ILLINOIS UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN PRODUCTION NOTE University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library Brittle Books Project, 2009. 6c / tj Ci. j THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY From the colleci1ou of James Collins, Drnmcondra Purchasd, T-rl1anrI 1918. 8z1 .os ciz8 GEMS OF THE CORK POETS COMPRISING THE COMPLETE WORKS OF CAILLANAIN, CONDON, CASEY, FITZGERALD, AN~D CODY. CORK: PUBLISHED BY JOSEPH BARTER & ACADEMY STREET. SONS, CONTENTS. CALLANAN'S WORKS. PAGB Recluse of Inchidony, . Accession of George the Fourth, Restoration of the Spoils of Athens, Revenge of Donal Comm, - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 1 16 24 27 MISCELLANEOUS. Gougane Barra, To a Sprig of Mountain Heath, Spanish War Song, - - - - - - SONGS, LYRICAL PIECES ' Si je t - n \ perds, je suis perdu," 43 44 - - How keen the Pang, To a Young Lady on entering a Convent, Lines on a Deceased Clergyman, - - - - &C. - - - - - 46 - - - - - - - - 48 - - Lines on the Death of an amiable and highly-talented Young Man, who fell a victim to fever in the West Indies, And must we part, Pure is the Dewy Gem, To * * * * - - - - - - - - - - 50 51 51 - - - - - - - - 52 - Stanzas, - - - - - - - 53 - - - - - - - 54 - - - - - - - - - - - The night was still, Serenade, - Rousseau's Dream, When each hright star is clouded, Hussa tha measg na realtan more, 54 55 56 56 SACRED SUBJECTS. The Virgin Mary's Bank, Mary Magdalen, - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 57 58 Saul, - - - - - - - 59. The Mother of the Maccahees, - - - - - - 60 Moonlight, - - - - - - 60 62 65 - - - . TRANSLATIONS FROM THE IRISH. Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear, Gjyl I love, - - - - - - - - - - - - - The Convict of Clonmel, - - - - - - - - - - - - The The Outlaw of Loch Lene, - 66 .67 iV CONTENTS. PAGE Jacobite Songs, - - O Say my Brown Drimin, - -67 - n, - - - - - . - The White Cockade, The Avenger, - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The Lament of O'Gnive, On the Last Day, - - A Lay of Mizen Head, The Lament of Kirke White, The Lament, - - rhite, - Lines Written to a Young Lady, Stanzas, Lines to Miss 0. D Lines to Erin. Wellington's Name, The Exile's Farewell, - - Song, - - - - De la vida del cielo, To the Star of Bethlehem, Lines to the Blessed - " - - -81 - Tho' dark fate bath reft me, 81 - - - Sacrament, 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 77 79 79 80 - - - - - - 82 83 84 NOTES. Notes to the Recluse of Inchidony, iNotes to Donal Comm, - - - - - - - - - - - 86 86 CONDON'S WORKS. GILLA HUGH ; OR, THE PATRIOT MONK. Introduction, I.-The Abbey, 11I.-The Abbot, - . ~ - - - . III.-MacTyre, . - CANTO - - - - - - - - - - - IV.-The Bivouac, Y V.-The Snare, SVI.-The Battle,VII.-The Submission, Y VII.-The Abbot's Death, ~ - - - - - - - - - - " - - - - * - . - 97 101 113 122, 133 143 151 161 171 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Penitent (or the Legend of O'Carrool), - - - " Sonnet,. - Battle Hymn, - - Sonnet, - - Father Mathew,The Arab's Defiance, In Memoriam,.Ave Maria, A Sketch, El Moro Santo, - -- - - - -- - - - 180 184 185 186 - " 186 188 " 190 - - - - " - . - - - " - - - 191 191 193 CONTENTS. PAGE From the Italian of St. Ligouri, Sonnet to Spain, - - - - - The Patriot Monk, - 197 - - The Pauper Hero, 19G - 197 - 198 - The Last of the Abencerrages, - -199 Sonnet, - - " - - The Vesper Bell, Death, - - Serenade, Sonnet, 201 - - 201 - - - 202 - - 203 203 - - - - Sonnet (from the same), - Griffin's Grave, - - - On the Motion, &c., Sonnet from the Italian, The Emigrant's Farewell, The Shipwreck, - - - - - - To * "* - - - 203 204205 206 - - 206 207 211 212 - - - - Blackpool, From Dante's Inferno, Bright Sunlight of Freedom, April, May, - - - - - -214 - - 218 218 - - - - - Reveries, The Adoration of the Shepherds, To Banha, The Blessed Sacrament, From the Latin of St. Bernard, -219 - - 220 - - 222 223 - 224 - - 226 - CASEY'S WORKS. CORK LYRICS. Major Massy, 0 ! N~ew Song, Election of 1818, De Piece o' Plate, Part I., IDe Piece o' Plate, Part II., Ka-ti Kief, the Maiden of Bagdad, The Gathering of the Clans and Cons, Phil Fogarty's Freedom, " Ultimus Romanorum," Billy's Lamentation, "De Corporation Wake," A Ballad, - - - Fancy Ball Songs, The Queen's Visit to Cork, The Christening of the Prince of Wales, The Local Bill, Jenny Looney, The Clock of' Shandon, The " Great Liherator," God Bless Him ! - 229 - - - - - - - - - - - - 230 232. 235 238 -240 - 242 244 - . - - - - - - 247 - -251 255 - - - 256 - - 261 - - - - - - 204 - 265 Xi CONTENTS. Vi PA(SK Hail to Ireland's Liberator, - - - On Seeing the " Latest" Attack on the Liberator, *267 - - 268 * - - -269 Father Mathew's Birth-Night, Father Mathew's Welcome Home, To Marguerite of Kilcolta, Fifty-Two and Fifty-Three, - - - Hail to onr Glorious Apostle, - - -270 - - - - - -274 Farewell to the Minstrel of Erin's Green Isle, To Miss Catherine Hayes, Samuel Lover, - Emmett, - - - - -277 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -282 - -283 - - - - - A Grecian Harvest Home, Acis and Galatea, - - -286 - - - - - - The Birth of Venus, - - The Shandon Belles, - - - Jim Crow's Budget, Part II., A Trip to Cove, - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The Donkey of Dongourney, The National Exhibition of the Land of the West, On Seeing Hogan's Statue of William Crawford, Address on Re opening George's Street Theatre, Prologue, Spoken at George's Street Theatre, Epilogue, Spoken at George's Street Theatre, Fill to the True and Brave, On Seeing the Picture of Mary Queen of Scots, The Lament on Fletcher's "Shamrock Table," On Seeing Mr. Gallaher, the Ventriloquist, Lola Montez, The Colonel's Last Kick, The Burial of the Colonel, The Young " Prince of Rails," Song, 279 279 280 281. - - Jim Crow's Budget, Part I., 275 276 - - - The Beautiful Girls of Tipperary, 0! When the Sunbeams of Peace, To Frederick Douglas, The Power of Steam, The Columbine, - 272 - - When the Tempest Hath Ceased, Keeping np the Steam, Tipperary, - 270 - - - Local Effusions, The Shandon Bells, by Father Prout, 0 ! Blarney Castle my Darling, ' De Groves ov de Pool, The Town of Passage, Part I., The Town of Passage, Part II., The Town of Passage, Part III., The Parson who lov'd Divarshun, From the " Freeholder," 1830-A Petite Opera, - - - - - - 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 292 295 296 298 -299 - -300 - - - - - - - - - - - - 301 303 304 305 306 307 -308 - 309 311 - - 313 315 315 - - - - - - 316 318 - 319 322 323 - - - - - - - - - 324 324 328 V11 CONTENTS. PACE1 332 335 337 340 Prologue to the Play of " The Poor Soldier," by M. J. Barry, Prologue, on Second Performance, Prologue to " The Agreeable Surprise," 1Looey Philip and Her Grayshus Majesty, FITZG.ERALD'S WORKS. SONGS OF THE LEE. Ihe Exile's Return., t'ork is the Eden for you, 'The Pretty Girls of Cork, 'Ihe Fine Boys of Cork, Thse Lost Maiden, The Patriot's Grave, 'The Plighted Word, The Regatta, 'The Trumpeter, - Love, and me, ~347 - - - - - - - - 348 349 31 152 353 354 351 - - - - The Giant's Stairs, The Harvest Moon, ''he Green Hills of Cork, The Bridge that Barnard built, The Leprechaun, 'The Eider on the Yalla Horse, The Abbot's Leap, The Sailor-Boy's Slumber, Brenan, Joseph lily Moore-First Part, Second Part, Third Part, ~ The Haven of Rest, 'The Lover's Revenge, 11urrah for the Green Old Isle ' The Lee Club Regatta Song, 356 - - - - - _ - 370 - - - LuEENes kND Bxs Nu rsery No. Ill., IV., No. - - 374 376 377 L kDS. 379 381 382 383 385 386 - - - 371 373 - - - -Grave, 'Ihe .postle's lDon't forget " Poor Bother'd Dan," To the Memory of Robert Burns " No Irish need apply," The Mayor's Election, The Christian Brothers, The Knight on the Coal-Black Steed, S-ong of the Irish Breeze, 'The Spring of the Heart, Rhymes to suit the TLimes, No. I. No. II., ~ >> >> - - 357 - - 359 360 361 163 364 365 367 -3GS 368 - 388 - - - - 390 391 392 393 395 397 398 '(iii CONTENTS. PAGE' The Blarney Stone, Irish Volunteers' Marsellaise, Challenge to Mr. Rarey, Foreign Lands and Irish Hearts, - - - - - - -400, - 402 404 - - - - - - -405 ity of Cork Alphabet for 1860, Be True, - - 407 " One Story is Good till Another is told," The New Crusade, The Dream of Steam, To the Memory of David Skeehan, - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 408 410 411 412 - - A National Petition to her Majesty the Queen. The Orphan's Journey-Part First, ~ ~ Part Second. ~ ~ Part Third, The Diamond Hunter, A Dream of the Palm, The Captive Knight, Twenty Pounds Reward The Silver Bells, The Lone Star, . Little Agnes Mary, Sic itur ad Astra, Farewell, - - - - - - - - * 415 418 419 - - - - . - 42W 420- - - - - - - - - - - - - 443, - - 444 - - 445, - - 425 428. 434 435 437 - - 414 - - CODY'S WAORKS. THE RIVER LEE. L-Gougane Barra, the source of the Lee, CHAPTER II.-The Pass of Keimaneigh-Lough Allua-Inchegeela-Castle of Carrignacurra-The OLearies-Toon Bridge-Dundarirk Castle-River Sullane-Castle of Carrig-a-Phooka, CHAPTER 11.-Macroom-The Castle-Historic Notices-Carrigadrohid Castle -Beautiful Scenery-The River Dripsey-Inniscarra and its Ruined Church, CHAPTER IV.-The River Bride-The M'Sweeneys-Kilcrea Abbey and Castle -Arthur O'Leary-Bishop Hurly-Muskerry-The Ovens-BallincolligThe Barrets-Legend of Poul-an-Ifrin-Carrigrohan Castle-The Approach CHAPTER to Cork, - - - . CHAPTER 454 418 - 463 - - - - - - - - 469 475 482 490, 497 503. - V.-The City of Cork, VI.-The City of Cork-continued. Historic Notice, CHAPTER VII.-The City of Cork-centinued, CHAPTER VIII.-The Corkonians, CHAPTER IX.-The Corkonians-centinued, CHAPTER X.-From Cork to the Harbour-conceesion, CHAPTER 44. THE POEMS OT? J. J. CALLANAN. WITH BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION AND NOT&So MEMOIR. A LENGTHY detailed biography of Mr. Callanan would be quite out of place. His career was a short one, and not marked by any very stirring events. He met with and worked through, after his own fashion, a variety of trials and vicissitudes, but they were not more severe than those with which thousands of men around us are coping every day. The narrative of their battle of life we never think of giving to the public-no one would care for it. But the poet we never deal with as an ordinary man. What would be commonplace in another is, at least for his admirers, replete with interest in him. We are anxious to know all about him-to know him without his works as well as within them-to be able to compare the thoughts and sentiments he has uttered to the world with those that lived and moved really within him; and we will love him all the better should we find that he has sketched from life. This interest many of us, particularly in the South of Ireland, feel in J. J. Callanan. He was born in Cork, in the year 1795, and from his very birth was devoted, by the piety of his parents, to the priesthood-rather rashly, as the event showed. There was nothing remarkable in his boyhood. He describes it himself, and, as my informants testify, justly, in the single line"A boyhood wayward, warm and wild." At school there is no foreshadowing of the future poet. He was a clever boy, gifted with a wondrous memory, but not otherwise distinguished. Neither here, nor afterwards at college, does he reach to any pre-eminence above his fellows. One master of his assured the present writer that he always foresaw "Jerry's future greatness," but I fear his was much of a "post factum" judgment. Mr. Callanan was never through life conspicuous for industry, and probably the " boy was father of the man." He had talent enough to distinguish himself both at school and in college, but he did not give his talent fair play. Schoolmates and college acquaintances agree in this. His preparatory classical studies were completed between the schools of Mr. O'Sullivan, in Cork, and Dr. Harrington, at Cove, alias Queenstown, and he entered Maynooth for the class of rhetoric at the age of Ill MEMOIR. seventeen. Up to this he appears to have been at least passive as regards the choice of the clerical state. He had for it neither definite liking nor dislike, and allowed matters to proceed according to the disposal of his parents, whom he dearly loved. Now, however, passiveness was no longer possible. He must now choose, not by proxy, but of himself, and the choice, once made, is irrevocable. Hitherto he had seen the priesthood under only one aspect--that of the state chosen for him by his parents. Its solemn nature, its grave obligations, the arduous self-denial inherent to it, had never cost him a thought. They were now made to him the subject of daily lecture and daily meditation. Twice each year he was brought into the solitude of retreat to ponder on the solemnity of the Christian priesthood, and to discuss with his own conscience the questions,--" May I presume to aspire to this solemn state ? What is my aptitude for it ?" One can easily understand how a mind like his must have brooded over all this; how great must have been the struggle within him as the necessity to determine for himself grew day by day into a more nearly approaching reality. He was by nature almost morbidly sensitive, and sensitive people have a peculiar talent for detecting those of a fellow feeling, and love to -associate with them. We are not, then, surprised when we find Mr. Callanan associated with the most scrupulous of his fellow-students, doing and suffering injury by the companionship. Poor loving, doubt-distracted heart !it must have had many a pang during those two years of self-scrutiny. Which of these two paths is he to take? There comes the blighting of the long and fondly-cherished hopes of those he holds dearest on earth if he choose this ; the strong word of the Apostle-" No man takes upon himself the honour, unless he who has been called by God, as Aaron," warns him from the other. It was a painful, despairful dilemma; and conscientious men must admire his decision, although perhaps, and even more than perhaps, as he himself and those who best knew him afterwards thought, he did not decide aright. He left Maynooth in the summer of 1815, determined not to return. A Rev. Mr. Magrath, a college friend of his, communicated this intention to his father at the end of vacation; but the good man took it so ill, that Mr. Callanan was induced to make another experiment of himself. He writes to his sister-" If this letter makes my parents easy, it will restore to me that peace which I want no less than they. To relieve their anxiety, I shall endeavour to know myself He returned to Maynooth, made his spiritual more thoroughly," retreat, and left almost immediately. He writes to his father :-" I have consulted two clergymen, eminent for piety and prudence; they have both been of opinion that I should follow the promptings of my MEMOIR xiii conscience. I hope this will meet the approbation of God Himself." Now for a weary, aimless course ! Of twenty years of age, but of as little worldly wisdom as a child, he has broken from his moorings, and is floating away outward into the wide sea of life. Whitherwards ? He had not yet thought of any definite pursuit. He was like one escaping from some dreaded object-anywhere, anywhere, was his feeling. It is not wonderful that in the agitation and confusion necessarily attendant on his leaving college, he should have no alternative provided ; but it is wonderful that never, to the very end of his life, did.he practically, permanently think about any definite pursuit. The following entry is found amongst his latest memoranda:-" Lisbon, November, 1827.Recollections of Maynooth-morning bell-frosty morning-five o'clock. Benedicamus-Soldier of Jesus, mine was not your lot-the better way is to submit to what I must be-what thou willest, or I am lost for ever -oceans of mercy, let but the remotest billow touch me and I am saved -deep moonlight-cloudy region of my own soul." It reads as if, with all his " promptings of conscience " and confessor's sanction, he had still had always some misgiving about his abandonment of the clerical state. He