or in the cradle. t The banshee is more frequently heard than seen, but when seen, is arrayed in white (hence the prefix ^mu), and, Siren-like, combing her hair. Her wail predicts death to some one dear to the hearer. X " Ghosts of sound " — how expressive. § Often may the "fearful housewife" be seen sweeping up the hearth for the fairies— or, as they more frequently call them, " (he good people." I have been chidden, as a boy, by an Irish peasant for using the word "fairy." " Don't call them that, Masther ; they don't like it— say ' £Ood people.' " 182 MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SA TIRICAL SONGS. Ye, whose pigmy hammers make * The wonderers of the cottage wake — Noiseless be your airy flight, Silent, as the still moonlight. Silent go, and harmless come, Fairies of the stream — Ye, who love the winter gloom, Or the gay moonbeam — Hither bring your drowsy store, Gathered from the bright lusmore,t Shake o'er temples, soft and deep. The comfort of the poor man's sleep. WAITING FOR THE MAY. Dents Florence MacCakthy. Command of rythm, in almost capricious variety, with great facility and melody of rhyme, were among the poetic gifts of Clarence Mangan. The fineness of his ear, in both respects, is evident in the following exquisite lines, and it is feared his latter days were sufficiently sorrow-shaded to account for their morbidness. They are intense in feeling — sweetly poetical— bitterly sad — " Most musical, most melancholy." Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May — Waiting for the pleasant rambles. Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, With the woodbine alternating. Scent the dewy way. Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May. Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May — Longing to escape from study To the fair young face and ruddy. * The fairies in Ireland have the reputation of being gi'eat shoemakers ; hence the tapping of the "pigmy hammers." I suppose the fairies thus employ themselves for such ladies as have that personal gift (so be-poetised), a fairy foot. t Commonly called "fairy-cap" by the Irish— the fairies being supposed to appro- priate the flowers of the plant for head-dresses. The literal meaning of lusmore is "great herb." It is supposed to possess many magical qualities, and really does possess valuable medical ones, for it is the digitalis purpurea. MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. And the thousand charms belonging To the summer's day. All ! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the INIay. Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the iNIay — Sighing for their sure returning When the summer-beams are burning, Hopes and flowers that dead or dying All the winter lay. Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the ISIay. All ! my heart is pained with throbbing. Throbbing for the INIay— Throbbing for the sea-side billows, Or the water-wooing willows, ^Yhere in laughing and in sobbing Glide the streams away. Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, Throbbing for the INIay. Waiting, sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the INIay. Spring goes by with wasted warnings- Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings- Summer comes, ye* dark and dreary Life still ebbs away — Man is ever weary, ^ eary. Waiting for the May 1 183 THE ROAD OF LIFE; OR, SONG OF THE IRISH ROST-BOY. Samuel Lover. From " Songs and BaUads." Oh ! youth, happy youth ! what a blessing 1 In thy freshness of dawn and of aew ; WIen hope the young heart is caressnig. And our griefs are but light and but few : Yet in life, as it swiftly flies o'er us. Some musing for sadness we find ; In youth— we've our troubles before us. In age— sve leave pleasure behind. 184 MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. Aye — Trouble's the post-boy that drives us Up hill, till we get to the top ; While Joy's an old servant behind us We call on for ever to stop ; *' Oh, put on the drag, Jo}'-, my jewel, As long as the sunset still glows ; Before it is dark 'twould be cruel To haste to the hill-foot's repose. " But there stands an inn we must stop at, An extinguisher swings for the sign ; That house is but cold and but narrow — But the prospect beyond it's divine ! And there — whence there's never returning, When we travel — as travel we must — May the gates be all free for our journey ! And the tears of our friends lay the dust ! HARK! HARK! THE SOFT BUGLE. Griffin. Hark ! hark ! the soft bugle sounds over the wood, And thrills in the silence of even. Till faint, and more faint, in the far solitude, It dies on the portals of heaven ! But Echo springs up from her home in the rock, And seizes the perishing strain ; And sends the gay challenge with shadowy mock, From mountain to mountain again, And again ! From mountain to mountain asfain. Oh, thus let my love, like a sound of delight, Be around thee while shines the glad day. And leave thee, unpain'd in the silence of night, And die, like sweet music, away. While hope, with her warm light, thy glancing eye fills, Oh, say, "Like that echoing strain — Though the sound of his love has died over the hills, It will waken in heaven again. And again ! It will waken in heaven as^ain." MORAL, SEXTIMEXTAL, AXD SATIRICAL SOXGS. ISo SWEET CHLOE. Lysaght. Sweet Chloe advised me, in accents divine, The joys of the bowl to surrender ; Nor lose, in the turbid excesses of wine, Delights more ecstatic and tender ; She bade me no longer in vineyards to bask, Or stw^ THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. Translated from the Irish, by Clarence Manqan. This ballad, which is of a homely cast, was intended as a rebuke to the saucy pride of a woman in humble life, who assumed airs of consequence from being the possessor of three cows. Its author's name is unknown ; but its age can be determined, from the language, as belonging to the early part of the seventeenth century. That it was formerly very popular in ilunster may be concluded from the fact, that the phrase, " Easy, oh, woman of three cows," has become a sa3ring in that province on any occasion upon which it is desirable to lower the pretensions of a boastful or consequential person.— Trarw- lator's note. O WoM.iN of Three Co\vs, agragh ! don't let your tongue thus rattle ! don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle. 1 have seen — and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true — A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you. Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser, For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats tlie very miser ; And Death soon strips the proudest wi'eath from haughty human brows ; Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good VS'^oman of Three Cows ! 194 MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. See where Mamonia's* heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants, 'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants) If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows, Can you be proud, can you be stift', my Woman of Three Cows ! The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning ! Mavrone !f for they were banished, with no hope of their returning — Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house ? Yet you can gi\ e yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows ! Think of Donnell of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted— See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted ! He sleeps, the great O 'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse — Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows? O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story — Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory — Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs. And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows ! Th' O'CarroUs also, famed when fame was only for the boldest, Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest ; Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse ? Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows ! Your neighbour's poor, and you it seems are big with vain ideas, Because inagh !% you've got three cows — one more, 1 see, than s/^ehas ; That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows. But, if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows ! THE SUMMING UP. Now, there you go ! you still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing ; And I'm too poor to hinder you ; but, by the cloak I'm wearing. If I had hut four cows myself, even though you were my spouse, I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows ! The most comical piece of pride I ever heard of was that attributed to a Dublin basket- woman by an incensed rival, who thus accused her :— " Bad luck to your impideuce, Moll Doyle !— there's no standin' the consait o' you since you got that new sthrap to your basket." Mrs. Doyle, with a disdainful toss of her head, replied,— "il/ore grandeur to me!" Munster. t My grief. J Forsooth. MORAL, SEXTIMENTAL, AXD SATIRICAL SONGS. 195 MY NATIVE TOWN. Samuel Lover. We have heard of Charybdis and Scylla of oM ; Of Maelstrom the modem enough has been told ; Of Vesiivius's blazes all travellers bold Have established the bright renown : But spite of what ancients or moderns have said Of whirlpools so deep, or volcanoes so red, The place of all others on earth that I dread Is my beautiful native town. ^^lle^e they sneer if you're poor, and they snarl if you're rich ; They know every cut that you make in your flitch ; If your hose should be darn'd, they can tell every stitch ; And they know when your wife got a gown. The old one, they say, was made nev: — for the brat ; And they're sure you love mice — for you can't keep a cat ; In the hot flame of scandal how blazes the fat, When it falls in your native town ! If a good stream of blood chance to run in your veins, They think to remember it not worth the pains. For losses of caste are to them all the gains, So they treasure each base renown. If your mother sold apples — your father his oath, And was cropp'd of his ears — yet you'll hear of them both ; For loathing all low things they never are loath, In your virtuous native town. If the dangerous heights of renown you should try, And give all the laggards below the go-by, For fear you'd be hurt with your climbing so high, They're the first to pull you down. Should Fame give you wings, and you mount in despite, They swear Fame is wrong, and that they're in the right, And reckon you there — though you're far out of sight. Of the owls of your native town. Then give me the world, boys ! that's open and wide, Where honest in purpose, and honest in pride, You are taken for jnst ichat you're worth when you're tried And have paid your reckoning down. Y^'our coin's not mistrusted — the critical scale Does not weigh ev'ry piece, like a huxter at sale ; The mint-mark is on it — although it might fail To pass in your native town. 19C MORAL, SENTIMENTAL, AND SATIRICAL SONGS. TWELVE ARTICLES. Dean Swift. L Lest it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read. II. By disputing I will never, To convince you, once endeavour. III. When a paradox you stick to, I will never contradict you. IV. Wlien I talk and you are heedless, I will show no anger needless. V. V/hen your speeches are absurd, I will ne'er object a word. VI. When you, furious, argue wrong, I will grieve and hold my tongue. VII. Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye : To be chidden for explaining, When you quite mistake the meaning. VIII. Never more will I suppose You can taste my verse or prose. IX. You no more at me shall fret, While I teach and you forget. X. You shall never hear me thunder When you blunder on, and blunder. XL Show your poverty of spirit. And in dress place all your merit ; Give yourself ten thousand airs : That with me shall break no squares. XII. Never will I give advice Till you please to ask me thrice : Which if you in scorn reject, 'Twill be just as I expect. OVE of country and love of arms are common to all mankind, and have been held in honour from the earliest re- corded times. If such a melody as that which makes the Switzer weep, and impels him to his native home, be not the possession of all lands, there is some key-note which has a lively echo in the heart of every people, and vibrates to the call of coun- try—something else as potent as the Ba7is des Vaches to awaken patriotism. How charmingly De Beranger makes the bird of i^assage serve tliis purpose in hisex(iuisite sonj; *'Les Hirondelles !"— 198 PA TRIOTlC AND MILlTAkY SONOS. " Captif au rivage du Maure, Un guerrier, courb(^ sous ses fers, Disait : Je vous revois encore, Oiseaux ennemis des hivers. Hirondelles, que Tesperance Suit jusqu'en ces bnllants climats, Sans doute vous quittez la France : De mon pays ue me parlez vous pas ? " The idea of the poet, in this first verse of his lovely elegy, was verified in fact ; for M. Perrotin gives a note in his " CEuvres Com- pletes" of Beranger, telling us that the French soldiers, made prisoners of war by the Arabs in the late Algerian campaigns, were wont to sing this song, but that, before its conclusion, tears used to choke their utterance. Not only is love of country universal, but it is the impression of every people that their own country is the best. " Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam — His first, best country, ever is at liome." Few are the stoics who boast of being citizens of the world, ele- vated above what they are pleased to call the prejudice of prizing one nation above another — whose comprehensive wisdom aff"ects to estimate the whole human race with equal consideration, or, rather, passionate indifference. Few they are, and well they are so ; and perhaps they are fewer than even they themselves think. Why, even that worldly, witty maxim-writer, E/Ochefoucauld, in the midst of all his satire and sarcasm and mistrust of human virtue, admits the existence of that of patriotism, and in terms of tenderness, rare with him — " L'accent du pays ou Ton est n^, demeure dans I'esprit et dans le coeur, comme dans la language." The gentle and conscientious Cowper exclaims — " England, with all thy faults, I love thee still — My country ! " Which apostrophe, if I remember rightly, the proud Byron in his angry exile quoted. Again, Byron exhibits recollections of England which all his anger could not quench, thus — " On, on, through meadows, managed like a garden, A paradise of hops and high production ; For, after years of travel by a bard in Countries of greater heat but lesser suction, PA TRIOTIC AND MI LI TAR Y SONGS. 