had certainly many of the finest qualities of a worthy priest, and it would be quite unfair to conclude that the unstable and purposeless character of his life after leaving Maynooth would have appeared in a fixed and well-defined avocation. But perhaps what was, was best. Our author was probably not without becoming conscious of his possession of the poetic faculty before his twenty-first year, though we have no evidence thereof. In the Recluse of Inchidony, he speaks of his youthful admiration of Byron in a manner that would indicate something more than merely speculative appreciation" Bard of my boyhood's love." I cannot believe, however, that Moore also did not come in for a share of his boyhood's love, and I am disposed to add, Scott. Certainly both, as well as Byron, came at length to hold a high place in his esteem. His first known efforts are of the date 1816, the year after leaving college; but I would fix the decided opening of his poetical career about the period of his connection with Trinity College. He had indulged in verse up to that time as an essay, an amusement; other projects were at least entertained and attempted after a manner, but henceforward I fear he only thought of being a poet. The successful competition for two prizes in poetry seems to have determined his vocation. He had joined the university with a view to qualify for the medica profession. Bearers of the Callanan name had been noted physicians in Xiv MEMOIR. the western district of Cork county. The connection of the name with excellence in the healing art had passed into a proverb; and it was on no other account he dreamed of being a doctor, for he had no fitness or taste for the life. He was connected with Trinity College for two years, and, except the prize poems already mentioned, did nothing. He paid fees for medical lectures, but I believe never attended one. He returned to Cork aimless and unfixed as ever. There would neither be interest for the reader, nor pleasure to the writer in a detailed account of his life henceforward. Nor, indeed, is there much in it. Ile contributed some things to Blackwood, he advertised a volume of poems for publication, he projected a collection of Irish songs, he struck out the outline of stories, some in prose, some in verse, illustrative of Irish legend or history, he completed a few of the latter, he sometimes settled down at his sister's, sometimes availed of the hospitality of good friends, and tarried amid scenes fullof attraction for him-the glens and mountains of West Cork. Occasionally he grows tired of idleness and dependence, and accepts an engagement with Dr. Maginn, father of the celebrated Maginn, in Cork, or with Mr. Lynch at the Everton School, finally in Lisbon-voilc tout ! There is only one period of his life, since leaving Maynooth, on which one can dwell with pleasure-the period from his arrival in Lisbon to his death. Here, in a strange country, without the light of familiar faces to cheer him, he is forced in upon himself. He reads over the history of his own pasthis mistakes, his vicissitudes, his disappointments, and grows wise and good as he reads. Ill health has intensified the sensibility of a naturally highly sensitive mind, and he is full of shame and sorrow as the errors and shortcomings of the past ten years rise before him. In a note-book kept by him at this time we read as follows :-" What a dark waste I leave behind !" Again-" God pursues me ;I hope God has overtaken me, but not in His justice. My director in Ireland told me that God was pursuing me; my director here in Lisbon says something similar. I did not wait for God, but he followed me over the ocean, and I hope has overtaken me. A million of praises to God ! I have been at communion to-day." His noble heart begins to vindicate itself, and beats after the old fashion. The old worthy objects of love, half forgotten, half obscured, come again freshly and vividly before him. He thinks of God, of the Virgin Mother, of his father, friends. "Christmas eve, 1827. This night twelvemonth I was in Clonakilty with dear friends; this night I am alone in a land of strangers, but, as I purpose, please God, I seek to be alone with God, I shall be happy anywhere." "Jan. 1st, 1828.-In the name of the most Holy Trinity. Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto, sicut erat in principio et nune et semper in MEMOIR. XY secula siculorum. Amen." In another place-" Most pure above the angels and the saints, Mary, shall not this harp be strung to thee, thou loveliest far of all ever born of earth-woman, but mother of JesusVirgin, the heaven-born snow is dark to thy purity and brightness." Again :" Beneath the sun of Portugal, where golden Tais shines, I sat upon the hill that crowns the 'Valley of the Vines,' A breeze came coolly from the north, like an angel's passing wing, And gently touching it awaked sad memory's sleeping sting; I thought upon my friends and home, and on my father dear, And from my heart there came a sigh, and to mine eye a tear, . and I thought how happy I should be Were I upon the Virgin's Bank that looks across the sea." We cannot afford to sympathise with him in his desolation, so purifying has been its influence, and it has so well brought out his better parts. In that lone, sick chamber, finding society in his own exquisite thoughts, he is admirable, he is lovable. It is a pity that he did not outlive this discipline to give us the results of his awakened energy, to work out those beautiful designs of sacred and national poetry which we find in mere outline in his note-book. But it is better, perhaps, as it is. Requiescat in pace. The moral qualities of our author were of a very high order. Those who knew him well speak of him as scrupulously truthful, and honourable almost to romance. He was meek, and charitable in speech to a degree not very common in those days. He never spoke ill of man; no injury could provoke him to it. Ingratitude itself did not awaken in him a spirit of resentment. Add to these qualities a rare gentleness of manner, and we can easily believe that he was, as is told, very dear to all that had intercourse with him. His more intimate acquaintances felt for him an attachment nearly amounting to devotion; and though thirty years have gone by since his death, he is still fondly remembered by many. He was fond of society during the unsettled portion of his life, but I do not think that he was constitutionally averse to solitude. If we take his own testimony he rather loved to be alone. " 0 solitude, I love thee well." However this be, society was fond of him. There was a rare charm in his conversation, derived more from liveliness and unfailing good-humour than from wit. He sang and recited his own poetry with great animation. Of his poetic powers widely differing estimates have been formed by different critics. His writings were originally given to the public in a very imperfect and unfavourable manner, a circumstance of itself sufficient to damn with judges of a certain stamp. However, the great test of literary merit, permanent and general popularity, may be now fairly referred to as having decided in favour of many of his shorter poems- 1xvi MEMOIR. ,Gougane Barra, his translations from the Irish, and some of his verses on sacred subjects. Had Childe Harold not been written before it, or had another metre been adopted, there is writing in the Recluse of Inchidony that would entitle it to a high place amongst the poems of this century. The Accession of George the Fourth is a beautiful piece of poetry, but what poetry will not be drawn down into the abyss by its subject? The Restoration of the Spoils of Athens also is redolent of Byron; Donal Comm is decidedly the most original and independent, and, therefore, the best of his long poems; but I am persuaded that in national songs and legends, and in sacred poetry, lay his forte. These subjects were nearer his heart, and in every line he wrote his heart was guide to his head. All his writings are characterised by a liveliness of fancy, a beautiful simplicity of language, and smoothness of verse. He composed rapidly, and without effort of much thought, and rarely committed his verses to writing until some purpose required it. There are some lines of his never published elsewhere, with which this sketch may be suitably concluded. They are his own portrait of his character :" A poet's eye whilst yet a child, A boyhood, wayward, warm, and wild, A youth that mocked correction's rod, Caressed would strive to be a god, And scorned to take the second place, In class, or honour, field, or race; A manhood with a soul that flies More high than heaven's own highest skies, But with a wing that oft will stoop, And trail in filthiest dross, and droop; A heart that knows no other fears But fear of him beyond the spheres. With brow and cheek and look as mild As ever graced a sinless child, But still with passions strong and warm As lava flood or headlong storm; With rebel tumult in his veins, And one who rides with spurs, not reins; With mind, which through the waves of sin Still hears the helmsman's voice within. In short, a man who has no life, Unless he feel the mortal strife Of songs and harps and Freedom's fights, And glory's call and Erin's rightsWho's weak, but looks for strength above, Who'd die for those he ought to love." THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. -4------ THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. ONCE more I'm free--the city's din is gone, And with it wasted days and weary nights : But bitter thoughts will sometimes rush upon The heart that ever lov'd its sounds or sights. To you I fly, lone glens and mountain heights, From all I hate and much I love-no more Than this I seek, amid your calm delights, To learn my spirit's weakness to deplore, To strive against one vice, and gain one virture more. How firm are our resolves, how weak our strife ! We seldom man ourselves enough to brave The syren tones that o'er the sea of life, Breathe dangerously sweet from pleasure's cave; False are the lights she kindles o'er the wave; Man knows her beacon's fatal gleam nor flies, But as the bird, which flight alone could save, Still loves the serpent's fascinating eyes, Man seeks that dangerous light, and in th' enjoyment dies. But even when pleasure's cup the brightest glow'd And to her revel loudest was the call, I felt her palace was not my abode, I feared the handwriting upon the wall, And said, amidst my blindness and my thrall, Could I, as he of Nazareth did do, But grasp the pillars of her dazzling hall, And feel again the strength that once I knew, I'd crumble her proud dome, tho' I should perish too. THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. Is it existence 'mid the giddy throng Of those who live but o'er the midnight bowl, To revel in the dance, the laugh, the song, And all that chains to earth th' immortal soulTo breathe the tainted air of days that roll In one dark round of vice-to hear the cries Indignant virtue lifts to Glory's goal, When with unfettered pinion she would rise To deeds that laugh at death and live beyond the skies ? Not such at least should be the poet's life; Heaven to his soul a nobler impulse gave. His be the dwelling where there is no strife, Save the wild conflict of the wind and wave; His be the music of the ocean cave When gentle waves, forgetful of their war, Its rugged breast with whispering fondness lave, And as he gazes on the evening star, His heart will heave with joys the world can never mar. O Nature ! what art thou that thus can'st pour Such tides of holy feeling round the heart ?In all thy various works at every hour, How sweet the transport which thy charms impart ! But sweetest to the pensive soul thou art, In this calm time to man in mercy given ; When the dark mists of Passion leave the heart, And the free soul, her earthly fetters riven, Spreads her aspiring wing and seeks her native heaven. There is a bitterness in man's reproach, Even when his voice is mildest, and we deem That on our heaven-born freedom they encroach, And with their frailties are not what they seem ; But the soft tones in star, in flower, or stream, Over the unresisting bosom gently flow, Like whispers which some spirit in a dream, Brings from her heaven to him she loved below, To chide and win his heart from earth, and sin, and woe. Who, that e'er wandered in the calm blue night, To see the moon upon some silent lake, And as it trembled to her kiss of light, Heard low soft sounds from its glad waters break- Tim RECLUS3E OF INCHIDONY. Who that looked upward to some mountain peak, That rose disdaining earth-or o'er the sea Sent eye, sent thought in vain its bounds to seek,Who thus could gaze, nor wish his soul might be Like those great works of God, sublime, and pure, and free? Do I still see them, love them, live at last Alone with Nature here to walk unseen? To look upon the storms that I have pass'd And think of what I might be or have been? To read my life's dark page?-0 beauteous queen ! That won my boyish heart, and made me be Thy inspiration's child-if on this green And sea-girt hill I feel my spirit free, Next to yon ocean's God, the praise'be all to thee. Spirit of Song ! since first I wooed thy smile, How many a sorrow hath this bosom known, How many false ones did its truth beguile, From thee and nature, while around it strown Lay shattered hopes and feelings, thou alone Above my path of darkness brightly rose, Yielding thy light when other light was gone; O be thou still the soother of my woes, 'Till the low voice of Death shall call me to repose ! I've seen the friend, whose faith I thought was proved, Like one he knew not pass me heedless by; I've marked the coldness of the maid I lov'd, And felt the chill of her once beaming eye : The bier of fond ones has received my sigh. Yet am I not abandoned if among The chosen few whose names can never die; Thy smile shall light me life's dark waste along, No friend but this wild lyre-no heritage but song. 'Tis a delightful calm! there is no sound Save the low murmur of the distant rill ; A voice from heaven is breathing all around, Bidding the earth and restless man be still. Soft sleeps the moon on Inchidony's hill, THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. And on the shore the shining ripples break, Gently and whisperingly at Nature's will, Like some fair child that on its mother's cheek Sinks fondly to repose in kisses pure and meek. 'Tis sweet, when Earth and Heaven such silence keep, With pensive step to gain some headland's height, And look across the wide extended deep, To where its farthest waters sleep in light; Or gaze upon those orbs so fair and bright, Still burning on in Heaven's unbounded space, Like Seraphs bending o'er life's dreary night, And with their look of love, their smile of peace, Wooing the weary soul to her high resting-place. Such was the hour the harp of Judah pour'd Those strains no lyre of earth had ever rung, When to the God his trembling soul adored O'er the rapt chords the minstrel monarch hungSuch was the time when Jeremiah sung With more than Angel's grief, the sceptre torn From Israel's land, the desolate streets among Ruin gave back his cry 'till cheerless morn, " Return thee to thy God--Jerusalem, return !" Fair moon, I too have loved thee, love thee still, Tho' life to me hath been a chequered scene Since first, with boyhood's bound, I climb'd the hill To see the dark wave catch the silvery sheen; Or when I sported on my native green With many an innocent heart beneath thy ray, Careless of what might come or what had been, When passions slept and virtue's holy ray Shed its unsullied light round childhood's lovely day. Yes, I have loved thee; and while others spent This hour of Heaven above the midnight bowl, Oft to the lonely beach my steps were bent That I might gaze on thee without control, That I might watch the white clouds round thee roll Their drapery of Heaven thy smiles to veil, As if too pure for man, 'till o'er my soul Came that sweet sadness none can e'er reveal, But passion'd bosoms know, for they alone can feel. THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. O that I were once more what I was then, With soul unsullied and with heart unsear'd ! Before I mingled with the herd of men In whom all trace of man had disappear'd ; Before the calm pure morning star that cheer'd And sweetly lured me on to virtue's shrine Was clouded-or the cold green turf was rear'd Above the hearts that warmly beat to mine ! Could I be, that once more I need not now repine. What form is that in yonder anchor'd bark Pacing the lonely deck, when all beside Are hush'd in sleep ?-tho' undefined and dark, His bearing speaks him one of birth and pride; Now he leans o'er the vessel's landward side, This way his eye is turn'd-hush, did I hear A voice as if some lov'd one just had died? 'Tis from yon ship that wail comes on mine ear, And now o'er ocean's sleep it floats distinct and clear. SONG. On Cleada's 2 hill the moon is bright, Dark Avondu 3 still rolls in light, All changeless is that mountain's head That river still seeks ocean's bed, The calm blue waters of Loch Lene Still kiss their own sweet isles of green; But where's the heart as firm and true As hill, or lake, or Avondu? It may not be, the firmest heart From all it loves must often part, A look, a word will quench the flame That time or fate could never tame, And there are feelings proud and high That thro' all changes cannot die, That strive with love, and conquer too; I knew them all by Avondu. How cross and wayward still is fate I've learn'd at last, but learned too late; I never spoke of love, 'twere vain, I knew it, still I dragg'd my chain; THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. I had not, never had a hope, But who 'gainst passion's tide can cope? Headlong it swept this bosom thro' And left it waste by Avondu. O Avondu, I wish I were As once upon that mountain bare, Where thy young waters laugh and shine On the wild breast of Meenganine, I wish I were by Cleada's hill, Or by Glenluachra's rushy rill; But no ! I never more shall view Those scenes I loved by Avondu. Farewell ye soft and purple streaks 4 Of evening on the beauteous Reeks, Farewell ye mists that lov'd to ride On Cahir-bearna's stormy side, Farewell November's moaning breeze, Wild Minstrel of the dying trees, Clara ! a fond farewell to you, No more we meet by Avondu. 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 Avondu. To-morrow's breeze shall swell the sail That bears me far from Inisfail; But, lady, when some happier youth Shall see thy worth and know thy truth, Some lover of thy native land Shall woo thy heart and win thy hand, Oh, think of him who loved thee too, And loved in vain by Avondu. One hour, my bark and I shall be All friendless on th' unbounded sea, No voice to cheer me but the wave And winds that thro' the cordage rave, THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. No star of hope to light me home, No, track but ocean's trackless foam'Tis sad-no matter, all is goneHo, there, my lads ! weigh quick and on ! Stranger, thy lay is sad. I too have felt That which for worlds I would not feel again, At beauty's shrine devoutly have I knelt, And sigh'd my prayer of love but sigh'd in vain; Yet 'twas not coldness, falsehood, or disdain That crush'd my hopes and cast me far away, Like shatter'd bark upon a stormy main; 'Twas pride, the heritage of sin and clay Which darkens all that's bright, in young Love's sunny day. 'Tis past-I've conquered, and my bonds are broke, Tho' in the conflict well-nigh broke my heart; Man cannot tear him from so sweet a yoke Without deep wounds that long will bleed and smart. Lov'd one, but lost one !-yes, to me thou art As some fair vision of a dream now flown, A wayward fate hath made us meet and part, Yet have we parted nobly : be mine own The grief that e'er we met-that e'er I live alone ! But man was born for suffering, and to bear Even pain is better than a dull repose ; 'Tis noble to subdue the rising tear, 'Tis glorious to outlive the heart's sick throes; Man is most man amidst the heaviest woes, And strongest when least human aid is given : The stout bark flounders when the tempest blows, The mountain oak is by the lightning riven, But what can crush the mind that lives alone with heaven ? Deep in the solitude of his own heart With his own thoughts he'll hold communion high, Tho' with his fortune's ebb false friends depart And leave him on life's desert shore to lie, Tho' all forsake him and the world belieThe world, that fiend of scandal, strife, and crimeYet has he that which cannot change or die, His spirit still thro' fortune, fate, and time, Lives like an Alpine peak, lone, stainless, and sublime. THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. Well spoke the moralist who said, "The more I mixed with men the less a man I grew ;" Who can behold their follies nor deplore The many days he prodigally threw Upon their sickening vanities? Ye few In whom I sought for men, nor sought in vain, Proud without pride, in friendship firm and true, Oh ! that some far-off island of the main Held you and him you love-the wish is but a pain. My wishes are all such-no joy is mine Save thus to stray my native wilds among, On some lone hill an idle verse to twine Whene'er my spirit feels the gusts of song : They come but fitfully nor linger long; And this sad harp ne'er yields a tone of pride, Its voice ne'er pour'd the battle-tide along Since freedom sunk beneath the Saxon's stride, And by the assassin's steel the grey-hair'd Desmond5 died. Ye deathless stories and immortal songs, That live triumphant o'er the waste of time, To whose inspiring breath alone belongs To bid man's spirit walk on earth sublime, Know his own worth, and nerve his heart to climb The mountain steeps of glory and of fame : How vainly would my cold and feeble rhyme Burst the deep slumber, or light up the shame Of men who still are slaves amid your voice of flame ! Yet outcast of the nations, lost one yet, How can I look on thee nor try to save, Or in thy degradation all forget, That 'twas thy breast that nurs'd me tho' a slave ? Still do I love thee for the life you gave, Still shall this harp be heard above thy sleep, Free as the wind and fearless as the wave; Perhaps in after days thou yet may'st leap, As strains unheeded now when I lie cold and deep. Sad one of Desmond, could this feeble hand But teach thee tones of freedom and of fire, Such as were heard o'er Hellas' glorious land, From the high Lesbian harp or Chian lyre, THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. Thou should'st not wake to sorrow, but aspire To themes like their's ; but yonder see where hurl'd The crescent prostrate lies-the clouds retire From freedom's heaven-the cross is wide unfurl'd, There breaks again that light-the beacon of the World. Is it a dream that mocks thy cheerless doom ? Or hast thou heard, fair Greece, her voice at last, And brightly bursting from thy mouldering tomb, Hast thou thy shroud of ages from thee cast? High swelling in Cantabria's mountains blast, And Lusitanian hills that summons rung Like the Archangel's voice; and as it past, Quick from their death-sleep many a nation sprung, With hearts by freedom fir'd and hands for freedom strung. Heavens ! 'tis a lovely soul-entrancing sight To see thy sons careering o'er that wave, Which erst in Salamis' immortal fight, Bore their proud galleys 'gainst the Persian slave Each billow then that was a tyrant's grave Now bounds exulting round their gallant way, Joyous to feel once more the free-the brave High lifted on their breast-as on that day When Hellas' shout peal'd high along her conquering bay. Nursling of freedom! from her mountain nest She early taught thine eagle wing to soar, With eye undazzled and with fearless breast, To heights of glory never reached before. Far on the cliff of time, all grand and hoar, Proud of her charge thy lofty deeds she rears With her own deathless trophies blazon'd o'er, As mind-marks for the gaze of after yearsVainly they journey on-no match for thee appears. But be not thine, fair land, the dastard strife Of yon degenerate race. Along their plains They heard that call-they started into lifeThey felt their limbs a moment free from chains : The foe came on :-but shall the minstrel's strains Be sullied by the story ?-hush, my lyre; Leave them amidst the desolate waste that reigns Round tyranny's dark march of lava fireLeave them amid their shame, their bondage, to expire. 10 THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. Oh, be not thine such strife !-there heaves no sod Along thy fields but hides a hero's head; And when you charge for freedom and for God, Then-then be mindful of the mighty dead ! Think that your field of battle is the bed Where slumber hearts that never fear'd a foe, And while you feel at each electric tread Their spirit thro' your veins indignant glow, Strong be your sabres sway for Freedom's vengeful blow. Oh, sprung from those who by Eurotas dwelt, Have we forgot their deeds on yonder plain, When pouring through the pass, the Persian felt The band of Sparta was not there in vain? Have ye forgot how o'er the glorious slain Greece bade her bard the immortal story write? Oh, if your bosoms one proud thought retain Of those who perished in that deathless fight, Awake, like them be free, or sleep with names as bright. Relics of heroes, from your glorious bed Amid your broken slumbers, do you feel The rush of war loud thundering o'er your head? Hear ye the sound of Hellas' charging steel? Hear ye the victor cry-the Moslem reel ? On Greeks, for freedom on-they fly ! they fly ! Heav'ns ! how the aged mountains know that peal, Thro' all their echoing tops while grand and high Thermopyle's deep voice gives back the proud reply. Oh, for the pen of him whose bursting tear Of childhood told his fame in after days, Oh, for that Bard to Greece and freedom dear, The Bard of Lesbos with his kindling lays, To hymn, regenerate land, thy lofty praise, Thy brave unaided strife-to tell the shame Of Europe's freest sons who, 'mid the rays Thro' time's far vista blazing from thy name, Caught no ennobling glow from that immortal flame. Not even the deeds of him who late afar Shook the astonished nations with his might, Not even the deeds of her whose wings of war Wide o'er the ocean stretch their victor flight,- THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. Not they shall rise with half the unbroken light Above the waves of time fair Greece as thine; Earth never yet produced in Heaven's high sight, Thro' all her climates offerings so divine As thy proud sons have paid at Freedom's sacred shrine. Ye isles of beauty, from your dwelling blue Lift up to Heaven that shout unheard too long; Ye mountains steep'd in glory's distant hue, If with you lives the memory of that song Which freedom taught you, the proud strain prolong, Echo each name that in her cause had died, 'Till grateful Greece enrol them with the throng Of her illustrious sons, who on the tide Of her immortal verse eternally shall glide. And be not his forgot, the ocean bard Whose heart and harp in Freedom's cause were strung, For Greece self-exiled, seeking no reward, Tyrtaeus of his time for Greece he sung: For her on Moslem spears his breast he flung. Many bright names in Hellas met renown; But brighter ne'er in song or story rung Than his, who late for freedom laid him down, And with the Minstrel's wreath entwined her martyr's crown. That Minstrel sings no more ! From yon sad isles A voice of wail was heard along the deep, Britannia caught the sound amid her smiles, Forgot her triumph songs and turned to weep. Vainly her grief is pour'd above his sleep, He feels it, hears it not !-the pealing roar Of the deep thunder and the tempest's sweep, That called his spirit up so oft before, May shout to him in vain-their Minstrel wakes no more! That moment heard ye the despairing shriek Of Missolonghi's daughters? did ye hear That cry from all the Islands of the Greek, And the wild yell of Suli's mountaineer? Th' Illyrian starting, dropp'd his forward spear, The fierce Chimariot lent upon his gun, From his stern eye of battle dropp'd the tear For him who died that Freedom might be won For Greece and all her race. 'Tis gain'd, but he is gone. 11 12 THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. Too short he dwelt amongst us and too long. Where is the bard of earth will now aspire To soar so high upon the wing of song? Who shall inherit now his soul of fireHis spirit's dazzling light ?-vain man retire 'Mid the wild heath of Albyn's loneliest glen, Leave to the winds that now forsaken lyre, Until some angel-bard come down again And wake once more those strains, too high, too sweet for men. The sun still sets along Morea's hill, The moon srill rises o'er Citheeron's height ; But where is he, the bard whose matchless skill Gave fresher beauty to their march of light? The blue _AEgean, o'er whose waters bright Was pour'd so oft the enchantment of his strain, Seeks him; and thro' the wet and starless night The Peaks-of-thunder flash and shout in vain For him who sung their strength : he ne'er shall sing again. What tho' descended from a lofty line Earth's highest honours waited his command, And bright his father's coronet did shine Around his brow, he scorn'd to take his stand With those whose names must die-a nobler band, A deathless fame his ardent bosom fired, From Glory's mount he saw the promised land To which his anxious spirit long aspired, And then, in Freedom's arms exulting, he expired. You who delight to censure feeble man, Wrapt in self-love to your own failings blind, Presume not with your narrow view to scan The aberrations of a mighty mind; His course was not the path of human-kind, His destinies below were not the same, With passions headlong as the tempest-wind His spirit wasted in its own strong flame, A wandering star of Heaven, he's gone from whence he came. But while the sun looks down upon those Isles That laugh in beauty o'er the Egean deep, Long as the moon shall shed her placid smiles Upon the fields where. Freedom's children sleep- THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. 13 Long as the bolt of Heaven-the tempest's sweep With Rhodope or Athos war shall wage, And its triumphant sway the cross shall keep Above the crescent, even from age to age Shall Byron's name shine bright on Hellas' deathless page. Bard of my boyhood's love, farewell to thee ! I little deem'd that e'er my feeble lay Should wait thy doom-those eyes so soon should see The clouding of thy spirit's glorious ray ; Fountain of beauty, on life's desert way Too soon thy voice is hush'd, thy waters dried : Eagle of song, too short thy pinion's sway Career'd in its high element of pride, Weep, blue-eyed Albyn, weep ! with him thy glory died ! Oh, could my lyre this inexperienced hand, Like that high master-bard, thy spirit sway, Not such weak tributes should its touch commandImmortal as the theme should be thy lay ; But meeter honours loftier harps shall pay, The harps of freeborn men-enough for me If as I journey on life's weary way, Mourner, I rest awhile to weep with thee O'er him who loved our land, whose voice would make her free. My country, must I still behold thy tears And watch the sorrows of thy long dark night? No sound of joy thy desolation cheers, Thine eyes have look'd in vain for freedom's light; Then set thy sun and withered all thy might When first you stooped beneath the Saxon yoke; And thy high harp, that called to freedom's fight, Since then forgot the strains that once it woke, And like the Banshee's cry of death, alone hath spoke. Is this the Atlantic that before me rolls In its eternal freedom round thy shore ? Hath its grand march no moral yet for souls ? Is there no sound of glory in its roar ? Must man alone be abject evermore ? Slave ! hast thou ever gaz'd upon that sea When the strong wind its wrathful billows bore 'Gainst earth ? did not their mission seem to be To lash thee into life, and teach thee to be free ? 