199 A green field is a sight which makes him pardon The absence of that more sublime construction, "NVhich mixes up vines, olives, precipices, Glaciers, volcanoes, oranges, and ices." And then, with characteristic versatility, and love of contrast and the grotesque, he adds — " And when I think upon a pot of beer But I won't weep I " But through this veil of fun peeps out a latent love of country. As for the love of amis, that is evidently inherent in our nature, from the fact of children playing at soldiers. All arms are imitated ; the natural state of infantry is not enough. Tommy aspires to the cavaliy, his gouty grandpapa's cane, used to soberer paces, is con- verted into a war-horse, and he charges round the room, an imagi- nary guardsman ; while Bobby, who affects the artillery, is boring a hole with a spike of red-hot iron into the bone of some timid sheep's trotter, to make a cannon ; and possibly the military cocked-hats of bcth are formed out of some whity-brown, which was once the wrap- per of some parcel from the shop of Obcdiah Smallsoul, of the Peace Society. This love pervades the sports of riper years : it has coloured the national games of the civilised and the savage — the Pyrrhie dance of the accomplished Greek has its counterpart, even now, in the war-dance of the South-sea Islander and the American Red Indian. This love "grows with our growth, and strengthens with our strength." To be a soldier is the aspiration of most young men, a desire too often disturbing the equanimity of some long-headed father, who had intended for his young Hotspur a more profitable pursuit. And this admiration of the "Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war," is shared by woman ; for if she cannot be a soldier herself, she is most ready to bestow her love on him who is one : and this feeling must have been predominant from the earliest ages, for Pagan records bear evidence of it in the myth of Mars and Venus. Now, these two passions of our nature, always very strong in the Irish, became, from the peculiarity of Ireland's political position, accidentally strengthened. Nearly up to the end of the last century, the great mass of the youth of Ireland were forbidden the honourable profession of arms at home, and were thus forced to leave the land they loved to enjoy the forbidden desire, which they cxercisedabroad ; and in his exile, the love of the Irishman for liis country increased— 200 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. for when do we love our country so much as when we are absent from it ? Other historic evidence might be given to account for an extra, indeed almost morbid, love of country, on the part of the [rish. The Switzer (already alluded to) has been adduced as an example of patriotism by Goldsmith, who says that this land of wild- ness, sterility, and poverty is not the less, but the more prized, by the native, and thus accounts for it : — " And as the child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, So the wild torrent and the whirlwind's roar But bind him to his native mountains more." Now, Ireland is not sterile, but wild enough in many respects, and has been (from causes not of her own engendering and beyond her reach to cure) too long impoverished, and the physical tempest is not less potent in making the Switzer cling to "the mother's breast," than the political storm has been in similarly attaching the Irish- man. I witnessed, once, a touching proof of the passionate love the Irish peasant bears his native land. A party of labourers had just arrived in the packet-boat from England, where they had been reap- ing the wheat-harvest, and crowded to the vessel's side, eager to jump ashore ; and when they did so, they knelt down and kissed their mother earth. As for their gallant bearing as soldiers, the annals of England's wars are sufficient testimony — whether the Irish fought for or against her ; and the recently-instituted military order — Victoria cross of valour — gave ample evidence, in its first distribution, of the same still-existing valour of the Irishman on the battle-field. And here may be recorded an anecdote of an Irish regiment, so characteristic in every way, that its appropriateness justifies me, I trust, in relating it, without my being open to the charge of national vaingloriousness. A fort was to be stormed ; the day looked to for the assault was the 18th of March, but a request was forwarded to the officer in command by the Irish regiment, suggesting that operations might be a little hastened, and the assault delivered on the 17th — St. Patrick's day — in which case the whole regiment volunteered to lead the attack, as they would like " to have a bit of a skrimmage, and do something for the honour of ould Ireland on that day. " The request was complied with, and at day-break on the 17tli, the band of the regiment struck up " St. Patrick's Day ; " and to that lively measure away they went, with a ringing cheer, and the fort was PA TRIOTIC AND Ml LI TAR Y SOXGS. 201 carried "in no time." Three national elements of success were here— tlie remembrance of Ireland and desire to do sometliing for her honour ; the love of music ; and tliat soldierly dash— that " MILITARY GLEE," which Scott recogniscd in liis gallant heart, and recorded with his glorious pen.* Can we wonder, then, that poets should be inspired with two such glorious themes, and laud the land that bore them, and glorify the sword that guards its honour? Perhaps, in doing so, they sometimes shed their ink as recklessly as the soldier sheds his blood, and in their sanguine exuberance indulge in a little exaggeration ; but, in saying this, I do not mean to imply that the Irishman is one whit more exalted in the spirit of laudation than the native of any other country. Finally, the love of country and love of arms have been honoured in the highest, for they were held worthy of being the theme of holy writ. Yes ; the love of country is a holy thing, for thus saith the Psalmist — " By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept: when we remembered thee, Sion. As for our harps, we hanged them up : upon the trees that are therein. For they that had led us away captive required of us there a song, and melody in our heaviness : Sing us one of the songs of Sion. IIow shall we sing the Lord's song : in a strange land ? If I forget thee, Jerusalem : let my right hand forget her cunning." And thus the minstrel king — the smiter of the giant — the warrior poet, thanks the Lord of Hosts for the gift of a courageous man- hood : — " Blessed be the Lord, my strength : who teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight." * Vide Vision of Den Koderic. 202 P^'i TRIO TIC A ND MI LI TAR Y SOyG:^. THE IRISHMAN. James Okr. Air—" Vive La." James Orr was one of those "Men of the North" celebrated in that remarkable volume of vigorous verse, " The Spirit of the Nation." He was a journeyman weaver. Now, weavers have been down in the market ever since the invention of looms— Sliakespeare talks ironically of drawing "three souls out of one weaver." But our Ulster weaver redeemed the credit of his class by his deeds. That he wrote good verses the following lines prove ; and he fought at the battle of Antrim, in 1798— so that he had the true spirit of the old Troubadours in him, being equally ready to wield the pen or the sword. In short, he had a soul for business, a soul for poetry, and a soul for fighting ;— so that he may have been the very weaver Shakespeare had in his prophetic eye— "in a fine frenzy rolling "—when he spoke of drawing three souls out of one weaver. The savage loves his native shore, Tliough rude the soil, and chill the air ; Then well may Erin's sons adore Their isle which nature formed so fair. What flood reflects a shore so sweet As Shannon great, or pastoral Bann ? Or who a friend or foe can meet So generous as an Irishman ? His hand is rash, his heart is Avarin, But honesty is still his guide ; None more repents a deed of harm, And none forgives with nobler pride : He may be duped, but won't be dared — More fit to practise than to plan ; He dearly earns his poor reward, And spends it like an Irishman. If strange or poor, for you he'll pay. And guide to where you safe may be ;* If you're his guest, while e'er you stay His cottage holds a jubilee. His inmost soul he will unlock, ' And if he may your secrets scan, Your confidence he scorns to mock — For faithful is an Irishman. * Many a traveller in Ireland has proved the truth of this. If a stranger loses his way and inquires it of an Irish peasant, the peasant will turn back /or miles out of his own way to put the stranger securely into his. PATRIOTIC AXD MILITARY SOXGS. By honour bound in woe or weal, ^Vllate'e^ she bids he dares to do ; Tit him with bribes — tliey won't prevail ; Prove him in fire— you 11 find him true. He seeks not safety, let his post Be wliere it ought, — in danger's van ; And if the field of fame be lost. It won't be by an Irishman. Erin I loved land ! from age to age Be thou more great, more famed, more free ; May peace be thme, or, should'st thou wage Defensive war — cheap victors-. May plenty bloom in ever}' field "Which gentle breezes softly fan, Aiid cheerful smiles serenely gild The home of every Irishman. 203 THE PLAI^'T OF THE EXILE. JOHX O'DONOGHUB. As I stood on the shore of the stranger, When day was at rest — And the sun was declining in gold, To his tlirone in the west — Dear Erin ! I wept, as I gazed On the splendour-paved sea, Znd I panted to trace that high road Of glory, to thee ! Tho' far, far away from the scenes Of my childhood I roam — Oh ! can I forget thee one moment, My dear happy home ! Had I but thy pinions, bright planet. How swift would I flee, For an instant to gaze, though 'twere dcatli, My loved Erin, on thee ! Shall I ever behold thee again ? Will the future restore One glimpse of thy valleys and liilla Ere my sorrows are o'er ? 204 PA TRIO TIC A ND Ml LI TARV SONGS. Kind Heaven ! give me but one look Ere my pilgrimage cease — And death shall come o'er the last throb Of my spirit in peace. These lines, though of no great literary merit, have the redeeming grace of a strong love of native land in them, and find a place here for that reason. The entire of the first verse is too obviously imitated from Moore's exquisite lines — " now dear to me the hour when daylight dies And sunbeams melt along the silent sea ; For then sweet dreams of other days arise, And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee. " And as I watch the line of light that plays Along the smooth wave tow'rd the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest." THE IRISH DRAGOON. Charles Lever, Air — " Sprig of Shillelah." Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon, In battle, in bivouac, or in saloon — From the tip of his spur to his bright sabertasche. With his soldierly gait and his bearing so high, His gay laughing look and his light speaking eye, He frowns at his rivals, he ogles his T^^ench, He springs on his saddle and cliasses the French — With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche. His spirits are high and he little knows care. Whether sipping his claret or charging a square — With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche. As ready to sing or to skirmish he's found, To take oflf his wine or to take up his ground ; When the bugle may call him how little he fears To charge forth in column and beat the mounseers — With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche. When the battle is over he gaily rides back To cheer every soul in the night bivouac — With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche. Oh ! there you may see him in full glory crown'd, And he sits 'mid his friends on the hardly-won ground, And hear with what feeling the toast he will give. As he drinks to the land where all Irishmen live — With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche. PATRIOTIC AXD MILITARY SOXGS. 205 WAR SONG OF O'DRISCOL. By Gerald Griffin. From the shieling that stands by the lone mountain river, Hurry, hurry down, with the axe and the quiver ; From the deep-seated coom,* from the storm-beaten highland, Hurrj', hurry down to the shores of your island. Hurry down, hurry down I Hurry dowTi, &c. Galloglach and Kern, hurry down to the sea — There the hungry raven's beak is gaping for a prey. Farrah ! to the onset 1 Farrah ! to the shore ! Feast him with the pirate's flesh, the bird of gloom and gore. Hurry down, hurrj' do\sTi I Hurry down, &c. Hurry, for the slaves of Bel are mustering to meet ye ; Hurry by the beaten cliff, the Nordman longs to greet ye ; Hurry from the mountain ! hurrj^ hurrj^ from the plain ! Welcome him, and never let him leave our land again ! Hurry down, huiTy down I Hurry down, &c. On the land a sulky wolf, and in the sea a shark, Hew the ruffian spoiler down, and burn his gory bark ! Slayer of the unresisting ! ravager profane 1 Leave the white sea-tyrant's limbs to moulder on the plain. Hurry down, huriy down ! Hurry down, &c. THE LAND OF THE WEST. Samuel Lover, On ! come to the West, love — oh ! come there with me ; 'Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs from the sea. Where fair Plenty smiles from her Emerald throne — Oh, come to the West, and 111 make thee my own ! I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee the best. And you'U say there's no land like the land of the West ! * A close valley between abrupt hills. 206 PA TRIO TIC AND MI LI TARY SONGS. The South has its roses and bright skies of blue, Bat ours are more sweet with love's own changeful hue — Half sunshine, half tears, — like the girl I love best ; Oh ! what is the South to the beautiful West ! Then come to the West, and the rose on thy mouth Will be sweeter to me than the flow'rs of the South ! The North has its snow-tow'rs of dazzling array, All sj^arkling with gems in the ne'er-setting day ; There the Storm-king may dwell in the halls he loves best, But the soft-breathing Zephyr he plays in the West, Then come there with me, where no cold wind doth blow. And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the snow ! The Sun, in the gorgeous East, chaseth the night When he riseth, refresh'd, in his glory and might ; But where doth he go when he seeks his sweet rest ? Oh ! doth he not haste to the beautiful West ? Then come there with me ; 'tis the land I love best, 'Tis the land of my sires ! — 'tis my own darling West ! BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING. Charles Lever, From " Charles O'Malley." Air— " Paddy O'Carroll." Bad luck to this marching, Pipeclaying and starching ; How neat one must be to be killed by t^e French ! I'm sick of parading. Through wet and cold wading. Or standing all night to be shot in a trench. To the tune of a fife They dispose of your life. You surrender your soul to some illigant lilt ; Now, I like " Garryowen "* When I hear it at home, But it's not half so sweet when you're going to be kil't. Then, though up late and early Our pay comes so rarely. The devil a farthing we've ever to spare ; They say some disaster Befel the paymaster ; On my conscience I think that the money's not there. * A favourite Irish air, and also a celebrated locality in the city of Limerick. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SOXCS. 207 And, just think, what a blunder ! They won't let us plunder, While the convents invite us to rob them, 'tis clear ; Though there isn't a village But cries, " Come and pillage I " Yet we leave all the mutton behind for Mounseer.* Like a sailor that's nigh land, I long for that island ^Yhere even the kisses we steal if we please ; "Where it is no disgrace If you don't wasli your face, And you've nothing to do but to stand at your ease. With no sergeant t' abuse us, We fight to amuse us, Sure it's better beat Christians than kick a baboon ; How I'd dance like a fairy To see ould Dunlearj'jt And think twice ere I'd leave it to be a dragoon ! IklY NATIVE LAND. Uere is a song from an anonymous poet who should not be anonymous, for his name deserves a good mark. This book shows how rich Ireland is in poetic talent. Sprinkled through these leaves we have scores of examples, from the heights of fun to the depths of feeling, from anonymous pens. " Each mode of the lyre " is run through with an intuitive grace, by these amateur ministrels, that might make a professor envious. Why are thy sons, though good and brave, A weak, divided band. Lorn from the cradle to the grave, My native land ? Wliy do the meanest of mankind Rule thy green isle, with iron hand ? Canst thou no god-like leader find — No Spartan band Thy galling fetters to unbind — My native land ? * A capital line this— the natural comment of a hungry soldier,— illustrating a fact honourable to the British array in the Peninsular war. t A landing-place in Dublin Bay — now called Kingstown, in commemoration of the visit of George IV., as " Passage," in the Cove of Cork, goes by the higher " style and title" of " Queenstown," since the visit of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Dunleary, of old, could afford shelter but to a few fishing-boats under a small pier. The harbour of Kingstown has anchorage within its capacious sweep of masonry far ships of war ; in fact, it is one of the finest works in the British dominions. 208 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. The traitor's spoil, the stranger's prey, Thy helpless people stand ; Unhonour'd, save when they betray * Their native land. Still ! still ! they're doom'd to writhe and weep, And wildly wring the hopeless hand ; Far happier should the wave o'ersweep Thy velvet strand, And 'whelm thee in the raging deep — My native land I THE GIRLS OF THE WEST. Charles Lever. Air—" Thady ye Gander," You may talk, if you please, Of the brown Portuguese, But wherever you roam, wherever you roam, You nothing will meet Half so lovely or sweet As the girls at home, the girls at home. Their eyes are not sloes. Nor so long is their nose But between me and you, between me and yon, They are just as alarming. And ten times more charming. With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue. They don't ogle a man O'er the top of their fan Till his heart's in a flame, his heart's in a flame ; But though bashful and shy, They've a look in their eye. That just comes to the same, just comes to the samo. No mantillas they sport, But a petticoat short Shows an ankle the best, an ankle the best. And a leg — but, O murther ! I dare not go further. So here's to the West, so here's to the West. * This reminds us of Moore's noble quatrain :— *' Unprized are her sons till they learn to betray, Unnoticed they live if they shame not their sires And the torch that would light them thro' dignity's way Must be snatched from the pile where their country expires. PA TRIOTIC AXD MILllARY SOXGS. 209 FAIR-HILL'D PLEASANT IRELAND. From the Irish. Take a blessing from the heart of a lonely griever To fair-hill 'd, pleasant Ireland, To the glorious seed of Ir and Eivir,* In fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland, "Where the voice of birds fills the wooded vale, Like the morning harp o'er the fallen Gael — And, oh I that I pine many long days' sail From fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland ! On the gentle heights are soft sweet fountains, In fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland ; I would choose o'er tins land the bleakest mountains In fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland — IMore sweet than fingers o'er strings of song. The lowing of cattle the vales among, And tlie sun smiling do^vn upon old and young, In faii'-hiird, pleasant Ireland ! There are numerous hosts at the trumpet's warning. In fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland ; And warric)r3 bold, all dangers scorning. In fair-hill'd, pleasant Ireland — Oh, memoiy sad ! oh, tale of giief ! They are crush'd by the stranger past all relief ; Nor tower nor town has its native chief, t In fair-liilled, pleasant Ireland ? * Heber, Eibher, or Eivir, was the son of Ir, who was the second son of Milesius. A Milesian descent, of which the Irish are so proud, is something like the pride of a Saxon descent in England (only some thousand years older) ; for the Milesians, like the Saxons, were invaders, overcome in time by stronger invaders than themselves. That they were invaders is evident from this passage : " ililesius remembered the remark- able prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of a western island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit." — Keating. Moore celebrates this point in the ancient history of Ireland in his " Song of Innisfail " in the Irish Melodies, concluding with this verse : — " Then tum'd they unto the Eastern wave, Where now their Day-God"s eye A look of such sunny omen gave As lighted up sea and sky. Nor fro-.vn was seen thro' sky or sea, Nor tear o'er leaf or sod, When first on their Isle of Destiny Our great forefathers trod." Bat though thus, according to Moore, the morning of our history was so bright, it turned out a very rainy evening for poor Ireland ;— but it la clearing up ; we may close our political umbrellas. t From this passage it is evident the song cannot be very old, though there ia an antique air about it. The love of country and yearning for home are characteristically expressed, and certainly very touching, in this ballad. O THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Rev. Charles Wolfe. The Rev. Charles Wolfe, a minister of the Established Church, was a native of Dublin. It is to be regretted that he died in the prime of manhood, for a youth of such promise gave hope of a distinguished future. He furnished another evidence to the truth of that apothegm of the ancients, — " "Whom the gods love die young." His lines, entitled as above, at first appeared anonymously, and created such general admiration, that, along with several speculations as to their authorship, not a few absolute claims were made for that honour by impudent aspirants for fame. Medwin, in his "Conversa- tions of Lord Byron," asserts his belief (among the speculators) that they were written by the noble poet, tliough all he establishes is the fact that they were admired and read by him. Though the extract is longer than is desirable to be given in a work like the present, yet it is so pregnant with evidence of the high worth at which Wolfe waa rated among the highest, that I cannot resist giving it, as tribute due to his memory. •' The conversation turned after dinner on the lyrical poetry of the day, and a question arose as to which was the most perfect ode that had been produced. Shelley contended for Coleridge's on Switzerland, beginning, 'Ye clouds,' (fee; others named some of Moore's Irish Melodies, and Campbell's Hohenlinden ; and, had Lord Byron not been present, his own Invocation to Manfred, or Ode to Napoleon, or on Prometheus, might have been cited. " ' Like Gray,' said he, ' Campbell smells too much of the oil ; he is never satisfied with what he does ; his finest things have been spoiled by over-polish— the sharpuesa PA TRIOTIC AND Ml LI TAR Y SOXGS. 211 of the outline is worn off. Like paintings, poems may be too highly finished. The great art is effect, no matter how produced. " ' I will show you an ode you have never seen, that I consider little inferior to the best which the present prolific age has brought forth.' With this he left the table, almost before the cloth was removed, and returned with a magazine, from which he read the following lines on Sir John Moore's burial, which perhaps require no apology for finding a place here." Here follow the stanzas, after which Medwin continues— " The feeling with which he recited these admirable stanzas I shall never forget. After he had come to an end, he repeated the third, and said it was perfect, particularly the lines — •' ' But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. With his martial cloak around him,' " ' I should have taken,' said Shelley, ' the whole for a rough sketch of Campbell's.' ' Xo,' replied Lord Byron ; ' Campbell would have claimed it, if it had been his.' "I afterwards had reason to think that the ode was Lord Byron's ; that he was piqued at none of his own being mentioned ; and, after he had praised the verses so highly, could not own them. Xo other reason can be assigned for his not acknowledging him- self the author, particularly as he was a great admirer of General Moore." Here we have Coleridge, Campbell, and Moore among the hypothetical authors ; Byron and Shelley, as admirers and conjecturers ; and, after all, it was a young Irish- man who produced this poem. Such literary honour is worth recording, not only for the sake of the memory of the departed poet, but for the fame of the land that gave him birth. Not a drum -was heard, not a funeral-note, As liis corse to the rampart we hurried, Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light. And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coftin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest. With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead. And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, TJiat tlie foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head. And we far away on the billow ! 212 PA TRIO TIC AND MI LI TAR V SONGS. Liglitly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, AVhen the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone — But we left him alone in his glory ! I have said, many claims were laid to the authorship of this ode, but they were all soon silenced by the indubitable evidence existing as to the real author. Among the pseudo claimants, the most unfortunate was a certain Dr. Marshall, whose name laid him open to a very funny squib, let off against him in the shape of a parody on the ode, setting forth how a certain drunken man was discovered in the kennel, " Where he lay like a gentleman taking a snooze, With his Marshall cloak around him." The parody is too good to be lost to those who love that sort of fun, but respect for the noble lines of the original forbids placing a parody in juxtaposition, therefore it is in- serted in the Appendix, with some other information on the subject-matter of the burial of sufficient interest to be recorded, but which would have overloaded, to an incon- venient length, annotations already unusually long. TO THE BATTLE, MEN OF ERIN. Thomas Campbell. Air— " Beside a Kath." To the battle, men of Erin, To the front of battle go ; Every breast the shamrock wearing Burns to meet his country's foe. What though France, thine eagle standard Spreading terror far and nigh. Over Europe's skies hath wander'd On the wings of victory — Yet thy vauntings us dismay noc, Tell us when ye, hand to hand, Ever stood the charging bay'net Of a right true Irish band? PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 213 Erin, when the swords are glancing In the dark fight, loves to see Foremost still her plumage dancing To the trumpet's jubilee. This song was written for Bunting's "General Collection of the Ancient music of Ireland." It is pleasant to see a distinguished Scotchman celebrating the valour of Ireland. Campbell must have had a strong feeling for Ireland, or he could not have written the above; still less that finest of lyrics, "There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin." Another illustrious Scotchman, by the way, pays a liigh tribute to the military glory of Ireland :— " Hark, from yon stately ranks what laughter rings, Mingling wild mirth with war's loud minstrelsy; His jest which each blithe comrade round him flings, He moves to death with military glee. Boast Erin, boast then, fearless, frank, and free, And HE,* their chieftain — strike the loudest tone Of thy proud harp, Green Isle — the hero is thine own ! " Sir Walter Scott's " Vision of Don Eoderic." OH, ERIN! John Daltox, M.R.I.A. Oh, Erin ! in thine hour of need, Thy warriors wander o'er the earth ; For others' liberties they bleed, Nor guard the land that gave them birth In foreign fields it is their doom. To seek their fame — to find their tomb, t For them no friend of early days A tear of kindred grief shall shed : Nor maiden's prayer, nor minstrel's lays, Shall hallow their neglected bed. X They sleep beneath the silent stone, To country lost — to fame unknown. ♦ The Duke of Wellington. t One evil consequence of the penal laws was, that the Irish being denied the exercise of the honourable profession of arms at home, (as alluded to in the introduction to this section,) the high-mettled youth of the land were driven to take service under foreign banners : and England had often to regret the valour of such soldiers as their foes in defeat (as at Fontenoy, for instance), instead of rejoicing in it, as their friends in victory which they have since done on many a well-fought field in the last half century. t Here, I think, my friend Mr. Dalton does not justice to himself and his brother poets of Ireland ; for, however hard was the lot of of the expatriated Irisli soldier, his story has not been " neglected," nor his valour unsung by the bard. SOGGARTH AROON. John Banim. Born, 1798. Died, 1842. The name of John Banim stands high in the record of Irish literature. His tale of " Crohore na Mlhoge " is of wondrous power ; as, also, his "Ghost Hunter." His tragedy of "Damon and Pythias " is of high merit. Many more of his works might be named, but it is unnecessary here. In the lyric vein, Mr. Banim is not so felicitous as in other forms of composition ; but his knowledge of Irish character, strength of feeling, and vigorous expression, are valuable counterpoises against blemishes of versification and carelessness of construction. The following address of the Irish peasant to his priest is full of nature, and vividly and forcibly expresses the sources and strength of the ties that exist between them. Am I the slave they say, Soggarth aroon 1 * Since you did show the way, Soggarth aroon, Thei7- slave no more to be, While they would work with me Ould Ireland's slavery, Soggarth aroon ? * Priest dear. PA TRIOTIC AXD MILITARY SOXGS. 215 Why not her poorest man, Soggarth aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth aroon, Her commands to fulfil Of his own Iieart and will, Side by side with you still, Soggarth aroon ? Loyal and brave to you, Soggarth aroon. Yet be no slave to you, Soggarth aroon, — Nor, out of fear to you, Stand up so near to you — Och I out of fear to you / Soggarth aroon ! oo Who, in the winter's night, Soggarth aroon. When the cowld blast did bite, Soggarth aroon, Came to my cabin-door. And, on my earthen floor, KJnelt by me, sick and poor, Soggarth aroon ? oo Who, on the marriage day, Soggarth aroon, ISIade the poor cabin gay, Soggarth aroon — And did both laugh and sing, ^Making our hearts to ring. At the poor christening, Soggarth aroon ? 'oa Who, as friend only met, Soggarth aroon. Never did flout me yet, Soggarth aroon ? And when my hearth was dim, Gave, while his eye did brim, What I should give to him,* Soggarth aroon ? • The Irish Roman Catholic priest is supported by voluntary contributions from his flock ; but here (as in many cases), the priest reverses the order of giving, and bestows charity on the poor peasant. 21 G PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS, Och ! you, and only you, Soggarth aroon ! And for this I was true to you, Soggarth aroon ; In love they'll never shake, When for ould Ireland's sak'^ We a true part did take, Soggarth aroon ! THE TRIUMPHS OF O'NEILL, W. H. Maxwell. Among the essayists, sketchers, story-tellers, and novelists, Maxwell's name shines brightly. The soldier, the sportsman, and the man of the world, formed a triumvirate in his person which gave a racy variety to his works ; and his " Stories of Waterloo," his "Wild Sports of the West," and that stirring and most amusing tale, " My Life," display that triplicity. His pen was prolific— or I should rather say his pencil ; for it is a fact, within my own knowledge, that he dashed off his copy for the press with a black-lead pencil, which he declared was a much pleasanter and more facile mode of rapid writing than pen and ink. He held a prebend in the Established Church of Ireland, but the exuberance of his animal spirits hurried him, sometimes, beyond the usual limits of clerical phraseology. Let us remember, however, he had been a soldier in early life, as a plea in extenuation. There is an old slang mode of expression em- ployed, when a man who has been educated for the Church goes into the army— they say, in such case, that " <7ie lobster has been boiled;" that is to say, t^acfc has been turned red. But, in the reverse of the case, when a retired soldier turns clergyman, I fear it is very hard to ttJiboil him— turn red into black. Maxwell seldom indulged in verse ; his highest gifts of authorship were exhibited in his prose. The song is hushed in Bala's hall. The beacon's cold upon the steep. The steed has left the empty stall, The banner's sunk upon the keep : The knight upon Lough Neagh's shore Has laid aside the glittering steel ; And minstrel strikes the harp no more, To tell the triumphs of O'Neill. The day will come, the day will come, When vengeance, bursting from her trance, Shall sound the trump, and strike the drum. And point the gun, and couch the lance ! While from hill-top and Avoodland den. The smothered war-cry loud shall peal — And grey morass, and mountain glen, Echo the triumphs of O'Neill ! PATRIOTIC AXD MILITARY SONGS. 