14 THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. But no ! thine heart is broke, thine arm is weak, Who thus could see God's image not to sigh; Famine hath ploughed his journeys on thy cheek, Despair hath made her dwelling in thine eye ; The lordly Churchman rides unheeding by, He fattens on the sweat that dries thy brain, The very dogs that in their kennels lie Hold revels to thy fare ! but don't complain He has the cure of souls-the law doth so ordain. But you're not all abandoned : there are some Whose tender bowels groan to see your case. Rejoice, rejoice, the men of Bibles comeThere's pity beaming in their meek mild face! Come, starve no longer now, poor famished race, A bellyful from heaven shall now be thine, Open your mouths and chew the words of grace-There-is not that rent, clothes, and meat and wine? Thanks to the Lord's beloved-I wonder do they dine. Oh ye who loved them faithfully and long, Even when the fagot blazed, the sword did rave, In sorrow's night who bid their hearts be strong, And died defending the high truths ye gaveYe dwellers of the mountain and the cave, If lay of mine survive the waste of time, Your praises shall be hymned on land and wave, Till Christ's young soldiers in each distant clime Shall guard the cross like you, and tread your march sublime. Ye watchers on the eternal city's walls, Ye warders of Jerusalem's high towers, When have your nights been spent in luxury's halls Or your youth's strength consumed in pleasure's bowers ? Earth's gardens have for you no fruits, no flowersYour path is one of thorns. The world may frown And hate you, but whene'er its war-cloud lowers, Stand to your arms again, nor lay them down Till the High Chief you serve shall call you to your crown. Could England's sons but see what I have seenYour wretched fare when home at night you go, Your cot of mud where never sound has been But groans of famine, of disease, and woe, THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. Your naked children shivering in the snow, The wet cold straw on which your limbs reclineSaw they but these their wealth they would forego, To know you still retain'd one spark divine, To hear your mountain shout and see your charging line. England, thou freest, noblest of the world O may the minstrel never live to see Against thy sons the flag of green unfurl'd, Or his own land thus aim at liberty; May their sole rivalry for ever be Such as the Gallic despot dearly knew, When English hearts and Irish chivalry Strove who should first be where the eagle flew, And high their conquering shout arose o'er Waterloo. But prison'd winds will round their caverns sweep Until they burst them, then the hills will quake; The lava-rivers will for ages sleep, But nations tremble when in wrath they wake. Erin has hearts by mountain, glen, and lake, That wrongs or favours never can forget: If lov'd they'll die for you, but trampled, break At last their long dark silence-you have met Their steel in foreign fields, they've hands can wield it yet Too long on such dark themes my song hath run; Eugenio 'tis meet it now should end. It was no lay of gladness, but 'tis done, I bid farewell to it and thee my friend : I do not hope that the cold world will lend To sad and selfish rhymes a patient ear, Enough for me if, while I darkly bend O'er my own troubled thoughts, one heart is near That feels my joy or grief with sympathy sincere. I have not suffer'd more than worthier men, Nor of my share of ill do I complain; But other hearts will find some refuge when Above them lower the gathering clouds of pain. The world has vanities, and man is vain; The world has pleasures, and to these they fly. I too have tried them, but they left a stain Upon my heart; and as their tide roll'd by, The cares I sought to drown emerged with sterner eye. 15 16 THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. Thou hast not often seen my clouded brow; The tear I strovq with, thou hast never seen, The load of life that did my spirit bow Was hid beneath a calm or mirthful mien; The wild flowers' blossom and the dew-drops' sheen Will fling their light and beauty o'er the spot, Where in its cold dark chamber, all unseen, The water trickles through the lonely grot, And weeps itself to stone-such long hath been my lot. It matters not what was or is the cause, I wish not even thy faithful breast to know The grief which magnet-like my spirit draws True to itself above life's waves of woe, The gleams of happiness I feel below, Awhile may play around me and depart Like sunlight on the eternal hills of snow, It gilds their brow but never warms their heart, Such cold and cheerless beam doth joy to me impart. The night is spent, our task is ended now, See yonder steals the green and yellow light, The lady of the morning lifts her brow Gleaming thro' dews of heaven, all pure and bright, The calm waves heave with tremulous delight, The far Seven-Heads 6 thro' mists of purple smile, The lark ascends from Inchidony's height, 'Tis morning-sweet one of my native Isle, Wild voice of Desmond hush-go rest thee for awhile. ACCESSION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH. ON Albion's cliffs the sun is bright, And still Saint George's sea; O'er her blue hills emerging height Hover soft clouds of silvery light, As in expectancy; The barks that seek the sister shore Fly gallantly the breeze before, Like messengers of joy, ACCESSION OF GEORGE THE FOU RTif. And light is every bosom's bound, And the bright eyes that glance around, Sparkle with transport high, Hark ! the cannon's thundering voice Bids every British heart rejoice, Upon this glorious day. Slowly the lengthened files advance Mid trumpet swell and war-horse prance, While sabre's sheen and glittering lance Blaze in the noontide ray, Streamer and flag from each mast-head On the glad breeze their foldings fling, The bells their merry peals ring out, And kerchiefs wave and banners flout And joyous thousands loudly shout, Huzza for George our King ! 'Tis night-calm night, and all around The listening ear can catch no sound, The shouts that with departing day Less frequent burst-have died away, The moon slow mounts the cloudless sky With modest brow and pensive eye, Thames owns her presence with delight And trembles to her kiss of night, Far down along his course serene, The liquid flash of oars is seen Advancing on with measured sweep, Lovely to view is the time they keep, And hark ! the voice of melody Comes o'er the waters joyously, It is from that returning boat Those sweet sounds of triumph float, And nearer as she glides along Mingling with music swells the song. SONG. Britannia exult on thy throne of blue waters, In the midst of thine Islands thou queen of the sea, And loud be the hymn of thy fair bosom'd daughters To hail the high chief of the brave and the free. B 1 18 ACCESSION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH. While o'er the subject deep Proudly your navies sweep, Tars of old England still shout o'er the main, Till the green depths of ocean ring, God save great George our King, Honour and Glory and length to his reign. Hush'd be your war song, ye sons of the mountain, Pibroch of Donald Dhu mute be thy voice, Wizard that slept by Saint Fillan's grey fountain, With loyalty's rapture bid Scotia rejoice, Then to your stayless spear Albyn's brave mountaineer, Should foemen awake your wild slogan again, And loud o'er the battle sing God save great George our King, Honour and glory and length to his reign. Strike thy wild harp yon green Isle of the ocean, And light as thy mirth be the sound of its strain, And welcome with Erin's own burst of emotion, The Prince that shall loose the last links of thy chain, And like the joyous cry Hellas' sons raised on high, When they stood like their fathers all free on the plain, Up the glad chorus fling God save great George our King, Honour and glory and length to his reign. Chief of the mighty and the free Thy joyous Britain welcomes thee, Her longing eyes have watch'd afar The mounting of thy promised star, Beneath its influence benign Long may she kneel at Freedom's shrine. It's rising o'er St. George's main lerne hails with glad acclaim, Dear as to Hellas' weary few Their own blue wave roll'd full in view, Such Erin's song of Jubilee, And such her hopes, 0 Prince, from thee;-- ACCESSION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH. From thee, for thy young steps have stray'd In converse with the Athenian maid, Listen'd to Virtue's high reward As taught by sage or sung by bard, Smil'd at Anacreon's sportive lyre, Or glow'd at Pindar's strain of fire, Or heard the flood of Freedom roll'd From lips that now, alas ! are cold, For ever cold in that dark tomb Where Britain mourns her Fox's doom ;Nurtur'd with these, by these refin'd, She watch'd with joy thy opening mind, Young as thou wert she then could see That Erin's wail was dear to thee, And look'd with transport to the day Would yield the sceptre to thy sway. 'Tis done-on yonder deathless field Ambition closed her bloody game, Bent darkly o'er her shatter'd shield And dropp'd her tear of flame. Europe beheld with glistening eye Her wrongs aveng'd-her fetters riven, And peace and mercy from on high, Diffus'd once more the gifts of Heaven, With Britain's genius hand in hand, Long may they wait on thy command, Long to our vows may they remain To bless, 0 Prince, thy prosperous reign, And waft Britannia's halcyon day To every land that owns thy sway. Yes, even to those stranger-lands Where Niger rolls thro' burning sands; Where fragrant spirits ever sigh On the fresh breeze of Yemen's sky, Or where indulgent nature smiles On her Pelew or Friendly Isles, Commerce and Peace shall waft thy fame And teach the world their George's name. 19 20 ACCESSION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH. In yon fair land of sunny skies Where Brahma hears her children's sighs, And Avarice with her demon crew Drains to the life the meek tGentoo, Justice no more shall plead in vain But point to thine avenging reign. Ganges now no more shall hear, As on he rolls his sacred water, The clash of arms-the shout of fearRedden no more with kindred slaughter; The Hindoo maid shall fearless stray At eve his peaceful banks along, And dance to Scotia's sprightly lay Or weep at Erin's plaintive song, Or sit amid Acacia bowers That hang their coolly shade above her, And as she twines the fairest flowers To deck the brows of her young lover, She'll think from whence these pleasures came. Look to the west and bless thy name. Far o'er the wave where Erin draws The sword in Heaven's best, holiest cause, And sees her green flag proudly sail Aloft on Chili's mountain gale, When swells her harp with freedom's sound And freedom's bowl goes circling round, Then shall the cup be crowned to thee Sparkling with smiles of liberty. The glorious task, O Prince, be thine To guard thy Britain's sacred shrine, To watch o'er Freedom's vestal fire, Call forth the spirit of the lyre, Bid worth and genius honour'd be, Unbind the slave-defend the free, And bring again o'er ocean's foam The wandering Pargiot to his home. Children of Parga are ye goneChildren of Freedom shall her song Echo no more your cliffs among? ACCESSION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH. Shall barbarous Moslem rites profane The shrines that bow'd to Issa's name, To guard your shores from despot's tread Was it in vain your fathers bled, Till every rock and every wave Around them, was a Pargiot's grave? Oh ! that their sons should ever roam O'er ocean's waste to seek a home, Oh ! that the dwelling of the freeParga ! that thou should'st sullied be, By tread of Moslem tyranny. Oh, Greece ! thou ever honour'd name, Even in thy bondage and thy shame Fondly around each youthful mind, By all thy classic ties entwined, How shall this lay address the free Nor turn aside sweet land to thee, Mother of arts and Liberty. From thy bright pages first I drew That soul that makes me part of you, There caught that spark of heavenly fire, If such e'er warms the minstrel's lyre, If e'er it breathes one waking tone O'er freedom's slumbers-'tis thine own. Oh ! after bondage dark and long Could I but hear young freedoro's song, And scatter'd see the Moslem's pride Before thy battle's whelming tide, On that red field I'd gladly lie, My requiem-thy conquering cry. Heavens ! 'mid the sons of godlike sires, Is there no soul whom freedom fires, And is the lyre of Lesbos hung In slavery's hall, unswept, unstrung, Is every glorious relic lost Of that immortal patriot's ashes, That on the winds of freedom tost, Where Salamis' blue billow dashes, Floated all burning from their pile, And slept on continent and isle, 21 22 ACCESSION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH. As if to fire with that embrace His native land and all her race? It cannot be-there yet remain Some sparks of that high spirit's flame; Oh wake them with thy kindling breath, Oh call a nation back from death. Yes captives !yes, at his command Methinks I see Britannia stand, Where stood and died the Spartan band, Where rising o'er Thermopylae Thessalia's mountains view the sea, Sparkling with all its sunny islesOh how can slavery wear such smiles ?And Marathon's, Plate's plain, And Thebes whose heroes died in vain, To each immortal scene about The Queen of ocean sends her shout, While hill and plain and isle around Answer to freedom's long lost sound. Sons of the mighty and the wise, Sons of the Greeks, awake !-arise ! By all your wrongs-by all your shame, By freedom's self, that blessed name, Think of the fields your fathers fought, Think of the rights they dying boughtHark ! hark ! they call you from their skies, Sons of the mighty, wake-arise ! And oh, my country, shall there be From these wild chords no prayer for thee ? Land of the minstrel's holiest dream, Land of young beauty's brightest beam, The fearless heart-the open liandMy own-my dear-my native land ! And can the noble and the wise A nation's rightful prayer despise? Can they who boast of being free, Refuse that blessed boast to thee ? See yonder aged warrtor brave, Whose blood has been on sward and wave, Is he refused his valour's meed Because he loves his father's creed? ACCESSION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH. Or is there in that creed alone, What Valour, Genius, should disown? To its fond votary is there given Less of the mounting flame of Heaven? When his young hand essays the lyre, Oh ! can he wake no tone of fire? Does war's stern aspect blanch his cheek Does foeman find his arm more weak, His eye less bright? Oh let them say Who saw the sabre's fearful sway, Cleave its red path thro' many a fray, Who saw his minstrel banner waving Where war's wild din was wildest raving, And heard afar the onset cry Of hearts that know to win, or die. Oh, Britain, had we never known The kindling breath of Freedom's zone, Or vanquished, had we still remained In slavery's deepest dungeon chained, Without one ray of freedom's sun To wake our sighs for glories gone, Such cheerless thraldom we might bear With the dark meekness of despair; But the chained Eagle when he sees His mates upon the mountain breeze, And marks their free wing upward soar To heights his own oft reached before, Again that kindred clime hlieseeks, Bold bird 'tis vain-thy wild heart breaks ! Oh, monarch ! by a monarch's name, By the high line from which you came, By that, to each proud spirit dear, The lofty name that dies not here, With life's short day-but round the tomb Breathes Immortality's perfume, By Royalty's protecting hand, Look on my dear-my native land. 23 24 RESTORATION RESTORATION OF THE SPOILS OF ATHENS. OF THE SPOILS OF ATHENS. Raise, Athens, raise thy loftiest tone, Eastward the tempest cloud hath blown, Vengeance hung darkly on its wing, It burst in ruin ;-Athens, ring Thy loudest peal of triumphing; Persia is fallen : in smouldering heaps, Her grand, her stately City sleeps; Above her towers exulting high Susa has heard the victor's cry, And Ecbatana, nurse of pride, Tells where her best, her bravest died. Persia is sad,-her virgins' sighs Thro' all her thousand states arise. Along Arbela's purple plain Shrieks the wild wail above the slain; Long, long shall Persia curse the day, When at the voice of despot sway, Her millions marched o'er Helle's wave, To chain-vain boast-the free, the brave. Raise, Athens, raise thy triumph song ! Yet louder yet, the peal prolong ! Aveng'd at length our slaughtered sires; Aveng'd the waste of Persian fires, And these dear relics of the brave, Torn from their shrines by Satrap slave, The spoils of Persia's haughty King Again are thine-ring, Athens, ring ! Oh, Liberty ! delightful name, The land that once hath felt thy flame, That loved thy light, but wept its clouding, Oh ! who can tell her joy's dark shrouding? But if to cheer that night of sorrow Mem'ry a ray of thine should borrow, That on her tears and on her woes, Sheds one soft beam of sweet repose, Oh ! who can tell her bright revealing, Her deep, her holy thrills of feeling. RESTORATION OF THE SPOILS OF ATHENS. So Athens felt, as fix'd her gaze, On her proud wealth of better days; 'Twas not the Tripod's costly frame, Nor vase that told its artist's fame, Nor veils high wrought with skill divine, That graced the old Minerva's shrine, Nor marble bust where vigour breath'd, And beauty's living ringlets wreath'd. Not these could wake that joyous tone, Those transports long unfelt-unknown-'Twas memory's vision robed in light, That rushed upon her raptured sight, Warm from the fields where freedom strove, Fresh with the wreaths that freedom wove, This bless'd her then, if that could beIf aught is blest that is not free. But did no voice exulting raise To that high Chief the song of praise, And did no peal of triumph ring, For Macedon's victorious King, Who from the foe those spoils had won; Was there no shout for Philip's son? No-Monarch-no-what is thy name, What is thine high career of fame, From its first field of youthful pride Where Valour failed and Freedom died, Onward by mad ambition fired Till Greece beneath its march expired ? Let the base herd to whom thy gold Is dearer than the rights they sold, In secret, to their Lord and King That foul unholy incense fling ; But let no slave exalt his voice Where hearts in glory's trance rejoice : Oh breathe not now her tyrant's name Oh wake not yet Athene's shame ! Would that the hour when Xerxe's ire Wrapt fair Athenme's walls in fire, All, all had perished in the blaze And that had been her last of days! 25 26 RESTORATION OF THE SPOILS OF ATHENS. Gone down in that bright shroud of glory The loveliest wreck in after story; Or when her children forced to roam, Freedom their stars-the waves their home, Near Salamis' immortal isle Would they had slept in victory's smile; Or Cheronea's fatal day While fronting Slavery's dark array, Had seen them bravely, nobly die, Bosom on gushing bosom lie, Piling fair freedom's breast-work high, Ere one Athenian should remain To languish life in captive chain, Or basely wield a freeman's sword Beneath a Macedonian lord ! Such, then, was Greece, tho' conquer'd, chained, Some pride, some virtue, yet remained; And as the sun when down he glides Slowly behind the mountains' sides, Leaves in the cloud that robes the hill, His own bright image burning still, Thus freedom's lingering flushes shone O'er Greece,-tho' freedom's self was gone. Such, then, was Greece ! how llen, how low, Yet great even then, what is she now? Who can her many woes deplore, Who shall her freedom's spoils restore, Darkly above her slavery's night The crescent sheds its lurid light; Upon her breaks no cheering ray, No beam of freedom's lovely day; But there-deep shrouded in her doom, There now is Greece-a living tomb. Look at her sons and seek in vain, The indignant brow, the high disdain, With which the proud soul drags her chain : The living spark of latent fire That smoulders on, but can't expire, That bright beneath the lowering lashes Will burst at times in angry flashes, RESTORATION OF THE SPOILS OF ATHENS.' Like Etna, fitful slumbers taking, To be but mightier in its waking. Spirits of those whose ashes sleep For freedom's cause in glory's bed ! Oh do you sometimes come and weep That, that is lost for which ye bled, That e'er barbarian flag should float O'er your own home, in victory's pride, That e'er should ring barbarian shout Where Wisdom taught and Valour died? Oh for that Minstrel's soul of fire That breath'd, and Sparta's arm was strong ! Oh for some master of the lyre To wake again that kindling song ! And if sweet land aught lives of thee, What Hellas was she yet may be, Freedom, like her to Orpheus given, May visit yet her home-her heaven. THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. 'Tis midnight, and November's gale vale, Sweeps hoarsely down Glengarav's Z Thro' the thick rain its fitful tone Shrieks like a troubled Spirit's moan, The Moon that from her cloud at eve Looked down on Ocean s gentle heave, And bright on lake and mountain shone, Now wet and darkling, journeys on; From the veiled Heaven there breaks no ray To guide the traveller on his way, Save when the lightning gilds awhile, The craggy peak of Sliav-na-goil, Or its far-streaming flashes fall Upon Glengarav's mountain wall, And kindles with its angry streak The rocky zone it may not breakAt times is heard the distant roar Of billows warring 'gainst the shore, 27 28 THE hEVXENGE OF DONAL COMM. And rushing from their native hills The voices of a thousand rills, Come shouting down the mountain's side. When the deep thunder's peal hath died. How fair at sunset to the view On its lov'd rock th' arbutus grew, How motionless the heather lay In the deep gorge of that wild bay, Thro' the tall forest not a breeze Disturbed the silence of the trees, O'er the calm scene their foliage red A venerable glory shed, And sad and sombre beauty gave To the wild hill and peaceful wave. To-morrow's early dawn will find That beauty scatter'd on the wind ; To-morrow's sun will journey on And see the forest's glory gone, Th' arbutus shiver'd on the rock Beneath the tempest's angry shock, The monarch oak all scathed and riven By the red arrowy bolt of heaven, While not a leaf remains behind Save some lone mourner of its kind, Wither'd and drooping on its bough Like him who treads that valley now. Alone he treads--still on the blast The sheeted rain is driving fast, And louder peals the thunder's crash, Louder the ocean's distant dashAmid the elemental strife He walks as reckless, as if life Were but a debt he'd freely pay To the next flash that crossed his way ; Yet is there something in his air Of purpose firm that mocks despair, What that, and whither he would go Thro' storm and darkness none may know But his unerring steps can tell. There's not a deer in that wild dell, Can track its mazy depths so well. THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. He gains the shore -his whistle shrill Is answer'd-ready at his will; In a small cove his pinnace lay, "Weigh quick, my lads, I cross the bay.' No question ask they, but a cheer Proclaims their bosoms know not fear. Sons of the mountain and the wave, They shrink not from a billowy grave. Those hearts have oft braved death before, 'Mid Erin's rocks and Biscay's roar; Each lightly holds the life he draws, If it but serve his Chieftain's cause; And thinks his toil full well he pays, If he bestow one word of praise. At length they've cleared the narrow bay, Up with the sails, away ! away ! O'er the broad surge she flies as fleet As on the tempest's wing the sleet, And fearless as the sea-bird's motion Across his own wild fields of ocean. Tho' winds may wave and seas o'erwheln, There is a hand upon that helm, That can control its trembling pow'r, And quits it not in peril's hour ; Full frequently from sea to sky That Chieftain looks with anxious eye, But nought can he distinguish there More desperate than his heart's despair. On yonder shore what means that light That flings its murky flame thro' night Along the margin of the ocean It moves with slow and measured motion ; Another follows, and behind Are torches flickering in the wind. Hark ! heard you on the dying gale From yonder cliffs the voice of wail? 'Twas but the tempest's moaning sigh, Or the wild sea-bird's lonely cry. Hush ! there again, I know it well, It is the sad Ululla's 2 swell, ? 29 30 THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. That mingles with the death-bell's toll Its grief for some departed soul. Inver-na-marc 3 thy rugged shore Is altered since the days of yore, Where once ascending from the town A narrow path looked fearful down, O'er the bleak cliffs which wildly gave Their rocky bosom to the wave. A beauteous and unrivalled sweep Of beach, extends along the deep ; Above is seen a sloping plain, With princely house and fair domain, Where erst the deer from covert dark Gazed wildly on the anchor'd bark, Or listened the deep copse among To hear the Spanish 4 seaman's song, Come sweetly floating up the bay, With the last purple gleam of day.All changed, even yon projecting steep That darkly bends above the deep, And mantles with its joyless shade The waste that man and time have made; There 'mid its tall and circling wood, In olden times an abbey stood ; It stands no nmiore-no more at even The vesper hymn ascends to Heaven ; No more the sound of Matin bell Calls forth each father from his cell, Or breaks upon the sleeping ear Of Leim-a-tagart's s mountaineer, And bids him on his purpose pause, Ere yet the foraying brand he draws. Where are they now-go climb that height, Whose depth of shade yields scanty light, Where the dark alders droop their head O'er Ard-na-mrahar's 6 countless dead, And nettle tall and hemlock waves In rank luxuriance o'er the graves; There fragments of the sculptur'd stone, Still sadly speak of grandeur gone, THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. And point the spot, where dark and deep The fathers and their abbey sleep. That train hath reached the abbey ground, The flickering lights are ranged around, And resting on the bier, Amid the attendants' broken sighs, And pall'd with black the coffin lies; The Monks are kneeling near. The abbot stands above the dead, With grey and venerable head, And sallow cheek and pale. The Miserere hymn ascends, And its deep solemn sadness blends With the hoarse and moaning gale. The last " Amen " was breath'd by all, And now they had removed the pall, And up the coffin reared; When a stern " hold" was heard aloud, And wildly bursting thro' the crowd, A frantic form appeared. He paused awhile and gasped for breath: His look had less of life than death, He seemed as from the grave; So all unearthly was his tread And high above his stately head, A sable plume did wave. Clansmen and fathers looked aghast, But when the first surprise was past, Yet louder rose their grief ; For when he stood above the dead, And took the bonnet from his head, All knew Ivera's Chief; No length of time could e'er erase, Once seen, that Chieftain's form and face Calmly he stood amid their gaze, While the red torches shifting blaze, As strong it flicker'd in the breeze That wildly raved among the trees, Its fitful light upon him threw, And Donal Comm stood full to view. 7 31 32 THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. His form was tall, but not the height Which seems unwieldy to the sight; His mantle, as it backward flowed, An ample breadth of bosom shewed; His sabre's girdle round his waist A golden buckle tightly braced ; A close set trews displayed a frame You could not all distinctly name If it had more of strength or grace; But when the light fell on his face, The dullest eye beheld a man Fit to be chieftain of his clan. His cheek tho' pale retained the hue Which from Iberian blood it drew; His sharp and well-formed features bore Strong semblance to his sires of yore; Calm, grave, and dignified, his eye Had an expression proud and high, And in its darkness dwelt a flame Which not even grief like his could tame; Above his bent brow's sad repose, A high heroic forehead rose; But o'er its calm you marked the cloud That wrapped his spirit in its shroud; His clustering locks of sable hue, Upon the tempest wildly flew. Unrecked by him the storm may blow, His feelings are with her below. "Remove the lid !" at length he cried. None stirred, they thought it strange ; beside. Her kinsman mutter'd something-" Haste, I have not breath or time to waste In parley now-Ivera's chief May be permitted one, last, brief Farewell with her he loved, and then, Eva is yours and earth's again." At length, reluctant, they obey'd; Slowly he turned aside his head. And press'M his hand against his brow, Tis done at last, he knows not how: THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. But when he heard one piercing shriek, A deadlier paleness spread his cheek; Sidelong he looked, and fearfully, Dreading the sight he yet would see; Trembled his knees, his eye grew dim, His stricken brain began to swim; He staggered back against a yew That o'er the bier its branches threw; Upon his brows the dews of death Collected, and his quick low breath Seem'd but the last and feeble strife, Ere yet it yield, of parting life. There lay his bride-death had not quite O'ershadowed all her beauty's light; Still on her brow and on her cheek, It linger'd, like the sun's last streak On Sliav-na-goila's head of snow When all the vales are dark belowHer lids in languid stillness lay Like lilies o'er a stream-parched way, Which kiss no more the wave of light That flashed beneath them purely bright; Above her forehead fair and young, Her dark-brown tresses clustering hung, Like summer clouds, that still shine on When he who gilds their folds is gone. Her features breath'd a sad sweE:t tone Caught ere the spirit left her throne, Like that the night-wind often makes When some forsaken lyre it wakes, And minds us of the master hand, That once could all its voice command. " Cold be the hand, and curst the blow," Her kinsman cried, "that laid thee low ;Curst be the steel that pierced thy heart." Forth sprung that Chief with sudden start, Tore off the scarf that veiled her breast, That dark deep wound can tell the rest.Hlie gazed a moment, then his brand Flashed out so sudden in his hand, 33 34 THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. His boldest clansman backward reeled, Trembling the aged abbot kneeled. " Is this a time for grief," he cried, " And thou thus low, my murder'd bride, Fool ! to such boyish feelings bow, Far other task hath Donal now; Hear me, ye thunder upon high ! And thou blest ocean hear my cry ! Hear me, sole resting friend, my sword, And thou dark wound, attest my word ! No food, no rest shall Donal know, Until he lay thy murderer lowUntil each sever'd quivering limb In its own lustful blood shall swim; When my heart gains this poor relief, Then Eva wilt thou bless thy chiefBless him !