217 THE BOYS OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. Mrs. GoEE. This lively song was written, by the fair and gifted authoress who has favoured the world with so many clever novels, for a dramatic piece she produced for the lamented rower, entitled " King O'Neill." The scene is laid in Taris in the time of Louis XV. O'Neill is an exiled Irishman, an officer in the famous Irish Brigade, who.wheneverhe is over-excited by wine, fancies himself possessed of all the regal power his ancestors once enjoyed ; and hence much amusement arises. It is in a scene at the mess of the Brigade the following song is sung, where O'Neill is floating himself up, upon claret, to the summit-level of his regal delusion. ^Y^AT for should I sing you of Roman or Greek, Or the boys we hear tell of in story ? Come match me for fighting, for froHc, or freak. An Irishman's reign in his glory ; For Ajax, and Hector, and bold Agamemnon Were up to the tricks of our trade, 0, But the rollicking boys, for war, ladies and noise, Are the boys oi the Irish Brigade, ! What for should I sing you of Helen of Troy, Or the mischief that came by her flirting '{ There's Biddy M'Clinchy, the pride of Fermoy, Twice as much of a Helen, that's certain. Then for Venus, so famous, or Queen Cleopatra, Bad luck to the word should be said, 0, By the rollicking boys, for war, ladies and noise, — The boys of the Irish Brigade, ! What for should I sing you of classical fun, Or of games, whether Grecian or Persian ? Sure the°Curragh's"^ the place wliere the knowing one's done, And Mallow t that flogs for diversion. For fighting, for drinking, for ladies and all, No time like our times e'er were made, O, By the rollicking boys, for war, ladies and noise, — The boys of the Irish Brigade, 1 The myth of Venus and Mars (already alluded to in the introduction to this section) was but the emblematising of a sentiment that has pervaded the world since its creation. A woman likes and lauds a soldier— not for his handsome dress, as some people have un- worthily hinted ; no— it is because his noble profession implies courage. Fielding says, with his usual acuteness, that as a woman is by nature timid, she values that most highly which she does not possess herself; and, therefore, no quality in man she so much admires as courage. Hence, we opine, the fair authoress's laudatory lyric of ' ' The Boys of the Brigade." ♦ The Curragh is an extensive plain in the county of Kildare, whereon is the finest race- course in the United Kingdom. tSee "The Rakes of Mallow" in this collection. THE BIVOUAC. Charles Lever. From " Charles O'Malley." Air — " Garryowen." Now that we've pledged each eye of blue, And every maiden fair and true, And our green island home — to you The ocean's wave adorning, Let's give one hip, hip, hip, hurra ! And drink e'en to the coming day, When squadron square We'll all be there ! To meet the French in the morning. May his bright laurels never fade, Who leads our fighting fifth brigade. Those lads so true in heart and blade, And famed for danger scorning ; So join me in one hip, hurra ! And drink e'en to the coming day, When squadron square We'll all be there ! To meet the French in the morning. PA TRIO TIC AND MILITARY SONGS. 219 And when with years and honours crowned, You sit some homeward hearth around, And hear no more the stirring sound That spoke the trumpet's warning ; Youll fill, and drink, one hip, hurra ! And pledge the memory of the day, AVhen squadron square They all vrere there To meet the French in the morning. THE BOWLD SOJER BOY. Samuel Lover. Oh, there's not a trade that's going, Worth showing. Or knowing, Like that from glory growing, For a bowld sojer boy ; Where right or left we go. Sure you know, Friend or foe We'll have the hand — or toe. From a bowld sojer boy I There's not a to^-n we march through. But the ladies, looking arch through The window-panes, will search through ^ The ranks to find their joy ; While up the street. Each girl you meet, With look so sly, WiU cry *' My eye ! Oh I isn't he a darling— the bowld sojer boy I But when we get the route. How they pout. And they shout, Wliile to the right about Goes the bowld sojer boy ; 'Tis then that ladies fair, In despair Tear their hair. But the divil a one I care, Says the bowld sojer boy ; 220 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. For the world is all before us, Where the landladies adore us, And ne'er refuse to score us, But chalk us up with joy ; We taste her tap. We tear her cap, *' Oh, that's the chap For me," Says she, *' Oh, isn't ho a darling — the bowld sojer boy.'^ Then come along with me, Gramachree, And you'll see How happy you will be With your bowld sojer boy ; Faith, if your up to fun, With me run, 'Twill be done In the snapping of a gun. Says the bowld sojer boy ; And 'tis then without scandal Myself will proudly dandle The little farthing candle Of our mutual flame, my joy ; May his light shine As bright as mine, Till in the line He'll blaze And raise The glory of his corps, like a bov/ld sojer boy ! THE BANSHEE'S WAIL. Mrs. Downing. Thy life was like the mountain stream. That in the rocky dell has birth. Now rushing, while its waters gleam. Exulting in the sun's warm beam ; And, when its wild waves brightest seem, Dark sinking in its native earth. Who, now, shall bid the clansmen speed The signal and the gathering-cry? Who, now, shall rein the stalworth steed % PA TRIO TIC A XD MI LI TAR Y SONGS. 221 Who, now, shall urge the glorious deed ? "NVho, now, tlie warrior clans shall lead, When the battle-shout is nigh ? Though many a noble one lies dead — Though groaning heaps around thee lie — Though many a gallant chief, who led His clans, o'er night, has bravely bled ; Though many a daring soul has fled — Yet, oh ! what were they all to thee ? The day-beam breaks on the green liill side, And gleams o'er hill and river ; And the Saxon banner is floating wide — With the blood of the hapless heroes dyed ; But M'Caura's boast, and M'Caui'a's pride,* Is faded, and lost, for ever. WHEN THIS OLD CAP WAS NEW. Samuel Ferguson, M.E.I.A- Si>X'E this old cap was new, Now fifty-two long years (It was at the review Of the Dublin Volunteers), There have been brought to pass With us a change or two ; They're altered times, alas ! Since this old cap was new. Our Parliament did sit Then in our native land, What good came of the loss of it I cannot understand ; Although full plain I see That changes not a few Have fallen on the country Since this old cap was new. They are very worthy fellows (And much I'd be distrest To think them else) who tell us That all is for the best ; • M'Caura is the ancient name of M'Carthy. The fair authoress seems to take a deep interest in the valiant sept of M'Caura— see her song of "The Mother to her Son," in this collection. 222 ^'^'i TKIOTIC AND MI LI TAR V SONGS. Though full as ill inclined, Now the bargain's closed, to rue, Yet I can't but call the times to mind When this old cap was new. What rights we wanted then Were asked for above board, By a hundred thousand gentlemen, And render'd at the word. 'Twas thus in fair daylight, With all the world to view, We claimed and gained our right. When this old cap was new ! * But patriots now-a-days, And state reformers, when A starving people's cry they raise, Turn out like trenchermen. Ah ! we'd have done the work, If it had been to do. With other tool than spoon or fork When this old cap was new. The nobles of the country Were then our neighbours near, And 'mong us squires and gentry Made always jolly cheer ! Ah \ every night, at some one's Or other's, was a crew Of merry lords and commons, When this old cap was new. They're altered times entirely. As plainly now appears ; Our landlord's face we barely see Past once in seven years. And now the man meets scorn As his coat is green or blue ; We had no need our coats to turn When this old cap was new. Good counsel to propose I have but little skill ! Yet, ere a vain lament I close. In humble trust, I will * This refers to the Declaration of Irish Independence in 1782, which is alluded to, more tuUy, in a note to "Our Island;" — showing, by this repeated reference, how fondly -cherished is the memory of that glorious event. FA TRIOTIC ASD MILITARY SONGS. 223 Beseech for all His aid, Who knows what all should do ; And pray, as I have often prayed. When this old cap was new. Among the "Eoxburgh Songs and Ballads," there is a black-letter copy of a song entitled "When this old cap was new," dated a.d. 1G66, the author unknown. Mr. Ferguson has adopted onlj the title and the manner of this old song ; the matter is perfectly original, and very superior to the old model. CUSHLA MA CHREE. Eight Hon. Jonx Philpot Ccrran'. Air—" The Bank of Green Bushes." Dear Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises, An emerald set in the ring of the sea, Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart prizes. Thou queen of the west, the world's cnM(x ma chree* Thy gates open wide to the poor and the stranger — There smiles hospitality, hearty and free ; Thy friendship is seen in the moment of danger, And the wand'rer is welcomed with cv.shla ma chree. Thy sons they are brave ; but, the battle once over, In brotherly peace with their foes they agree, And the roseate cheeks of thy daughters discover The soul-speaking blush that says cv.shla ma chree. Then, flourish for ever, my dear native Erii;, While sadly I wander, an exile from thee. And, firm as thy mountains, no injury fearing. May heaven defend its own cushla ma chree/ THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG. John Ba>"im. You know it, now — it is betray'd This moment — in mine eye — And in my young cheek's crimson shade, And in my whisper 'd sigh ; You know it, now — yet listen, now — Though ne'er was love more true. My plight and troth, and virgin vow. Still, still I keep from you, Ever • Pxdae of my heart. 224 PA TRIO TIC AND MI LI TAR Y SONGS. Ever, until a proof you give How oft you've heard me say I would not e'en his empress live, Who idles life away Without one effort for the land, In which my fathers' graves Were hollow'd by a despot hand — To darkly close on slaves Never 1 See ! round yourself the shackles hang, Yet come you to Love's bowers, That only he may soothe their pang, Or hide their links in flowers ; — But try all things to snap them, first. And should all fail, when tried, The fated chain you cannot burst My twining arms shall hide Ever ! In these lines we see again Mr. Banim's inequality and want of mastery in lyric com position ; but he is happier than usual throughout the last verse, particularly in the two final lines, which are exquisitely touching in feeling, and perfect in execution. THE PICQUETS ARE FAST RETREATING, BOYS. Charles Lever. From " Charles O'Malley." Air—" The Young May Moon." The picquets are fast retreating, boys, The last tattoo is beating, boys ; So let every man Finish his can. And drink to our next merry meeting, boy a ! The colonel so gaily prancing, boys, Has a wonderful trick of advancing, boys ; When he sings out so large, ' ' Fix bayonets and charge ! " He sets all the Frenchmen a-dancing, boys ! Let Mounseer look ever so big, my boys, Who cares for fighting a fig, my boys ? When M^e play ' ' Garryowen '' He'd rather go home, For somehow he's no taste for a jig, my boys. THE MOTHER TO HER SON. Mrs. Downing. Speed thee, boy ! 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 wan-ior sons, in gleaming mail, Are rusliing at the signal now. Speed thee, boy ! thy hand is weak, 'Twas never yet in battle tried ; The down of youth is on thv cheek. But think on how thy father died. Away— the clans are rushing by ; The Saxon thunders on the plains ; O'Nial's fire is in thine eye : M'Caura's blood is in thy veins. Nay, check not, boy, those manly tearfi ! The heart that often fiercest proves That braves the death-field without fears- May weep to part from those it loves. 226 PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. And heed not mine, they've fall'n before, When from my side thy father fled ; Eemember 'mid the battle's roar The sacred cause for which he bled. Away, boy ! be thy bosom strong ; Again is pealed the signal word, And now the foeman pours along — And now the clash of war is heard ! Away I — amid the battle wild, O'Nial's glittering steel will tell, When brandished by M'Caura's* child — Speed thee, my boy ! — farewell ! — farewell ! A SOLDIER TO-NIGHT IS OUR GUEST. Gerald Griffin. At a time like the present, when our heroes of the Crimea have been received with such affectionate welcome, and banqueted 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 wit- ness 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 t proposed the toast to their honour, and that address was so surpassingly fine as to put all others of the kind into the shade. Fan, fan the gay hearth, and fling back the barr'd door, StreAv, 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. * Mrs. Downing loves the tlieme of M'Carthy, IM'Caura being M'Carthy. + The Eiglit Honourable the Earl of Carlisle. PATRIOTIC AND MILITARY SOXGS. 221 Tlien 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 fjuest. O'BYRXE'S BARD TO THE CLANS OF WICKLOW. Translated from the Irish, by Samuel Fekguson, M.E.I. A. God be with the Irish host ! Never be 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 band. He must wed immortal quarrel. Pain and sweat, and bloody peril. On the mountam bare and steep, Snatching short but pleasant sleep, Then, ere sunrise, from his eyrie. Swooping on the Saxon quarry,* "VMiat although you've failed to keep Liffey'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 Spenser. 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 of of <:;len 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 MacHugh, by the assistance of his brave mountaineers, whom Spenser 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 great- ness, insomuch, that now he has become a dangerous enemy to deal withal." - Spenser's View oftlu State of Ireland. One of the " unhappy occasions," as the courtly Spenser calls them, by which Glenmalure was celebrated, was the signal defeat of the gallant and unfortunate Essex. 228 Pyl TRIO TIC A ND MI LI TARY S ONGS. Want of conduct lost the town, Broke the white-walled castle down, ]\Ioira 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 oflfence, Treachery and violence. Done against my people's rights — Well may mine be restless nights I Wlien old Leinster's sons of fame, Heads of many a warlike name. Redden their victorious hilts On the Gaul, my soul exults. When the grim Gaul, who have come 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 Ranelagh !* But my soul is weak for fear. Thinking of their danger here. * Clan Ranelagh-One of the southern outlets of Dublin, leading towards Wicklow, still retains the name of the gallant clan. PA TRIO TIC A XD MI LI TA R V S0XG5. 229 Have tliem in thy holy keeping, God be witli them lying sleeping, God be with them standini' tijrhtinjj,* Erm's foes in battle smiting ! THE GRAVE OF M'CAURA. Mrs. Downing. At Callan, a pass on an unfrequented road leading from Glanerought (the vale of the Roughty) to Bantry, the country people point out a flat stone by the pathway, which they name as the burial-place of Daniel M'Carthy, who fell there in an engagement with the Fitzgeralds in 1261. The stone still preserves the traces of the characters, wliich 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, M'Caura, Here by the pathway lone, Where the thorn blossoms are bending Over thy mouldered stone. Alas I for the sons of glory ; Oh ! thou of the darkened brow. And the eagle plume, and the belted clans, Is it here thou art sleeping now ? Oh ! wild is the spot, M'Caura, In which they have laid thee low — The field 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, M'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 0"er torrent and mountain free, But, alas I and alas I M'Caura, It will not awaken thee. * One cannot help remembering that famous prayer of the old Scotchwoman— " God be wi" Hamilton's regiment— n^/Ztf or icrang HI" 230 ' PA TRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. Farewell to thy grave, M'Caura, AYhere the slanting sunbeams shine, And the briar and waving fern Over thy slumbers twine ; Thou, wliose gathering summons Could waken the sleeping glen ; M'Caura ! alas for thee and thine, 'Twill never be heard again. Here, for a third time in this volume, Mrs. Downing makes the Clan M'Carthy the theme of her song, and always with effect. The name M'Carthy, as spelt in Irish, would be (represented in Eoman characters) M'Cartha. But it would be pronounced M'Caura the th, or dotted t, having, in the Irish tongue, the soft sound of h. ST. PATRICK'S DAY IN MY OWN PARLOUR. J. F. Waller. Air—" St. Patrick's Day." The white and the orange, the blue and the green, boj^s, 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 Avith orange the white clouds that float in tlie 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 SOXGS. 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 be 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 love 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 colouiis 1" Be the Irishman's toast on St. Patrick's Day. A V N D H U. Callanax. The following lines are but an extract from a larger poem, in which the poet gives expression to a sentiment common to us all — a tender recollection of our native land, more particularly 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 remark- able, and the fondness with which he particularises the "whereabouts" shows how deeply-rooted were his local attacliments. 