-no, no, that word is o'er, My sweet one ! thou can'st bless no more; No more returning from the strife Where Donal fought to guard thy life And free his native land, shalt thou Wipe the red war-drops from his brow, And hush his toils and cares to rest Upon thy fond and faithful breast." He gazed a moment on her face And stooped to take the last embrace, And as his lips to her's he press'd, The coffin shook beneath his breast That heav'd convulsive as t'would break; Then in a tone subdued and meek, "Take her," he said, and calmly rose, And thro' the friends that round him close, Unheeding what their love would say, All silently he urged his way, Then wildly rushing down the steep He plunged amid the breakers' sweep. Awfully the thunder Is shouting thro' the night, And o'er the heaven convulsed and riven The lightning-streams are bright, THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. Beneath their fitful flashing, As from hill to hill they leap, In ridg3 brightness dashing Comes on loud ocean's sweep. Fearfully the tempest Sings out his battle-song, His war is with th' unflinching rocks And the forests tall and strong ; His war is with the stately bark; But ere the strife be o'er, Full many a pine, on land and brine, Shall rise to Heaven no more. The storm shall sink in slumber, The lightning fold its wing, And the morning star shall gleam afar, In the beauty of its king; But there are eyes shall sleep in death Before they meet its ray, Avenger ! on thine errand speed, Haste Donal on thy way. Carriganassig 8 from thy walls No longer now the warder calls; No more is heard o'er goblets bright Thy shout of revelry at night; No more the bugle's merry sound Wakes all thy mountain echoes round, When for thy foray, or the chase, At morn rush'd forth thy hardy race, And northward as it died away Roused the wild deer of Kaoim-an-6. All bare is now thy mountain's side, Where rose the forest's stately pride; No solitary friend remains Of all that graced thy fair domains; But that dark stream still rushes on Beneath thy walls, the swift Ouvan, And kisses with its sorrowing wave, The ruins which it could not save; Fair Castle, I have stood at night, When summer's moon gave all her light, 35 36 THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. And gaz'd upon thee till the past, Camne o'er my spirit sad and fast; To think thy strength could not avail Against the Saxon's iron hail, And thou at length didst cease to be The shield of mountain liberty. From Carriganassig shone that night Thro' storm and darkness many a light, And loud and noisy was the din Of some high revelry within : At times was heard the warder's song Upon the night-wind borne along, And frequent burst upon the ear The merry soldier's jovial cheer : For their dark Chieftain in his hall That day held joyous festival, And showed forth all his wealth and pride To welcome home his beauteous bride. Hush'd was the music's sprightly sound, The wine had ceased to circle round, And to their chambers, one by one, The drowsy revellers had gone; Alone that Chieftain still remains, And still by starts the goblet drains He paced the hall with hurried tread, Oft look'd behind and shook his head, And paused and listened as the gale Swell'd on his ear with wilder wail, And where the tapers faintly flung Their light, and where the arras hung, He'd start and look with fearful glance And quivering lip, then quick advance, And laugh in mockery of his fear And drink again. "Fitz-Eustace ! here, Close well that door and sit awhile, Some foolish thoughts I would beguile : Fill to my bride and say did'st e'er See form so light, or face so fair ? I little deem'd this savage land Such witching beauty could command ; THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. That rebel Erin's mountain wild Could nurse M'Carthy's matchless child; Then drink with me in brimming flow The heiress of Clan-Donal-Roe." 9 Fitz-Eustace quaff'd the cup and said, " I saw one more-she's with the dead, You best know how "-- That Chieftain frown'd And dash'd the goblet to the ground. " Curse on thy tongue, that deed is past, But one word more and 'tis thy last; Art thou t' upbraid me also doomed ;" He paused awhile and then resum'd" Eustace, forgive me what I say, In sooth, I'm not myself to-day ; Some demon haunts me since my pride Urged me to stab that outlaw's bride, Each form I see, each sound I hear, Her dying threat assails my ear, Which warn'd me I should shortly feel The point of Donal's vengeful steel; I know that devil's desperate ire Would seek revenge thro' walls of fire, Even now upon the bridal night, When bridegroom's heart beats ever light No joy within my bosom beams: Beside, yon silly maiden deems That 'twas thro' love I sought her handNo, Eustace, 'twas her father's land. He hath retainers many a one Who with this wench to us are won. You know our cause, we still must aid As well by policy as blade; I loath each one of Irish birth, As the vile worm that crawls the earth; But come, say canst thou aught impart Could give some comfort to my heart; Fell Donal Comm into our snare, Or does the wolf still keep his lair?" " Neither. The wolf now roams at large; 'Twas but last evening that a barge 37 38 THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. Well mann'd, was seen at the close of day To make Glengarav's lonely bay, 'Tis said ;-but one who more can tell Now lodges in the eastern cell; A monk who loudly doth complain Of plunder driven and brethren slain By Donal Comm, and from the strife This night fled here with scarcely life." " Now dost thou lend my heart some cheer, Good Eustace thou await me here; I'll see him straight, and if he show Where I may find my deadly foe, That haunts my ways- the rebel's head Shall grace my walls,-" With cautious tread He reached the cell and gently drew The bolts,-that monk then met his view. Within that dungeon's farthest nook He lay;-one hand contained a book, The other propp'd his weary head; Some scanty straw supplied his bed: His order's habit coarse and grey Told he had worn it many a day, Threadbare and travel-soil'd;-his beads And cross hung o'er the dripping weeds, Whose ample folds were tightly brac'd By a rough cord around his waist ; No wretch of earth seem'd lower than That outcast solitary man. He spoke not-mov'd not from the floor; But calmly look'd to where the door Now clos'd behind th' intruding knight, Who slow advanc'd and held the light Close to the captive's pallid face, Who shrunk not from his gaze ;-a space St. Leger paused before he spoke, And thus at length his silence broke. Father, thy lodging is but rude, Thou seem'st in need of rest and food, THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. If but escaped from Donal's ire, And wasting brand and scathing fire; But prudent reasons still demand, And stern St. Leger's strict command, That every stranger, friend or foe, Be held in durance, till he show What, whence, and whither he would go. For thee ;-if thou canst tell us right, Where that fierce outlaw strays to-night, To-morrow's sun shall see the free'd With rich requital for thy meed; If false thy tale, then, father, hope For a short shrift and shorter rope." He ceased, and as the chief he eyed With searching glance, the monk replied : " I fear no threat,-no meed I crave, I ask no freedom but the grave; There was a time when life was dear; For, Saxon, tho' this garb I wear, This hand could once uplift the steel, This heart could love and friendship feel; That love is sever'd, friends are gone, And I am left on earth alone. Curs'd be the hand that sear'd my heart, And smote me in the tenderest part, Laid waste my lands and left me roam On the wide world without a home, I took these weeds;-but why relate The spoiler's ravage and my hate; Vengeance I would not now forego For saint above or man below. Yes, Donal Comm;-but let me hear, Fling the glad story to mine ear ; How fell the outlaw's beauteous bride? Say, was it by thy hand she died? 'Twill be some solace, and I swear By the all-saving sign I wear, Before to-morrow's sun to show To thine own eyes thy bitterest foe." " 'Tis well !" exclaimed the exulting chief, Have now thy wish, the tale is brief- 39 40 THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. Some few days since as I pursued A stately stag from yonder wood, Straight northward did he bend his way, Thro' the wild pass of Kaoim-an-6, Then to the west with hoof of pride He took the mountain's heathery side, And evening saw him safely sleep In far Glenrochty's forest deep. Returning from that weary chase, We met a strange and lonely place ; Dark bosom'd in the hills around, From its dim silence rose no sound, Except the dreary dash and flow Of waters to the lake below; There was an island in that lake,(What ails thee, monk ? why dost thou shake ? Why blanch'd thy cheek ?)-from thence I brought A richer prey than that I sought; It were but feeble praise to swear That she was more than heavenly fair; I tore her from Finbarrd's 'o shrine Amid her tears, and she was mine; I woo'd her like a love-sick swain; I threaten'd,-would have forced,-in vain; She proudly scorn'd my fond embrace, She curs'd my land and all its race, And bade me hope for vengeance from The sure strong arm of Donal Comm. I stabb'd her !-'twas a deed of guilt, But then 'twas Donal's blood I spilt." That monk sprung forward from the bed, Flung back his cowl and furious said, " Monster, behold my promise free, 'Tis Donal Comm himself you see ! "He started back with sudden cry, And rais'd the lanterna-0 that eye And vengeful smile he knew too well; For him not all the fiends of hell With tortures from their burning place, Had half the horrors of that face.- THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. One rush he made to gain the door, 'Twas vain, that monk stood there before. He shouted loud, and sudden drew A dagger which lay hid from view; At Donal's breast one plunge he made; That watchful arm threw off the bladeBut hark ! what noise comes from below Surely that cry hath rous'd the foe; They come, they come, with hurrying tramp And clashing steel,--the fallen lamp, That mountaineer snatch'd from the ground, A moment glanc'd his prison round, Heav'd quickly back a massy bar, A narrow door-way flew ajar ; A moment cast the light's red glow Upon the flood, far, far below; "No flight is there," St. Leger cried, "Thou'rt mine."--" Now, now, my murder'd bride," He answer'd, and with furious bound One arm had clasp'd his foeman round ; A moment with a giant's might, He shook him o'er that dreadful height " Saxon ! 'tis Eva gives this grave" He said, and plung'd him in the wave. One piercing shriek was heard, no more, Up flash'd the billow dyed with gore, where to fly ! When in they burst. He fixed his foot and strain'd his eye, And o'er that deep and fearful tide Sprung safely to the farther side. -0 Above they crowd in wild amaze, And by the hurrying torches' blaze They saw where fearlessly he stood, And down, far toss'd upon the flood, St. Leger's body. "Quick to horsePursue the fiend with all your force, 'Tis Donal Comm." Light held he then Pursuit, while mountain, wood, and glen Before him lay ;-a moment's space He ran, and in th' appoinited place 41 42 THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. His courser found ;-then as his hand Drew from the copse his trusty brand, " 'Twas well I left thee here, my blade, That search my purpose had betray'd; But here they come, now, now my steed, Son of the hills ! exert thy speed," He said, and on the moaning wind Heard their faint foot-tramp die behind. 'Tis morning, and the purple light On Noc-na-ve "I gleams coldly bright, And from his heathery brow, the streams Rush joyous in the kindling beams; O'er hill, and wave, and forest red, One wide blue sea of mist is spread Save where more brightly, deeply blue Ivera's mountains meet the view, And falls the sun with mellower streak On Sliav-na-goila's 2 giant peak. Still as its dead, is now the breeze, In Ard-na-mrahar's weeping trees, So deep its silence, you might tell Each plashing rain-drop as it fell; Beneath its brow the waters wild Are sleeping, like a weary child That sinks from fretful fit to rest, On its fond mother's peaceful breast. On yonder grave cold lies the turf Besprent with rain and ocean's surf So purely, freshly green, And kneeling by that narrow bed, With pallid cheek and drooping head, A lonely form is seen. Long kneels he there in speechless woe, Silent as she who lies below In her cold and silent room; The trees hang motionless above, There's not a breath of wind to move The dripping eagle-plume; Well might you know that man of grief To be Ivera's widow'd chief. GOUGANE BARRA. He rose at last, and as he took Of that dear spot his last sad look, Convulsive trembled all his frame, He strove to utter Eva's name; Then wildly rushing to the shore, 3 Was never seen or heard of more.1 GOUGANE BAR'RA. There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra, Where Allua of songs rushes forth as 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 chidingly down on the mirth of the billow; As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning, It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning. And its zone of dark hills-oh ! to see them all bright'ning. When 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 only awoke your wild harp from its slumber, 43 44 TO A SPRIG OF MOUNTAIN HEATH. And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains, The songs even echo forgot on her mountains, And gleaned each grey legend, that darkly was sleeping Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty was creeping. Least bard of the hills ! 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 has bound me. Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me, Still, still in those wilds may young liberty rally, And send her strong shout over mountain and valley, The star of the west may yet rise in its glory, And the land that was darkest, be brightest in story. I too shall be gone ;-but my name shall 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, And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion, Where calm Avon Buee seeks the kisses of ocean, Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river, O'er the heart, and the harp, that are sleeping for ever. TO A SPRIG OF MOUNTAIN HEATH. Thou little stemin of lowly heath ! Nursed by the wild winds hardy breath, Dost thou survive, unconquer'd still, Thy stately brethren of the hill? No more the morning mist shall break, Around Clogh-grenans towering peak; The stag no more with glance of pride, Looks fearless from its hazel side ; But there thou livest lone and free The Hermit plant of Liberty. Child of the mountain ! many a storm Hath drench'd thy head and shook thy form, Since in thy depths Clan-muire lay, To wait the dawning of that day; And many a sabre, as it beamed Forth from its heather scabbard gleamed, SPANISH WAR-SONG. 45 When Leix its vengeance hot did slake In yonder city of the lake, And its proud Saxon fortress bore, The banner green of Riery More. Thou wert not then as thou art now, Upon a bondsman-minstrel's brow; But wreathing round the harp of Leix, When to the strife it fired the free, Or from the helmet battle-sprent, Waved where the cowering Saxon bent. Yet blush not, for the bard you crown, Ne'er stooped his spirit's homage down, And he can wake tho' rude his skill, The songs you loved on yonder hill. Repine not, that no more the spring Its balmy breath shall round thee fling : No more the heath-cock's pinion sway, Shall from thy bosom dash the spray, More sweet, more blest, thy lot shall prove, Go-to the breast of her I love, And speak for me to that blue eye; Breathe to that heart my fondest sigh; And tell her in thy softest tone That he who sent thee is-her own. NOTE.- The Fortress alluded to is the Castle of Carlow, built in the time of King JoHN, and still an imposing ruin. RIERY MORE was the Chieftain of Leix (the present Queen's County) in the time of ELIZABETH. He was brave, politic, and accomplished above his ruder countrymen of that period; he stormed the Castle of Carlow, which, being within the pale, belonged to the English : they never had a more skilful enemy in the country. RIERE, Anglice ROGER.-Carlow, or Cahir-lough, literally the City of the Lake. -C lough-grenna, the sunny hill. It is near Carlow but in the Queen's County, and was formerly thickly covered with oak. SPANISH WAR-SONG. Ye sons of old Iberia, brave Spaniards up, arise, Along your hills, like distant rills the voice of battle flies; Once moxre, with threats of tyranny, come on the host of France; Ye men of Spain awake again, to Freedom's fight advance. Like snow upon your mountains, they gather from afar, To launch upon your olive fields the avalanche of war ; Above the dark'ning Pyrenees their cloud of battle flies, To burst in thunder on your plains ;-brave Spaniards up, arise. 