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 Blackwater (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 Cicada's* hill, Or by Glenruachra's rushy rill ; But no, I never more shall view Those scenes I loved by Avondhu. * Cleada and Cahirbeama (the hill of the four gaps) form part of the chain of moun- tains which stretches westward from Mill-street to KUlarney. 232 PA TRIOTIC AND MILITARY SONGS. Farewell, ye soft and purple streaks Of evening on the beauteous Reeks ;* Farewell, ye mists, that loved to ride On Cahirbearna's stormy side ; Farewell, November's moaning bre^.ze, Wild minstrel of the dying trees : Clara ! a fond farewell to you. No more we meet by Avondhu. No more — but thou, O 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. So much for the love of the living ; but it would seem that this love of native land i3 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 Ze.i'' and, stating that there is a mountain in Ireland, vjliere the ghosts of persons who have d'led in foreign lands walk about and converse xoith those they meet, like living people. \i 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 love on earth are gone ; But still thus, e'en in death, So sweet the living breath Of the fields and the fiow'rs in our youth we wander'd o'er, That ere, condemn'd, we go To freeze 'mid Ilecla's snow. We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more ! " A SIGH FOR KNOCKMANY. William Carleton. 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, j'earning for the luiambitious boyliood — tlie echoes of his native mountains, rather: than those of fame. Of the latter lie has had enough, but not more * Macgillicuddy's Eeeks, in the neighbourhood of Killarney. PA TRIO TIC AND MI LI TAR V SOXGS. 233 than he deserves ; and though sometimes he may be accused of carelessness, or exagger- ation, or coarseness, into which hurry, and party spirit, and excessive vigour have be- trayed 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 toler- ably well known to the world ; but for exhibiting the qualities particularised, 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 tliy 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, but, oh ! give me To range my mountain glens again. Pure -was the breeze that fann'd my cheek, As o'er Knockmany's brow I went ; "When every lonely dell could speak In airj^ music, vision sent : False world, 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 PA TKIOTIC AND MILITAR V S0AG3. VOICES OF THE PAST. Miss Herbekt. There's a weary Toice 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 shame ? "—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 I"— King Bomba still reigns. ^«^ woiiniiii able " OLiTiCAL 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 be read dispassionately — with total absence of all partisan sensibility — they are not only conducive to instruction, but to high intellectual pleasure. But when this condition cannot be fulfilled, the path of an editor is beset with difficulty. In that case, he treads on ground which may still be considered " debate- — where some war-cry or watch-word may unexjjectedly arouse 236 HISTORICAL AND r^OLITICAL SONGS. the borderers ; or while he seeks but some flower 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 ar^ 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 wliich 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 — "JohnO'Dwyer of the Glen," which, I think, will be acknowledged to possess much poetic merit. Respectingthepolitical pieces, the specimensgiven, while sufficiently characteristic of their time, have no present sting ; for, as more than half a century has passed away since most of them had temporary in- terest or significance, it is hoped they cannot be offensive 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 ofTence, 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'Connell, 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 mayj 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 aU her other bards put together. His winning lay insinuated a sympathy for Ireland into bosoms impervious to open assault. The cold circle of pre- judice 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 jNIoore had " corrupted " their melodies. That was the word — corrupted. Careful patriots ! I— But they also begged to assure the world they had no desire to " run down Mr. Moore." The plirase 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 different singers or players. Which is the genuine? AMio is to pronounce 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 volumes of song, with musical settings, 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 wliich they were so rashly-ready to criticise. As a special example of this, one song may be named from that collection adapted to the exquisite air of "The Wheel- wright" — an air soaring and musical as a lark ; and yet to this brilliant air a woeful ditty is written, beginning, " Oh ! weep those 238 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 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, forgetting the Latin adage, that poets are horn — 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 bedmaker 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 bitter- ness. 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. AVhile 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 instru- ment 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 fear- fully counterbalanced by those of lead, and that nimble Pegasus is overmatched by heavy dragoons. HISTORICAL AXD POLITICAL SOSGS. 239 THE BATTLE OF DUNDALK. Mr Henry K. Montgomery, in his interesting volume entitled " Specimens of the B!arly Native Poetry of Ireland," thus speaks of this battle : — " A naval engagement is recorded as having taken place at Dandalgin, 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 api>eared anonymously in the Btlfasi Chronicle: — Now sheathed is the sword, and the battle is o'er, The shouts of the victors have ceased on the sliore, — AVitli blood, O Dundalgin, thy billows are dyed. O'er the mighty of Locliliii thy deep waters glide. O 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 resigned that her glory might live. Though no caims 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, Dundalgin, thy sanctified wave. There, in grateful remembrance, their fame sliall recall, Exult in their glory, and envy their fall, "Who each in his death-grasp encircled a foe. And plung'd with liis prize in the billows below.* C U L I N . Ca-Koll Maloxe. 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 (lo°g 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 English 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 tbe year 1295 a Parliament was held in Dublin, and then an act was passed which more than expressly names the Coulin, and minutely • Reminding us of tlie two Mexicans who attempted to make Cobtkz share their fat( in the famous death-plunge from the Great Tower. 240 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. describes it for its 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 she 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 cheek — " '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 ; Bat 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 harkens 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 mu^th or in pride, Her lover, too fond and too faitliful, 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. niSTORICAL A.VD POLITICAL SOSGS. 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 179S was the mark of a rebel Stt " The Croppy Boy " and ' A Prospect " in this volume. JOHN O'DWYER OF THE GLEN. Translated from the Irish, by TnoiiA3 Fuklono. Blithe the briglit dawn found me, Ilest with strength had crown'd me, Sweet the birds sang round me — Sport was all their toil HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. The liorn 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, Fast 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 are parted. Scattered, scared, and started By a base-born band. Sjjots 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 here. 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 quaintness, is called " The "Woods are Cutting." HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SOXGS. 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 wiU 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 one of them." — Spenser's View of the State qf Ireland. THE CHAIN OF GOLD. Samtel Lover. From " Songs and Ballads." The Earl of Kildare, Lord-Deputy of Ireland, ruled justly, and was hated by the gmall 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 Ire- land." 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, I've 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 bold. Before the King did backward fling The slanderous lie they told ; And the King gave him no iron chain, No — 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 fa\NTiing false ones court the great, Tlie heart in virtue bold, "Will hold the right in pow'rs despite L'ntil that heart be cold : For falsehood's the bond of slavery ; But truth is the chain of gold ! False Connal wed the rich one, With her gold and jewel.s 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 busi- ness, 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 Furlono. " Eoisin Dubh (LiUXe, Black Rose) 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 Eng- land, to celebrate our Irish hero, Hwjh Ruadh O'DonneU, of Tyrconnel. By Roisin 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." — Hardiman's Irish Minstrelsy, vol. i., p. 254. Oh ! my sweet little rose, cease to pine for the past, For the 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 Roseen Dhu, in which form of spelling I think it preferable to leave it, for the sake of those who are not Irish scholars. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 24r» 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 I 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 Tlie 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. The translation given above would very nearly sing to the ancient melody entitled the Roisin Duhh, in Bunting's "Ancient Music of Ireland ; " but there is a quaint wild- ness 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 be adopted. There is a second setting of the air, in Bunting, entitled Roisin bheag duhh (J,iUU black rose- bud), which x>erf ectly agrees in ryhthm with the stanzas above. DARK ROSALEEN. Translated from the Irish, by Jajies Cl.ve.exce Maxgan. Here is another version of this celebrated ballad. SuflBcient 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 " Koman wine" and "Spanish ale " are sufficiently intelligible without a note. MY dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep ! The priests are on the ocean green. They march along the deep. Tliere's wine .... from tlie royal Pope, Upon the ocean green ; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, INIy dark Rosaleen ! ^ly own Rosaleen ! Shall glad your lieart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope. My dark Rosaleen ! 240 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. Over hills, and through dales, Have 1 roamed for your sake ; All yesterday T sailed with sails On river and on lake. The Erne .... at its highest flood, I dashed across unseen. For there was lightning in my blood, My dark Rosaleen ! My own Rosaleen ! Oh ! there was lightning in my blood. Red lightning lightened through my blood. My dark Rosaleen ! 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 Rosaleen ! My own Rosaleen ! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My dark Rosaleen ! Woe and pain, pain and woe. 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 Rosaleen ! My own Rosaleen ! 'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, My dark Rosaleen ! 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 Rosaleen ! My fond Rosaleen ! You'll think of me through daylight's hours, My virgin flower, my flower of flowers My dark Rosaleen I HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SO AGS. 247 I could scale the blue air, I could i)lough the liigh 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 ! \Vou].l give me life and soul anew, A second life, a soul anew, IMy dark Rosaleen ! O ! 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 o'wn Rosaleen ! The Judgment Hour must first be nigli. Ere you can fade, ere you can die, IMy dark Rosaleen ! GRAIX^TE MAOL AND QUEEN ELIZABETH. A.D. 1575. From the Irish. Hardiman's Minstrelsy. The following epitomised 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 Aulhologia Ilibemica (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 Oranu Wail, is celebrated in Irish history. She was first married to O'Flalierty, Chief of "West Connaught ; and secondly to Sir Kichard Burke, by whom she had a son Theobald, who was a commander 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. 248 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. Grace, in her youth, frequently accompanied 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 expeditions. 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 pur- pose 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 re- ward 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 defeated 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 Eichard Burke, she became reconciled to the Government, and, with her fol- lowers, 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 that 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 closed 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.t * Carrigahooly— in Irish, CarncTc-a-U'iJe— signifying, The rock in the Elbow. t The Queen, surrounded by her ladies, received her in great state. Grana was in- troduced 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 strangQ a figure." — Authologia Hihernica. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SOXGS. 240 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'U e'er deny." " Nay, sister-Queen," the fair replied, " A Sov'reign, and an hero'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 not take. " The Queen on Grana gaz'd and smil'd. And honour'd soon the stranger cliild 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 BO to a late period. The mere playing of the tune, which is an old pipe march, had always a political significance. THE MAIDEN CITY. By Chablotte Elizabeth, authoress of " The Siege of Derry," &c Here is a political song by a lady, and.— place aux dames— \i 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. Where 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 SOSGS. 251 A rampart wall iras 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 Gate : She summon'd to defend her Our sires — a beardless race — * They shouted No Sukrexder ! 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 graveyard yonder, Swells with the slaughtered dead — Oh, brothers ! pause and ponder. It was for us tliey bled ; And while their gifts we o^vn, boys — The fane that tops our hill. Oh, the Maiden on her throne, boys. Shall be a Maiden still. * The famous " 'Prentice Boys." 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 Sure.e:^dee, ! No compromise for me ! We want no barrier stone, boys, No gates to guard the hill. Yet the Maiden on her throne, boys, Shall be 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, how- ever, 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 Founa 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 " The Maiden City," are exceptions to the censure expressed in the last verse. HISTORICAL AXD POLITICAL SOXGS. 253 KIXG JA3IES'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 grammatical 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 hari)ers 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 neAvs 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 I^ntr. 254 HISTORICAL AND 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 contributed not a little to the great revolution of 16S8. 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 publica- tions 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 following 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 buUen a la ; Dat we shall have a new debittie (deputy), Lilli burlero buUen 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 — t (throat), Lilli, &c. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SOXGS. 255 Though by my shoul de English do prat, Lilli, &c. De law's on dare side, and Chreist knows what, Lilli, &c. But if dispense do come from de Pope, Lilli, ttc. We'll hang IMagno 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). Lilli, &c. ! but why does he* stay behind 1 Lilli, &c. Ho I by my shoul, 'tis a Protestant wind, + Lilli, &c. Xow T 1 (Tyrconnel) is come ashore, Lilli, &c. And we shall have commissions gillore, Lilli, &c. Ajid he dat will not go to m — ss (mass), Lilli, &c. Shall turn out and look like an ass, Lilli, &c. Xow, 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, X'E on a morning of sweet recreation, I heard a fair lady a-making her moan, With sighing and sobbing, and sad lamentation, Aye singing, ' ' jNIy Blackbird for ever is flown I 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 be, " I will go, a stranger to peril and danger, ]\Iy heart is so loyal in every degree ; For he's constant and kind, and courageous in mind : Good luck to my Blackbird, Avherever he be ! In Scotland he's loved and dearly approved, In England a stranger he seemeth to be ; But his name I'll advance in Ireland or France. Good luck to my Blackbird, wherever he be. " The birds of the forest arc 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 liim and me, His right I'll proclaim, and who dares me blame ? Good luck to my Blackbird, wherever he be." THE SOLDIER. From " Songs and Ballads," by Samuel Lover. This soldier is supposed to be one of the many whom the penal laws forced to fight under foreign banners, and we may imagine the battle-field to have been in Flanders. 'TwAS 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 puU'd out his little ci'uisJceen,'^ And drank to his pretty colleen.i " Oh, darling ! " says he, " when I die You won't be a widow — for why 'i Ah ! you never would have me, vourneen.'' X 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. \ Darling HISTORICAL AXD POLITICAL SONGS. 200 And visions fair of his native mount' 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, "2sot 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 historj- of Ireland as possessing " a character of grandeur, as passing as it was bright, but which will be long remembered with melancholy pride by her sons, and as long recall the memory of that admirable man to v\ hose patriotism she owed her brief day of freedom, and upon whose name that moment- ary 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, Svo, pp. 359 to 375. The gen'rous sons of Erin, in manly virtue bold, \\ ith hearts and hands ju'eparing our country to uphold, Tho' cruel knaves and bigot slaves disturb'd our isle some years, Now hail the man who led the van of Irish Volunteers. The Rockingham Ministry. 276 fflSTORICAL 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 appea: 3, That gallant man, who led the van of Irish Volunteers. He sows no vile dissensions ; good-will to all he bears ; He knows no vain pretentions, no x)altry 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-two ; " " He li-atched it in its cradle, and bedeivd its hearse ivith tears,' t This gallant man, who led the van of Irish Volunteers. While other nations tremble, by proud oppressors gall'd, On hustings J we'll assemble, by Erin's welfare call'd ; Our Grattan, there we'll meethim, and greet him with three cheers ; The gallant man, who led the van of Irish Volunteers. THE SHAN 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 ; * This would make the date of the song somewhere about 1S09. tMr. Grattan's feeling and impressive words were these — "I watched by the cradle of Irish Independence, and I followed its hearse." X This shows it to be an electioneering song, and for such an occasion far above the ordinary mark. § Properly spelt, An t-sean hhean hhochcl, meaning the Poor Old "Woman— another name for Ireland. II 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. Oh ! the French are in tlie Bay,* They'll be here without delay, And the orange will decay, Says the Shan A^'an Vogli. Oh ! the French are in the Bay, They'll be here by break of day And the orange will decay, ' Says the Shan Van Vogli. And where will they have their camp ? Says tlie Shan Van Vogh ; Where will they have their camp ? Says the Shan Van Yogh. On the Curragh of Kildare,t The boyst they will be there Witli their pikes in good repair, Says the Shan Van Vogh. To the Curragh of Kildare The boys they will repair, And Lord Ed\vard§ will be there, Says the Shan Van Vogh. Then what will the yeomen do % Says the Shan Van Vogh ; What i\:ill the yeomen do ? Says the Shan Van Vogh ; What sliould the yeomen do, But throw off the red and blue, And swear that they'll be true To the Shan Van Vogh ? What should, &c. And what colour will they wear 'i Says the Shan Van Vogh ; What colour will they wear ? Says the Shan Van Vogh ; * Ban try. t A noble plain in the county of that name, often used for encampment. A famous race-course is also there. t 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 Geraldine. The Gen*ldines 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 Kildare and Jlenry VII. See also, "TheChainof Gold," in this collection, p. 243. 278 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SOXGS. What colour should be seen Where our Fathers' homes have lieeii, But their own immortal Green ? Says the Shan Van Vogh. AVhat colour, &c. And will Ireland then be free ? Says the Shan Yan Vogh ; Will Ireland then be free ? Says the Shan Van Vogh ; Yes ! Ireland shall be free, From the centre to the sea ; Then hurra for liberty ! Says the Shan Van Vogh. Yes ! Ireland, &c. There are many versions of this song, wliich has always been a favourite with the people at all times of political excitement, either varied or rewritten, according to cir- cumstances. 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'Counell substituted for that of Lord Edward. SHAN VA^ VOUGH. A Street Ballad. 1 have said, in the notes to the foregoing song of tha same title, composed in 179G, that it was a favourite form of expressing popular opinion at all times of political ex- citement. Tlie following version I remember hearing sung in the streets of Dublin, soon after a debate in the House of Lords on some Irish question. HISTORIC A I. AND POLITICAL SOAGS. 279 On, I'm told that Anglesea,* Says the Shan Van Voiigh ; Oil, I'm tokl 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,t 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 ; For 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 Rock, alas, is gone. Says the Shan Vough ; * The Marquis of Anglesea. Pronounced by the ballad-singers Ang-gla-sdy. 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 tlicm on the field of Waterloo. X Captain Rock. The supposititious leader of insurrectionary movemcuts. His memoirs, by Moore, arc well worth reading by any one who wishes to be briefly acquainted with the political disturbances of Ireland from the earliest times down to 1S24. 280 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS, And tliougli Rock, alas, is gone, 111 hold you ten to one He'd be with us here anon, Says the Shan Van Yough. But no Hussar* we'll see, Says the Shan A^an Vough ; But no Hussar we'll see, Says the Shan Van Vough ; But no Hussar we'll see. For old Erin shall be free. An " So help me God " says she, The Shan Van Vough. strange enough, it was the Duke of Wellington who, after making many strong epeeches 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 covering the ample shores of the harbour ; and at the final moment of de- parture 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. UP FOR THE GREEN! A song of the United Irishmen, 179G. Air—" AVearing of the Green." 'Tis the green — oh, the green is the colour of the true. And we'll back it 'gainst the orange, and we'll raise it o'er the blue ! For the colour of old Ireland alone should here be 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 be seen ; But we've hands — oh, we've hands, boys, 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. * The Marquis of Anglesea, it may be remembered, was famous as an Hussar officer ; or, I should rather say, it can never he forgotten. HISTORICAL AXD POLITICAL SOXGS. 281 So, we'll up for the green, and we'll up for the green ! Oh, to die is far better than be curs'd as we have been ! And we've hearts — oh ! we've hearts, boys, full true enough, 1 ween, To rescue and to raise again our o^vn immortal green ! They may swear, as they often did, our wretchedness to cure ; But well 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, boys, and up for the green ! Shout it back to the Sasanach, " We'll never sell the green I " For our ToxEt 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 I Oh, 'tis still in the dust, and a shame to be seen ; But we've hearts and we've hands, boys, full strong enough, 1 ween. To rescue and to raise agam our own unsullied green ! * Alluding to the expected succour from France. t Theobald "Wolfe Tone, one of the most active of the United Irishmen. He pre- sented 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 negotiations, he had one interview with Napoleon Bonaparte. After much labour and many disappointments he obtained, in 179G, the aid he sought for. He was made CheJ de Brigade, and placed on the staff of General Hoche, to whom the command of the expedition was intrusted. It was one of great importance. The fleet consisted of forty-three sail, seventeen being of the line, carrying some fifteen thousand French troops, with ample supply of war- like 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 Britisli cruisers, and the remainder returned to Brest in a very shattered condition. Tone, though thus bafiQed 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 following year, and again under Hoche's com- mand. That exi)edition 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 ex- posed to the intended attack. The mutiny was suppressed before the Texel fleet, under Admiral De Winter, could put to sea, and gave Admiral Duncan the opportunity 3f meeting it at Camperdown, and obtaining his famous victory of the 11th of October, 282 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. 1707; a conquest wliich seriously crippled the naval power of the confederated Ee publics 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 Ire- land, and a third expedition was undertaken, in August, 1798, 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 BomiDart, sailed from r.rest 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 commodore'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 reqiiested to be shot. This was re- fused, 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 does 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 suggestion 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 diver- sion 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 probable, that even all his overt preparations at Boulogne were only ditersions 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 art- istic 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 magnilo- quence ; 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 Dr. Drennan have made the same m.istake : 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 ad- miration, 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 misrepresented, 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 v,-ork of a gentleman. Moreover, it appears to me the whole heart of a nation must have been roused lefore 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. When 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 blessed, With her back towards Britain, her face to the West, Erin stands proudly insular, on her steep shore, And strikes her high liarp '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, '^''alker 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 flungthem- selves into the ranks, extolling the sweets of peace," -— 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 iSind that could wield it, alas ! is laid low. 29G HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. How long lias it slumber'd secure in the sheatli ! 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 '98 ' ' 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 higli gallows tree. " " Alannaf alanna/* 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 yon 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 Lord — 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'll 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 POLITICAL SOXGS. 297 ' ' Tis holy, cvp'a ! * with the bravest and best Go I go I from my heart, and be join'd with the rest ; Alatiua 7na chrce I 0, alanna ma dirce /f Sure a ' sta^ ' + 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 ; Ko traitor e'er held up the firm head so high — No traitor e'er show'd such a proud flashing eye. On the higli gallows tree ! on the brave gallows tree I "Where smil'd leaves and blossoms, his sad doom met he ; But it never bore blossom so pure or so fair. As the heart of the martyr that hangs from it there. 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 dis- grace 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. But, 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-stining song. Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight — Who blushes at the name ? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, W^ho hangs his head for shame ? He's all a knave, or half a slave. Who sliglits 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 tlie few- Some lie far off beyond the wave — Some sleep in Ireland, too ; All — all are gone — but still li\ es on Tlie fame of those who died — All true men, like you, men. Remember them with pride. My love. t Beauty of my heart. t An informer. 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 be 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 Right— They fell and passed away ; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here's their memory — may it be 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 Ninety-Eight. A PROSPECT. Edward Lysaght. 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 Jenky a glass. Who'd ride on John Bull,. and make Paddy an ass. HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SOXGS. 209 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 i)igeons 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, t When we've got none at home for ourselves, sir ! Give Pitt, &c. Says an alderman — " Com will soon grow in your shops ; This Union must work our enslavement." " That's true " says the Sheriff, "for plenty of cropsX Already I've seen on the pavement." Give Pitt, &c. Ye brave loyal yeomen 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 gnreat thoroughfares. The former was then the " Bond Street" of Dublin. \ The limitation of exports and imports was a source of great discontent. J 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 corjise, all so liaggard 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 brow came breaking Up into his enemy's eye — And now his limbs were not shaking. But his clench'd hand his bosom cross'd, And he look'd a fierce wish to be taking Revenge for the boy he had lost ! But the old man he looked around him, And thought of the place he was in, And thought of the promise wliicli bound lilni, And thought that revenue was sin— HISTORICAL AXD POLITICAL SOX OS. 301 And tlien, 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 tran- quiiUty was that the people had recommenced their faction-fijhts. Now, a most expres- sive meaning lay beneath this apparent contradiction, as is frequently the case in tliat figure of speech entitled an Irish bull ; for it was a fact that, whenever the peasantry were leagued in unlawful combinations against constituted authority, they ceased to lik'ht among themselves. DEAR LAND. When comes the day all hearts to weigh, If staunch they be, or vile. Shall we forget the sacred debt We owe our mother isle 'i 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 tliink of all your long dark tlirall — Your martyrs brave and true ; And dash apart the tears that start — We must not iceep 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 liis brothers twain Were 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 hear Of Erin's pride of yore, Ere Norman foot had 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. Dear 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. Dear land — Were sweet, endured for you, No name is given to claim the authorship of these passionate lines. There are 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 ditficult passages of double rhymes, thus increasing the mechanical difficulty. The model of its rythmical structure is to be found, if I ani 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 to this section I spoke of the diflSculty 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 harsh offensiveness occur. There are a good many of the political HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SOXGS. 303 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 flEBEL 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 ex- claims — " Then farewell father, and mother too, And sister Mary : — I have but you I — 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 — ••' IToly water, Slaughter, slaughter, Sprinkle the Catholics every one ; We'll cut them asunder, And make them lie under, And Protestant boys shall carry the day.** "Well, the fugitive who has sung the f)laintive strain has not done liis song yet ; he contemplates coming back to Ireland on some future day, and, after lamenting his liard lot in being expatriated, he concludes with a promise displaying quite as much ferocity as his antagonista — 301 HISTORICAL AND POLITICAL SONGS. " But if I live, and tliat I come home, I will whet my pike on their orange bones." But political vengeance is not exhausted in f. When 'tis night, aiul 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 fight's begmi, Each serving at his gun Should any tliought 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 kmd 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 fight'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 clieer Their hearts to hear Tiiat her own true sailor he was one. This is a charming song, and full of sweet sentiment, and hai, therefore, enjoyed great popularity. Moore, in his Life of .Sheridan, notices the inadmissable rhyme. 33C MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. " 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 once. She is the cold virgin— or a splendid jewel— light of the poet — fairest of beauty's train— the harp's inspiration— 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 coklness did suitors' hopes wither, Tlie 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 ankle flows ! Now why should we wonder if thousands surrender, Like Connor to Deirdre,t 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 ; Clan-Murray's fair darling — my harp's inspiration, Bright swan of Lough Glynn, beauteous daughter of John ! * Bcra means the old O'SuUivan Country in the south-west of Cork. The head of the family is still called O'SuUivan 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. JOHK BaXIM. In Irelaud, 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.— Aidhor's note. The mother died when the child was born, 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 arms to walk m glee, Out in the sharp, fresh gale. x\nd then my little girl grew strong, And laughed the hours away ; Or sung me the meriy lark's mountain song. Which he taught her at break of day. ^Yhen she wreathed her hair in thicket bowers. With the hedge-rose and hare-bell blue, I called her my May, in her crown of flowers. And her smile so soft and new. And the rose, I tliought, 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 I many long miles, And I thought of her, and her only 1 She darkened my path, like a troubled dream. In that solitude far and drear ; I spoke to my child I but she did not seem To hearken with human ear. She only looked witli 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 be 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 a soldier's fame, I hoped to rest in woman's smile. And win a minstrel's name. Oh ! little have I served my land, No laurels press my brow, I have no woman's heart or liand, Nor minstrel honours now. But fancy has a magic power, It brings me wreath and crown, And woman's love, the self-same liour It smites oppression down. Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be, I have no joy beside ; Oh ! throng around, and be to me Power, country, fame, and bride. WHOE'ER SHE BE, I LOVE HER. From the Irish. Translated by Edward AValsh. Through pleasure's bowers I wildly flew, Deceiving maids, if tales be true. Till love's lorn anguish made me rue That one young Fair-neck saw me. Whose modest mien did awe me, Wlio left my life to hover O'er death's dark shade — The stainless maid, Who'er she be, I love her ! MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. V>: Her liair like quivering foliage flows, Her heart no thought of evil knows, Her face witli purest virtue glows, Her fame all hate defying — While for her crowds are dying, And round death's threshold hover. Where I, for one, Am nearlj' gone — Wlio'er she be, I love her ! What beauteous teeth, and lip, and neck, And eye, and brow the maiden deck ! Wliat 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, Who'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, Wlio can divide From me my bride ? Whoe'er she be, I love her ! But first to Eirne's lovely lake, Wliere maids are gay, our course we'll take, Where generous cliiefs 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 I 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 Lover. From sweet Tipperary See light-hearted Maiy, 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 bare-footed — Like Venus, or Cupid, 4.nd who'd be so stupid to put her in silk. When her sweet foot and her ankle The dewdrops bespangle. As she trips o'er the lawn, At the blush of the dawn, As she trips o'er the lawn with her full nail of milk. MISCELLAXEOUS SOXGS. 335 For the dance when array'd, See this bright mountain maid, If her hair she woukl 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 fasliion 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. DowxiNQ. I lo\t: it, I love it, \Miatever its hue — Be ic flark 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 tlie starlight, It breaks into spray — When broadly and briglitly 'Tis flashing in day. 336 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. But oil ! when the green Island shores are at rest* AVhen 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 CALYES. From the Irish. One evening mild, in summer Aveather, My calves in the wild wood tending, I saw a maid, in whom together All beauty's charms were blending — " Permit our flocks to mix," I said, " 'Tis what a maiden mild would. And when the shades of night are fled We'll lead our calves from the wild wood. " 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 ! ' ' 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 prevailed among the Irish peasantry. MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. 337 THE FIRST CUCKOO IX SPRING. J. F. Waller, LL.D. This song is written to a charming air, called "My Bonnie Cuckoo," given in " Bunting's Ancient Music of Ireland" (Dublin, 1S40). The cuckoo's musical inten-al 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 bonnie cuckoo from a thicket near : {Cuckoo, Cuckoo /) "Do Listen, my dear, 'Tis the first cuckoo's note I have heard tliis 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/) "All, would I might roam With that bonnie 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/) "Xomaid 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 : " (Cu.ckoo, Cuckoo f) " '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 liis side steals his daughter fair. (Cuckoo, Cuckoo /) There's a bird in the grove That sings a sweet song all yomig maidens love. (Cuckoo. Cucl'oo /) 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 Iiis ears very wondrous things : (Cuckoo, Cuckoo/) " I love your dear Mave, And won her young heart just without your leave.' Cu-zlyjo, Cuckoo.^) " She is willing to roam H'om her own beloved nest to my distant home." Y 538 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. Half in fear, half in anger, her sire awakes, As her lip on his brow a soft farewell takes. (CHf.too, Cuchoo /) The old man is alone, For vision, and cuckoo, and child are gone : {Cuchoo Cuchoo I) A sweet voice whispers near— " 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 answered 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, Do^vn 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, Wliile distant bugles faintly ring Around the lonely haunted spring. MAURYEEN. TuE cottage is here as of old I 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 lies before me, — The river— the mountain — the valley of green ; And heaven itself (a bright blessing 1) is o'er me : But where is ISIaurj'een % 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 on the things that have been ; Then away to the world, where the ruin'd ones wander, To seek for Maurj^een ! Pale peasant, perhaps, 'neath the fro^vn of high heaven, She roams the dark deserts of sorrow unseen, Unpitied — unknown ; but I — I shall know even The gf/ios< of IMauryeen ! ♦ In Ireland, the fairies are said to abide in the " green hills." TOM MOODY. Andrew Cherry. Andrew Cherry was born in Limerick, January 11, 1762. He received a respectable education at a grammar school there— was intended for holy orders, but his father meeting 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 provinces up to Dublin, and thence to London, and was received with much ap- plause. 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, pos- sessing a tenderness of sentiment 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 Kacer," of Dibdin. You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well ; The bell 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 dress'd, Supported poor Tom to an " earth " made for rest ; His horse, which lie 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 I — now press him ! Tally-ho !— TaUy-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 FAINIED FOR DEEDS OF ARMS. AxDREW Cherry. 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 I 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 dei)art ; 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, Rushed, and caught him in her arms ! Oh ! death, he cries, thou'rt welcome now to me I For, hark ! the trumpet sounds a victory ! THE BAY OF BISCAY. Andrew Chekry. Here is a third song of Chierry'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'a pleasing and effective music. This was also one of Braham's favourites, and one of the 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, O ! Now dash'd upon the billow, Our opening timbers creak : Each fears a wat'ry pillow. None stoj)s the dreadful leak : To cling to slipp'ry shrouds Each breathless seaman crowds, As she lay, till next day. In the Bay of Biscay, ! At length the wish'd-for morrow Broke thro' the hazy sky ; Absorb'd in silent sorrow. Each lieav'd a bitter sigh ; The dismal wreck to view Struck horror to the crew, As she lay, on that day, In the Bay of Biscay, O ! M/SCELLAXEOUS SOXGS. 34:5 Her yielding timbers sever, Her pitcliy seams are rent, "NVlien Heaven, all-bounteous ever. Its boundless merev sent ; A sail in sight appears. We hail her ■with tliree cheers : Kow we sail, -with the gale, From the Bay of BisVav, ! D E I R P R E. From the Irish. PeirJre, the daughter of Felimy, the son of Dall, was exquisitely beautiful. At her birth it was prophesied she should prove the ruin of Ulster. The king, Connor ^facXessa, caused her to be educated with great caro, and in guarded seclusion, in- tending to make her his queen ; but Peirdre preferred the young Naisi. one of the sons of Usnach, to the old king, and, snatching a favourable opportunity, threw a rose to Xaisi, which, according to the custom of that day, bound him in honour to maiTy 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. Xaisi trusted in the king's word ; but Peirdre 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,"^' higli house of the sun ; Farewell to the mountain, the clill", and the dun ; Dun Sweeny, adieu ! for my love cannot stay. And tarry I must not, when love cries " away.'' Glen Yashan ! Glen Yashan ! where roebucks run free, AVhere my love used to feed on the red-deer with me, Where, rocked on thy waters, while stormy winds blevr, INIy love used to slumber — Glen Ya.shan, 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, 'INIong 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. Glcniirchy ! Glenurcliy ! where loudly and long, My love used to wake up the woods with his song, While the son of the rock,* from the depths of the dell, Laughed sweetly in answer — Glenurcliy, farewell ! Glen Etive ! Glen Etive ! where dappled does roam, Where I leave the green sheeling, I first called a home, Where with me my true love delighted to dwell, The sun made his mansion t — 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." On arriving in Ireland, they are conducted to Emania, and lodged in the house of the Red 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 bound- ing 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. DETRDRE'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH. Translated from the Irish by S. Ferguson, M.R.I. A. The lions of the hill are gone. And I am left alone — alone ; Dig the grave both wide and deep, For I am sick, and fain would sleep. * " Son of the rock : " the echo. — How charmingly fanciful ! jf She calls Glen Etive Bally-Graine, or " Suntown," MISCELLANEOUS SOXGS. 346 The falcons of the wood are flown, And I 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 ; ^Lmy a time the noble three Reddened 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 tlie gentle woodsmen go. Sweet companions, were ye ever Harsh to me, your sister ?— never. Woods, and wilds, and mistj- 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. Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling Oh 1 to hear the echoes pealing Round our green and fairy^ sheeling, When the three with soaring chorus, Made the skylark 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 Vsnach. The cattle, listening to it, viilkcd over tv:o-thinls more than teas their wont." Modern dairymen increase their cow^^s milk from pipes of another sort. 340 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 will never 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 Connor'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 Connor. Dig the grave both wide and deep. Sick I am, and fain would sleep ! Dig 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 en)C7»d 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 rakmg, never thinking, Live the rakes of Mallow. Spending faster than it comes, Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns, Bacchus' true begotten sons. Live the rakes of Mallow, MISCELLANEOUS SOXGS. ;U7 One time nought but 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 ; 13ut where there is good claret plying Live the rakes of iSIallow. Living short but merry lives, Going where the devil drives, Having sweethearts, but no wives, Live the rakes of iMallow. 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 MalloTr. LAST WISH. Fbaxcis Davis. Oh ! 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 tlu'ow the wliite rose far away. For Willie's brow was fair ; Nor bring the leaf of golden tint, To teU of Willie's hair. I drew the curls across his brow, ]\ry heart beat quick and sore ; I gazed upon that frozen snule '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 hearty You'll soon be full as low. Oh I there's a spot at Devis' foot Where longer lies the dew. And there are daisies purer wliite. And violets deeper blue ; 348 AflSCELLANEOUS SONGS. Look on them kindly as you pass, But touch no tknver tlicre, Tor Willie said they bloomed for liiin, To twine in Annie's hair. F Then draw the curtains closer round, And hide from me the skies : 1 cannot bear that sunny blue, So like my ^Yillio's eyes : And raise yo up this swimming head, INIy last dear wish to crave : Now mother, mother, mind ye this — Lay me in Willie's grave ! THE LAIMENTATION OF HrCTT PxEYNOLDS. 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 otYcnce never committed 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. ^Iy name it is Hugh Reynolds, T 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 ; slie'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, \N'ho 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 ; 1 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 ;" so Hugh says of the girl that costs him his life, " She's a dear maid to me." MISCELLANEOUS SOAGS. 319 Adieu my loving f.-itlior, nnd you my toiulor motlicr, Farewell my dearest brother, who has sullored soro for me ; With irons I'm surrounded, in ^Tief I lie confounded, By perjury unbounded ; she's a dear maid to mo. Now I can say no more ; to the Law-board I must go, There to take the last farewell of my friends and counteric ; May the angels, shining bright, receive my soul this night, And convey mc into Heaven to the blessed Trinity. I would caU the English readers attention to the triple rliymcB through this balla.I, and though the rhymes be not always perfect, they are Hulliciently close (vowel rl.ymeK) to ring on the car. The word iu the first line, at the c:iisural point, rliyniea to the final word, which is again rhymed to at the c:esural point of the second or alternate line, ai * '"" •"" <• r^^Q ^ruth I will ut\fvld, that my precious blood she s<>ld,^ In the grave I must He cold ; she's a dear maid to me." If the rhymes were always as i-erfect as these, any one conversant with metrical struc- ture will see that Ihcy might bo given in three separate lines with an alternate fourth and eighth • but as that would tax the rhymer too heavily, he adopts llie expedient o writing a quatrain of which only the second and fouuh lines mu«t rhyme, r/ ntccssxhj leaving him free to rhyme as often and a.s c lo.cly «. he can, throughout the first and third, as thus, in the first verse :— •• Ly loving of a maid, one lalln rine AlacCa^e, My life has been betrayed, slie's a dear maid to me." It is with a view to the Knglish reader I have made this note, and given an rjrnmpfe (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. -♦- WILLV IIKILLY. This ballad has ever been a great favourite In Irelan.l, particularly in the North, where the incident is said to have occurred on which it is founded ; and as the hero an.l the heroine were of different religious communions, a certain party spirit became engaged in the feelings excited by this ballad, which, .loublless, increa-scd its popularity. But, setting a.-iide any other cause than its own iutrinhic 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. *' On : rise up, Willy Reilly, and come along with mc, I mean for to go with you and leave this counteric, , , „ To leave my father's dwelling-house, his houses and froo land ; And away goes Willy Keilly and his dear Cookn Bawn* They go by hills and mountains, and by yon lonesome plain, Throu-di shady groves and valleys all dangers to refrain ; But her father followed after with a well-arm'd band, And taken was poor Keilly and his dear Coolen Bawn. • i'air young girl. 353 MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. It's home then she was taken, and m 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, For nothing but the stealing of his dear Coolen Bawn. *' Now, in the cold, cold iron, my hands and feet are bound, 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 be succoured by my dear Coolen Bawn.'^ The jailor's son to Heilly 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'd"^ you'll suffer sorely for your dear Coolen Bawn/ Now Willy's dress'd 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 be found, He's fit for Foillard's daughter, was she heiress to a cro^^■n, " 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 be 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,t 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." * Afraid. Afearcl is the universal pronunciation of tliis word among the peasantry in Ireland to this day, and is but the retention of the old English mode— witness Shak- epeare : — " Fye, my Lord, fye— a soldier and af eard ? "— Moc?»cS'Ae' /f come— though her visit be paid in a coach ; \nd however disguised be the domino rare, The mask falls at^last— Petributiox is there ! The Squireen lived high, drank champagne ev'ry day,^^ " Tally ho 1 " in the morning ; at night, "hip, hurrah ! " In reckless profusion the low rascal revelPd ; The true "beggar on horseback " — you know where he travell '.u But riot is cosSy- with gold it is fed, \nd the Squireen's affairs got involved, it is said ; And time made things worse. Then, in wild speculation He plunged, and got deeper. Next came pec-ulation— There isljut one letter in difference— what then ? If one letter's no matter, what matter for ten ? One letter's as good as another — one man Can write the same name that another man can ; And the Squireen, forgetting Jds own name, one day Wrote another man's name,— with a "promise to pay ; — All was up with the Squireen— the " Hue and Cry " spread, With " Five Hundred Reward" on the miscreant's head ; His last desp'rate chance was a precipitate flght. In the darkness— his own kindred darkness — of night. 374 THE BLACKSMITH. But what of the Blacksmith ? — The exil'd one, cast From the peace of his home to the wild ocean blast ? Was he drown'd ? — as the pitying prophecy ran ; Did he die % — as was wished by the heart-broken man. No ! Heaven bade him live, and to witness a sign Of that warning so terrible — " Vengeance is mine ! " ^^ He return'd to his home — to that well-beloved spot Where first he drew breath — his own wild mountain cot. To that spot had his spirit oft flown o'er the deep When the soul of the captive found freedom in sleep ; Oh ! pleasure too bitterly purchased with pain. When from fancy- wrought freedom>lie woke in his chain To labour in penal restraint all the day, And pine for his sea-girdled home far away ! — But now 'tis no dream — the last hill is o'erpast, He sees the thatch'd roof of his cottage, at last, And the smoke from the old wattled chimney declares The hearth is unquenched that had burn'd bright for years. With varied emotion his bosom is swayed. As his faltering step o'er the threshold's delayed : — Shall the face of a stranger now meet him, where once His presence was hail'd with a mother's fond glance, With the welcoming kiss of a sister ador'd ? A sister ! — ah ! misery's linked with that word, For that sister he found — but fast dying. A boy Was beside her. A tremulous flicker of joy In the deep-sunken eye of the dying one burn'd ; Recognition it flash'd on the exile returned, But with mingled expression was struggling the flame — 'Twas partly afiection, and partly 'twas shame, As she falter'd "Thank God, that I see you once more. Though there's more than my death you arrive to deplore ; Yet kiss me, my brother ! — Oh, kiss and forgive — Then welcome be death ! — I had rather not live Now yon have return'd ; — for 'tis better to die Than linger a living reproach in your eye : And yoiCll guard the poor orphan — yes, Phaidrig, ma chreej Save from ruin my child, though you could not save me. Don't think hard of my mem'ry — forgive me the shame I brought — through a villain's deceit — on our name : When the flow'rs o'er my grave the soft summer shall bring, Then in your heart the pale flow'r of pity may spring. " No word she spoke more — and no words utter'd he — They were choked by his grief ; but he sank on his knee, And down his pale face the big silent tears roll — That tribute which misery wrings from the soul, And he press'd her cold hand, and the last look she gave Was the sunset of love o'er the gloom of the grave. THE BLACKSMITH. 375 Tlie old forf^e still existed, where, days long ago, The anvil rang loud to the Smith's lusty blow, But the blows are less rapid, less vigorous row, _ \nd a grey-haired man wipes labour's damp from his brow. But he cares for the boy ; who, with love, gives l^im aid With his young 'prentice hand in the smithy s small trade, Whose stock was but scanty ;— and iron, one day, Beincr lack'd by the Blacksmith— the boy went his way. Savins, "Wait for a minute, there's something 1 found^^ Th' other day, that will do for the work, I'll be bound And he brought back a gun-barrel.— Dark was the look Of the Blacksmith, as slowly the weapon he took : " Where got you this, boy ? " " Just behmd the house here ; It irust\ave been buried for many a year. For the stock was all rotten, the barrel was rusty— " Say no more," said the Smith. Bitter Memoiy, trusty As watch-dog that barks at the sight of a foe, Spranc^ up at this cursed momento of woe, Ind the hard-sinewed Smith drew his hand o er his eyes, And the boy asks him why— but he never repbes. * * * -^ * * Hark ! hark !— take heed ! What rapidly rings down the road ? 'Tis the clattering hoof of a foaming steed. And the rider pale is sore in need, As he 'lights at the Smith's abode ; For^the horse has cast a shoe, And the rider has far to go— From the gallows he flies. If o'ertaken, he dies. And hard behind is the foe Tracking him fast, and tracking him sure ! 'Tis the forger— the scoundrel Squireen of Knocklure ! Flvinc' from justice, he flies to the spot _ Where did justice not strike him, then justice were not :— As the straw to the whirlpool— the moth to the flame- Fate beckons her victim to death and to shame ! Wild was the look which the Blacksmith cast, As his deadliest foe o'er his threshold past, And hastily ordered a shoe for his horse ; But Phaidrig stood motionless— pale as a corse, While the boy, unconscious of cause to hate (The chosen minister, called by Fate), Placed the gun in the fire, and the flame he blew From the rusty barrel to mould a shoe. Fierce, as the glow of the forge's fire. Flashed Phaidrig s glances of speechless ire, 876 THE BLACKSMITH. As the Squireen^ who counted the moments that flew, Cried, " Quick, fellow, quick, for my horse a shoe ! " But Phaidrip;'s glances the fiercer grew. While the fugitive knew not the wreck of that frame, So handsome once in its youthful fame. That frame he had crush'd with a convict's chain, That fame he had tarnish'd with felon stain. " And so you forget me ? " the Blacksmith cried. The voice rolled backward the chilling tide Of the curdling blood on the villain's heart, And he heard the sound with a fearful start ; But, with the strong nerve of the bad and the bold, He rallied — and pull'd out a purse of gold. And said, " Of the past it is vain to tell. Shoe me my horse, and I'll pay you well. " Work for you ? — no, never ! — unless belike To rivet your fetters this hand might strike, Or to drive a nail in your gallows-tree — THE BLACKSMITH. 377 Tliat's the only work you shall have from me — When you sT\-ing, I'll be loud in the crowd shall hoot you." " Silence, you dog — or, by Heaven, I'll shoot you !" And a pistol he drew — but the startled child Rushed in between, with an outcry wild, " Don't shoot — don't shoot ! oh, master sweet I The iron is now in the fire to heat, 'Twill soon be ready, the horse shall be shod." The Squireen returned but a curse and a nod, Xor knew that the base-bom child before him Was his o^yn that a ruined woman bore him ; And the gun-barrel, too, in that glowing fire, A\'as his o^vn — one of those he had hid to conspire 'Gainst the Blacksmith's life ; but Heaven decreed His o^vn should result from the darksome deed, For the barrel grows red — the charge ignites — Explodes 1 — and the guilty Squireen bites The dust where he falls. Oh, judgment dread ? His o-ftTi traitor weapon the death-shot sped, By his own child it was found, and laid In the wrong'd one's fire — the gathering shade Of his doom was completed. — Fate's shadows had spread Like a thunder-cloud o'er his guilty head. And the thunder burst, and the lightning fell, Where his dark deeds were done, in the mountain dell. The pursuit was fast on the hunted Squireen ; The reeking horse at the forge is seen — There's a shout on the hill, there's a rush down the glen, And the forge is crowded with armed men ; With dying breath, the victim allowed The truth of the startling tale The Blacksmith told to the greedy crowd, Who for gold had track'd the trail. Vain golden hope — vain speed was there ; The game lay low in his crimson lair ; To the vengeance of earth no victim was giv'n, 'Twas claim' d by the higher tribunal of Heaven ! £^ THE DEW-DROP. Paet I. A DEW-DROP, once, In a summer's niglit. Was touched by the wand Of a faithless sprite, As the moon in her change, Shot a trembling ray Down the bosky dell Where the dew-drop lay ; And tainted with change By the wild-wood sprite, Was the dew-drop, till then So pure and so bright. For what might be pure, If 'twere not the dew ? A gift from the skies Earth's sweets to renew. THE DEW-DROP. ^'^ What may be bright As the dew-drops are k Kindred are they To the evening star. Blest is the dew When the day s begun. It flies to the kiss Of the godlike sun. Blest is the dew - At the evening hour, Taking its rest In some grateful tlower, That gives forth its odour, To welcome the fall Of the dew-drop that sinks In the balmy thrall. Enfolded in fragrance, Entranc'd it lies, TiU the morning's dawn, When it lightly flies From the balmy lips Of the waking flower. Which droops through the day, When the dew-drop's away. And mourns the delay Of the evening hour. O, how the sprite-struck Dew-drop stray'd 'Mong the wildest fiow'rs Of the wild- wood glade 1 Toying with all, She was constant to none \ Though she held her faith To the lordly sun. She sought a new couch As the eve grew dim, But at morning she ever Ketumed to him. The fond rose pined In its hidden heart Wliile the dew-drop play'd tier changeful part. 380 THE DE W-DROP. And though it was kiss'd By some dew-drop bright, Griev'd that it was not The one of hist night. The leaf-shelter'd lily, Pale "flow'r of the vale," The love-plaint felt Of the nightingale ; Whose song never bore So much meaning as now :— O sympathy ! — subtle In teaching art thou. The violet (heart-like), The sweeter for grief, Sigli'd forth its balm In its own relief ; While its jealous companions Conceiv'd it blest. And envied the pang Of an aching breast. Thus, eve after eve. Did the dew-drop betray Some leaflet that smiled On the pendant spray ; And blossoms that sprang From a healthful root, Faded in grief. And produced no fruit. But what cared she ? Who was always caress'd, As she sank in delight On some fresh flower s breast. Though it died the next night, She could pass it, and say, *' Poor thing — 'twas my love Of yesterday. " At last, in her pride, She so faithless got. She even forsook The forget-me-not. THE DEW-DROP. 381 And Nature frown'd On the bright coquette, And sternly said— " I will teach thee yet A lesson so hard Thou wilt not forget V A Vj Paut II. The roses of summer Are past and gone, And sweet things are dying One by one ; 382 THE DE IV-DROP. But autumn is bringing, In richer suits, To match with his sunsets, His glowing fruits ; And the flowers the dew-drop Deserted now, For the richer caress Of the clustering bough. So dainty a dew-drop A leaf would not suit, For her nothing less Would suffice, than the fruit. The bloom of the plum And the nect'rine's perfume Were deserted, in turn, A fresh love to assume ; And, as each she gave up, If her consciense did preach, Her ready excuse Was the doAvn of the peach. But fruits will be gathered Ere autumn shall close ; Then., where in her pride May the dew-drop repose ? Nor a bud, nor a flower, Nor a leaf is there now ; They are gone whom she slighted- There's nought but the bough. And the dew-drop would now Keep her mansion of air, With her bright lord the sun, Nor, at evening, repair To the desolate earth ; Where no lovers remain But grasses so humble, And brambles so plain, So crooked, so knotty, So jagged and bare — Indeed would the dew Keep her mansion of air ! THE DE W-DROP. 883 But Nature looked dark, And her mandate gave, And the autumn dew Was her winter slave, "When the lordly sun Had his journey sped, Far in the south. Towards ocean's bed ; And short was the time That he held the sky. His oriilamb waving Nor long nor high ; And the dew-drop lay In the dark cold hours. Embraced by the weeds That survived the flowers. Oh ! chill was her tear, As she thought of the night She had wept in pure joy At her rose's delight ; While now for the morning She sigh'd ; — that its ray Should bear her from loatlisome Embraces away. Like a laggard it came ; And so briefly it shone, She scarce reach'd the sky Ere her bright lord was gone ; And downward again Among weeds was she borne, To linger in pain Till her bright lord's return. And Nature frown'd On the bright coquette, And again she said — " I will teach thee yet, A lesson so hard Thou wilt never forget ! " ''%'^ ,^^/^s ^s^:\"' ^