46 " SI JE DE PERDS, JE SUIS PERDU." O sons of Viriatus, Hispania's boast and pride, Who long withstood, in fields of blood, the Roman's battle-tide; Arise again to match his deeds and kindle at his name, And let its light thro' Freedom's fight, still guide you on to fame. Descendants of those heroes, in Roman song renown'd, Whose glorious strife for Liberty with deathless name was crown'd, Come down again unconquer'd men, like Biscay's ocean roar, And show yourselves the Cantabers your fathers were of yore. Saguntum's tale of wonder shines bright upon your page, And old Numantia's story shall live thro' every age, Her children sung their farewell song, their own lov'd homes they fir'd, And in the blaze, 'mid Freedom's rays, all gloriously expired. TWO VERSES OF THE SPANISH WAR-SONG, NOT IN THE PRINTED COPY. Long, long each Spanish father his kindling boys shall tell, How gallantly Gerona fought, how Saragoza fell, Long, long, above the waves of time those deathless names shall be A beacon light to all who fight for home or liberty. Oh, offspring of that hero by Spanish hearts adored, Who on the proud Morescoe bands his mountain vengeance poured, Once more to waste your lovely fields come on the hordes of France; Descendants of Pelayo to Freedom's fight advance. "SI JE DE PERDS, JE SUIS PERDU." These Stanzas were suggested by an impress on a Seal, representing a boat at sea, and a man at the helm looking up at a solitary star, with a motto-" Si je de perds, jc perdn." suis Shine on thou bright beacon Unclouded and free, From thy high place of calmness O'er life's troubled sea; Its morning of promise, Its smooth waves are gone, And the billows rave wildly, Then bright one shine on. HOW KEEN THE PANG. The wings of the tempest May rush o'er thy ray; But tranquil thou smilest, Undimm'd by its sway; High, high o'er the worlds Where storms are unknown, Thou dwellest all beauteous, All glorious,-alone. From the deep womb of darkness The lightning flash leaps, O'er the bark of my fortunes Each mad billow sweeps; From the port of her safety, By warring winds driven, And no light o'er her course, But yon lone one of Heaven. Yet fear not thou frail one, The hour may be near, When our own sunny head-land Far off shall appear; When the voice of the storm Shall be silent and past, In some island of Heaven We may anchor at last. But bark of Eternity, Where art thou now, The wild waters shriek O'er each plunge of thy prow; On the world's dreary Ocean, Thus shatter'd and toss'd; Then lone one shine on, " IF I LOSE THEE I'M LOST." HOW KEEN THE PANG. How keen the pang when friends must part, And bid th' unwilling last adieu; When every sigh that rends the heart, Awakes the bliss that once it knew ! 47 48 WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY. He that has felt alone can tell, The dreary desert of the mind, When those whom once we loved so well, Have left us weeping here behind. When every look so kindly shed, And every word so fondly spoken, And every smile is faded, fled, And leaves the heart alone and broken. Yes, dearest maid ! that grief was mine, When bending o'er thy shrouded bier, I saw the form that once was thine ; My Mary was no longer there. But on the relics pale and cold There sat a sweet seraphic smile, A calm celestial grace that told Our parting was but for a while. WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY ON ENTERING A CONVENT. 'Tis the rose of the desert, So lovely so wild, In the lap of the desert It's infancy smiled ; In the languish of beauty It droops o'er the thorn, And its leaves are all wet With the bright tears of morn. Yet 'tis better, thou fair one, To dwell all alone, Than recline on a bosom Less pure than thine own; Thy form is too lovely To be torn from its steinm, And thy breath is too sweet For the children of men. Bloom on thus in secret, Sweet child of the waste, Where no lips of profaner Thy fragrance shall taste; LINES ON A DECEASED CLERGYMAN. Bloom on where no footsteps Unhallowed hath trod, And give all thy blushes And sweets to thy God. LINES ON A DECEASED CLERGYMAN. Breathe not his honour'd name, Silently keep it; Hush'd be the sadd'ning theme, In secrecy weep it.; Call not a warmer flow To eyes that are aching; Wake not a deeper throe In hearts that are breaking. Oh 'tis a placid rest; Who should deplore it? Trance of the pure and blestAngels watch o'er it; Sleep of his mortal night, Sorrow can't break it; Heaven's own morning light Alone shall awake it. Nobly thy course is run ; Splendour is round it; Bravely thy fight is won; Freedom hath crown'd it:; In the high warfare Of heaven, grown hoary, Thou'rt gone like the summer-sun, Shrouded in glory. Twine-twine the victor wreath, Spirits that meet him; Sweet songs of triumph breathe, Seraphs to greet him; From his high resting-place Who shall him sever? With his God-face to face, Leave him for ever. D 49 50 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG MAN. LINES, ON THE DEATH OF AN AMIABLE AND HIGHLY TALENTED YOUNG MAN, WHO FELL A VICTIM TO FEVER IN THE WEST INDIES. All rack'd on his feverish bed he lay, And none but the stranger were near him; No friend to console, in his last sad day, No look of affection to cheer him. Frequent and deep were the groans he drew, On that couch of torture turning ; And often his hot, wild hand he threw O'er his brows, still wilder burning. But, Oh ! what anguish his bosom tore, How throbbed each strong pulse of emotion, When he thought of the friends he should never see more, In his own green Isle of the Ocean. When he thought of the distant maid of his heartOh, must they thus darkly sever ; No last farewell, ere his spirit depart; Must he leave her unseen, and for ever ! One sigh for that maid his 'fond heart heaved, One pray'r for her weal he breathed ; And his eyes to that land for whose woes he had grieved, Once looked-and for ever were sheathed. On a cliff that by footstep is seldom press'd, Far seaward its dark head rearing, A rude stone marks the place of his rest"Here lies a poor exile of Erin." Yet think not, dear Youth, tho' far, far away From thy own native Isle thou art sleeping, That no heart for thy slumber is aching to-day, That no eye for thy mem'ry is weeping. Oh ! yes-when the hearts that have wailed thy young blight, Some joy from forgetfulness borrow, The thought of thy doom will come over their light, And shade them more deeply with sorrow. PURE IS THE DEWY GEM. And the maid who so long held her home in thy breast, As she strains her wet eye o'er the billow, Will vainly embrace, as it comes from the west, Every breeze that has swept o'er thy pillow. AND MUST WE PART. And must we part ? then fare thee well; But he that wails it-he can tell How dear thou wert, how dear thou art, And ever must be to this heart; But now 'tis vain-it cannot be ; Farewell! and think no more on me. Oh ! yes-this heart would sooner break, Than one unholy thought awake; I'd sooner slumber into clay, Than cloud thy spirit's beauteous ray ; Go free as air-as Angel free, And, lady, think no more on me. O did we meet when brighter star Sent its fair promise from afar, I then might hope to call thee mine, The Minstrel's heart and harp were sline; But now 'tis past-it cannot be ; Farewell! and think no more on me. Or do !-but let it be the hour, When Mercy's all atoning power, From his high throne of glory hears Of souls like thine the prayers, the tears; Then whilst you bend the suppliant knee, Then, then, O Lady, think on me. PURE IS THE DEWY GEM. Pure is the dewy gem that sleeps Within the roses fragrant bed, And dear the heart-warm drop that steeps The turf where all we loved is laid; But far more dear, more pure than they, The tear that washes guilt away. 51 52 TO * * * * * Sweet is the morning's balmy breath, Along the valley's flowery side, And lovely on the Moon-lit heath, The lute's soft tone complaining wide; But still more lovely sweeter still, The sigh that wails a life of ill. Bright is the morning's roseate gleam Upon the Mountains of the East, And soft the Moonlight silvery beam, Above the billow's placid rest; But 0 !-what ray ere shone from Heaven Like God's first smile on a soul forgiven. NOTE.-This trifle was composed before the author read MOORE'S Paradise and the Peri. TO * * * * * Lady, the lyre thou bid'st me take, No more can breathe the minstrel strain; The cold and trembling notes I wake, Fall on the ear like splashing rain ; For days of suffering and of pain, And nights that lull'd no care for me, Have tened my spirit,-then in vain Thou bid'st me wake my harp for thee. But could I sweep my ocean lyre, As once this feeble hand could sweep, Or catch once more the thought of fire, That lit the Mizen's stormy steep, Or bid the fancy cease to sleep, That once could soar on pinion free, And dream I was not born to weep; O then I'd wake my harp for thee. And now 'tis only friendship's call That bids my slumbering lyre awake, It long hath slept in sorrow's hallAgain that slumber it must seek; Not even the light of beauty's cheek, Or blue eye beaming kind and free, Can bid its mournful numbers speak ; Then, lady, ask no lay from me. STANZAS. Yet if on Desmond's mountain wild, By glens I love, or ocean cave, Nature once more should own her child, And give the strength that once she gave; If he who lights my path should save And what I was I yet may be; Then, lady, by green Erin's wave, I'll gladly wake my harp for thee. STANZAS. Hours 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 sun-beams on December snows. It is thy wit that flashes bright As lightning on a stormy night, Illuming even the clouds that roll Along the darkness of my soul, And bidding, with an Angel's voice, The heart that knew no joy,-rejoice. Too late we met,- too soon we part, Yet dearer to my soul thou art, Than some whose love has grown for years, Smiled with my smile, and wept my tears. Farewell ! but absent, thou shalt seem The vision of some heavenly dream, Too bright on child of earth to dwell; It must be so-my friend, farewell. 54 SERENADE. THE NIGHT WAS STILL. The night was still,-the air was balm, Soft dews around were weeping; No whisper rose o'er ocean's calm, Its waves in light were sleeping. With MARY on the beach I stray'd The stars beam'd joy above meI press'd her hand and said, " Sweet maid, Oh tell me do you love me?" With modest air she drooped her head, Her cheek of beauty veiling : Her bosom heav'd-no word she saidI mark'd her strife of feeling ; " Oh speak my doom, dear maid," I cried, " By yon bright Heaven above thee; " She gently raised her eyes and sighed, " Too well you know I love thee." SERENADE. The blue waves are sleeping; The breezes are still; The light dews are weeping Soft tears on the hill; The moon in mild beauty, Looks bright from above; Then come to the casement, Oh MARY, my love. Not a sound, or a motion Is over the lake, But the whisper of ripples, As shoreward they break ; My skiff wakes no ruffle The water among, Then listen, dear maid, To thy true lover's song. No form from the lattice Did ever recline Over Italy's waters, More lovely than thine ; 55 5 ROUSSEAU'S DREAM. Then come to thy window And shed from above, One glance of thy dark eye, One smile of thy love. Oh ! the soul of that eye When it'breaks from its shroud, Shines beauteously out, ]Like the moon from a cloud; And thy whisper of love Breathed thus-from afar, Is sweeter to me Than the sweetest guitar. From the storms of this world How gladly I'd fly, To the calm of that breast. To the heaven of that eye! How deeply I love thee 'Twere useless to tell; Farewell, then, my dear one, My MAY, farewell ROUSSEA('S DREAM.* AI-" Rousseau's Dream." Life for me is dark and weary ; and Every light is quenched gone ; O'er its waste all lone and dreary, Sorrow's child I journey on. Thou whose smile alone can cheer me, Whose bright form still haunts my breast, From this world in pity bear me, To thy own high home of rest. Hush -'rLeman's sleeping water, Whispering tones of love I hear ; 'Tis soime fend unearthly daughter, Woos me to her own bright sphere. * wild Rousseau, Th' Apostle of affliction, &e. is was not the love of mortal dame- But of ideal beauty, &.-CnmDE HAROLD?. HUSSA THA MEASG NA BEALTAN MORE. Immortal beauty ! yes, I see thee, Come, oh ! come to this wild breast; 0 ! I fly-I burn to meet thee, Take me to thy home of rest. WHEN EACH BRIGHT STAR IS CLOUDED. AI--" Clir Bug Dale." When each bright star is clouded that illumin'd our way, And darkly through the bleak night of life we stray, What joy then is left us, but alone to weep O'er the cold dreary pillow where loved ones sleep? This world has no pleasure that is half so dear, That can soothe the widow'd bosom like memory's tear, 'Tis the desert rose drooping in moon's soft dew, In those pure drops looks saddest, but softest too. Oh, if ever death should sever fond hearts from me, And I linger like the last leaf on Autumn's tree, While pining o'er the dead mates all sear'd below, How welcome will the last blast be that lays me low. HUSSA THA MEASG NA REALTAN MORE.* My love, my still unchanging love, As fond, as true, as hope above; Tho' many a year of pain passed by Since last I heard thy farewell sigh, This faithful heart doth still adore Hussa the measg na realtdn more. What once we hoped might then have been, But fortune darkly frowned between : And tho' far distant is the ray That lights me on my weary way, I love, and shall till life is o'er, Hussa tha measg na realtdn more. Tho' many a light of beauty shone Along my path, andc lured me on, I better lov'd thy dark bright eye, Thy witching smile, thy speaking sigh; Shine on-this heart shall still adore Hussa na measg na realtdin more. * Thou who artamongst the greaterPlanetR. THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK. 57 Sacrcb Subjccts. THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK. From the foot of Inchidony Island, an elevated tract of sand runs out into the sea, and terminates in a high green bank, which forms a pleasing contrast with the little desert behind it, and the black solitary rock immediately under. Tradition tells that the Virgin came one night to this hillock to pray, and was discovered kneeling there by the crew of a vessel that was coming to anchor near the place. They laughed at her piety, and made some merry and unbecoming remarks on her beauty, upon which a storm arose and destroyed the ship and crew. Since that time no vessel has been known to anchor near the spot. Such is the story upon which the following stanzas are founded. The evening star rose beauteous above the fading cay, As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came to pray, And hill and wave shone brightly in the moonlight's mellow fall ; But the bank of green where Mary knelt was brightest of them all. Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appeared, And her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to the land she near'd; To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like a swan, And her wings of snow o'er the waves below in pride and beauty shone. The Master saw our Lady as he stood upon the prow, And marked the whiteness of her robe and the radiance of her brow ; Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stainless breast, And her eyes look'd up among the stars to Him her soul lov'd best. He showed her to his sailors, and he hail'd her with a cheer ; And on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with laugh and jeer; And madly swore, a form so fair they never saw before; And they curs'd the faint and lagging breeze that keptthem from the shore. The ocean from its bosom shook off the moonlight sheen, And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their Queen ; And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness o'er the land, And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady on the strand. Out burst the pealing thunder, and the light'ning leap'd about, And rushing with his watery war, the tempest gave a shout, And that vessel from a mountain wave came down with thund'ring shock And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on Inchidony's rock. 58 MARY MAGDALEN. Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose wild and high, But the angry surge swept over them and hush'd their gurgling cry; And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest pass'd away, And down, still chafing from their strife, the indignant waters lay. When the calm and purple morning shone out on high Dunmore, Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchidony's shore; And to this day the fisherman shows where the scoffers sank, And still he calls that hillock green, "the Virgin Mary's bank." VERSE OMITTED FROM "THE And And And And VIRGIN MARY'S BANK." from his brow she wiped the blood and wrung his dripping hair, o'er the breathless sailor boy she bent herself in prayer, life came rushing to his cheek and his bosom heaved a sigh, up the lifeless sailor rose in the mercy of her eye. MARY MAGDALEN. To the hall of that feast came the sinful and fair; She heard in the city that Jesus was there, She mark'd not the splendour that blazed on their board, But silently knelt at the feet of the Lord. The hair from her forehead so sad and so meek, Hung dark o'er the blushes that burn'd on her cheek, And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame, It seemed as her spirit had flown from its frame. The frown and the murmur went round thro' them all, That one so unhallow'd should tread in that hall, And some said the poor would be objects more meet, For the wealth of the perfumes she shower'd on his feet. She marked but her Saviour, she spoke but in sighs, She dar'd not look up to the heaven of his eyes, And the hot tears gush'd forth at each heave of her breast, As her lips to his sandal were throbbingly press'd. On the cloud after tempests, as shineth the bow; In the glance of the sunbeam, as melteth the snow, He look'd on that lost one-her sins were forgiven, And Mary went forth in the beauty of Heaven. SAUL. SAUL, HOLDING THE GARMENTS OF THE MURDERERS OF STEPHEN. The soldier of Christ to the stake was bound, And the foes of the Lord beset him round; But his forehead beamed with unearthly light, As he looked with joy to his last high fight. Beyond that circle of death was one Whose hand was unarmed with glaive or stone ; But the garments he held, as apart he stood, Of the men who were bared for the work of blood. His form not tall but his bearing high, And courage sat in his dark deep eye; His cheek was young, and he seemed to stand, Like one who was destined for high command. But the hate of his spirit you well might learn, From his pale high brow so bent and stern, And the glance that at times shot angry light, Like a flash from the depth of a stormy night. 'Twas Saul of Tarsus !-a fearful name, And wed in the land with sword and flame; And the faithful of Israel trembled all, At the deeds that were wrought by the furious Saul. 'Tis done !-the martyr hath slept at last, And his victor soul to the Lord hath past, And the murderers' hearts waxed sore with guilt, As they gazed on the innocent blood they spilt. But Saul went on in his fiery zeal; The thirst of his fury no blood could quell; And he went to Damascus with words of doom To bury the faithful in dungeon-gloom. When lo !-asa rock by the lightning riven, His heart was smote by a voice from Heaven; And the hater of Jesus loved nought beside, And died for the name of the crucified. 59 60 MOONLIGHT. THE MOTHER OF THE MACCABEES. That mother viewed the scene of bloodHer six unconquered sons were goneTearless she viewed-beside her stood Her last-her youngest-dearest one; He looked upon her and he smiled Oh ! will she save that only child ? "By all my love-my son," she said, " The breast that nursed-the womb that boreTh' unsleeping care that watched thee-fedTill manhood's years required no more; By all I've wept and prayed for thee, Now, now, be firm and pity me. " Look, I beseech thee, on yon heaven, With its high field of azure light, Look on this earth, to mankind given, Array'd in beauty and in might, And think-nor scorn thy mother's pray'r, On him who said it and they were ! " So shall thou not this tyrant fear, Nor recreant shun the glorious strife; Behold !-thy battle-field is near, Then go my son, nor heed thy life; Go !-like thy faithful brothers die, That I may meet you all on high." Like arrow from the bended bow, He sprang upon the bloody pileLike sunrise on the morning's snow, Was that heroic mother's smile ; He died !-nor feared the tyrant's For Judah's law-and Judah's God. MOONLIGHT. 'Tis sweet at hush of night By the calm moon to wander, And view those isles of light That float so far beyond her In that wide sea Whose waters free (nod-- MOONLIGHT. Can find no shore to bound them, On whose calm breast Pure spirits rest With all their glory round them; Oh i that my soul all free From bonds of earth, might sever ; Oh ! that those isles might be Her resting-place for ever. When all those glorious spheres The watch of Heaven are keeping, And dews, like angel's tears, Around are gently weeping; O who is he That carelessly On virtue's bond encroaches, But then will feel Upon him steal Their silent sweet reproaches? Oh ! that my soul all free, From bonds of earth, might sever; Oh ! that those isles might be Her resting-place for ever. And when in secret sighs The lonely heart is pining, If we but view those skies With all their bright host shining, While sad we gaze On their mild rays, They seem like seraphs smiling, To joys above, With looks of love, The weary spirit willing; Oh ! that my soul all free, From bonds of earth, could sever; Oh ! that those isles might be Her resting-place for ever. 61 62 DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEAR. iranolationo from the Irisb. Though the Irish are undoubtedly of a poetic temperament, yet the popular songs of the lower order are neither numerous, nor in general possessed of much beauty. For this, various causes may be assigned ; but the most prominent is the division of lan guage which prevails in Ireland. English, though of late years it is gaining ground with great rapidity, is not even yet the popular language in many districts of the country, and thirty years since it was still less so. Few songs, therefore, were composed in English by humble minstrels, and the few that I know are of very little value indeed in any point of view. The Poets of the populace confined themselves chiefly to Irish-a tongue which, whatever may be its capabilities, had ceased to be the language of the great and polished for centuries before the poetic taste revived in Europe. They were compelled to use a despised dialect, which, moreover, the political divisions of the country had rendered an object of suspicion to the ruling powers. The government and populace were indeed so decidedly at variance, that the topics which the village Bards were obliged to select were such as often to render the indulgence of their poetic powers rather dangerous. Their heroes were frequently inmates of jails or doomed to the gibbet, and the severe criticism of the cat-o'-nine tails might be the lot of the panygerist. Wales, to be sure, has produced, and continues to produce, her bards, though the Welsh also use a language differing from that of their conquerors. But Wales is so completely dovetailed into England, that resistance to the victorious power was hopeless, and therefore, after the first struggles, not attempted. The Welsh language was consequently no distinguishing mark of a cast determinately hostile to the English domination, and continually the object of suspicion. It was, and is still, cultivated by all classes, though I understand not as much as formerly. The case was quite different in Ireland. No gentleman has used Irish as his common language for generations ; multitudes do not understand a word of it ; it was left to the lower orders exclusively, and they were depressed and uneducated, and consequently wild and illiterate. Let no zealous countryman of mine imagine that I am going to impeach the ancient fame of our Bards and Senachies, or to abandon our claims, or the glories, such as they are, of the Ossianic fragments. I merely speak of the state of popular Irish poetry during the last century or century and a half. With our ancient Minstrels I meddle not. Ossian I leave to his wrangling commentators, and still more wrangling antiquaries ; and for the bards of more modern times (those, for instance, who flourished in the days of Elizabeth) I accept the compliment of Spencer, who knew them well and hated them bitterly. But the poetic sympathies of the mighty Minstrel of Old Mole could not allow his political feelings to hinder him from acknowledging, in his View of Ireland, that he had caused several songs of the Irish bards to be translated that he might and understand them, "' surely," he says, "they savoured of sweet wit and good invention, but skilled not of the goodly ornaments of poetry; yea, they were sprinked with some pretty flowers of their natural device which gave good grace and comelinesse unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which with good usage would serve to adorne and beautifie virtue." The following songs are specimens of the popular poetry of later days. I have translated them as closely as possible, and present them to the public more as literary curiosities than on any other account. DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEAR. In 17-, one of the O'SULLIVxANse Bearhaven, who went by name of Morty Oge, of fell under the vengeance of the Law. He had long been a turbulent character in the wild district which he inhabited, and was particularly obnoxious to the local authorities, who had good reason to suspect him of enlisting men for the Irish Brigade in the French service, in which it was said he held a Captain's Commission. Information of his raising these "wild geese" (the name by which such recruits were known) was given by a Mr. PUXLEY, on whom in consequence O'SULLIVN vowed revenge, which he executed by shooting him on Sunday while on his way to church. DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEAR. 63 This called for the interposition of the higher powers, and accordingly a party of military were sent round from Cork to attack O'SULLIVAN'S house. He was daring and well armed, and the house was fortified, so that he made an obstinate defence. At last a confidential servant of his, named SCULLY, was bribed to wet the powder in the guns and pistols prepared for his defence, which rendered him powerless. He attempted to escape; but while springing over a high wall in the rear of his house, he received a mortal wound in the back. They tied his body to a boat and dragged it in that manner through the sea, from Bearhaven to Cork, where his head was cut off and fixed on the county jail, where it remained for several years. Such is the story current among the lower orders about Bearhaven. In the version given of it in the rude chronicle of the local occurrences of Cork, there is no mention made of ScULLY'S perfidy, and perhaps that circumstance might have been added by those by whom O'SULLIVAN was deemed a hero, in order to save his credit as much as possible. The dirge was composed by his nurse, who has made no sparing use of the energy of cursing, which the Irish language is by all allowed to possess. (In the following song, Morty, in Irish Muiertach, or Muircheartach, is a name very common among the old families of Ireland. It signifies expert at sea; Og, or Oge, is young.-Where a whole district is peopled in a great measure by a sept of one name, such distinguishing titles are necessary, and in some cases even supersede the original appellation. I-vera, or Aoi-vera, is the original name of Bearhaven ; Aoi, or I, signify ing an island, or territory.) The sun upon Ivera No longer shines brightly; The voice of her music No longer is sprightly ; No more to her maidens The light dance is dear, Since the death of our darling, O'SULLIVAN Bear. SCULLY ! thou false one, You basely betrayed him; In his strong hour of need When thy right hand should aid him; He fed thee;-he clad thee;- You had all could delight thee; You left him;-you sold him ;- May Heaven requite thee ! SCULLY ! may all kinds Of evil attend thee ; On thy dark road of life May no kind one befriend thee; May fevers long burn thee, And agues long freeze thee; May the strong hand of God In his red anger seize thee. 64 DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BBAR. Had he died calmly, I would not deplore him, Or if the wild strife Of the sea-war closed o'er him; But with ropes round his white limbs, Through ocean to trail him, Like a fish after slaughter !'Tis therefore I wail him. Long may the curse Of his people pursue them; SCULLY that sold him, And soldier that slew him, One glimpse of Heaven's light May they see never ; May the hearth-stone of hell Be their best bed for ever ! In the hole which the vile hands Of soldiers' had made thee, Unhonoured, unshrouded, And headless they laid thee ; No sigh to regret thee, No eye to rain o'er thee, No dirge to lament thee, No friend to deplore thee. Dear head of my darling, How gory and pale, These aged eyes saw thee High spiked on their jail; That cheek in the summer sun Ne'er shall grow warm, Nor that eye e'er catch light, But the flash of the storm. A curse, blessed ocean, Is on thy green water, From the haven of Cork To Ivera of slaughter, Since the billows were dyed With the red wounds of fear, Of Muiertach Oge, Our O'SULLIVAN Bear. THE THE GIRL I GIRL LOVE. I LOVE. Siud sios an cabin ban slain 6g. i A large proportion of the songs I have met with are love songs. Somehow or other, truly or untruly, the Irish have obtained a character for gallantry, and the peasantry, beyond doubt, do not belie the " soft impeachment." Their modes of courtship are sometimes amusing. The " malo me Galatea petit" of Virgil would still find a counterpart among them-except that the missile of love (which I am afraid is not so poetical as the apple of the pastoral, being neither more or less than a potato) comes first from the gentleman. He flings with aim designedly erring at his sweetheart, and if she it returns the fire, a warmer advance concludes the preliminaries and establishes the suitor. Courtships, however, are sometimes carried on among them with a delicacy worthy of a more refined stage of society, and unchastity is very rare. This perhaps is in a great degree occasioned by their extremely early marriages, the advantage or disadvantage of which I give to be discussed by Mr. Malthus and his antagonists. At their dances (of which they are very fond), whether a-field or in ale-house, a piece of gallantry frequently occurs, which is alluded to in the following song. A young man, smitten suddenly by the charms of a danseuse, belonging to a company to which he is a stranger, rises, and with his best bow offers her his glass and requests her to drink to him. After due refusal it is usually accepted, and is looked on as a good omen of successful wooing. Goldsmith alludes to this custom of his country in the Deserted Village:The coy maid, half willing to be prest, Shall kiss the cup, and pass it to the rest. The parties may be totally unacquainted, and perhaps never meet again, under which circumstances it would appear that this song was written. 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 freeHere'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 treeHere's a health to the charming maid whoe'er she be! When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound, And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes round ; The barrel is full, but its heart we soon shall seeCome 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 meHere's a health to the maid I love whoe'er she be ! Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I'd pay, And five times five, for my love one hour each day ; Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree- Then, my dear, may I drink a fond deep health to thee ! 66 THE CONVICT OF CLONMEL. THE CONVICT OF CLONMEL. Is dubac 6 mo cis. Who the hero of this song is, I know not, but convicts, from obvious reasons, have been peculiar objects of sympathy in Ireland. Hurling, which is mentioned in one of the verses, is the principal national diversion, and is played with intense zeal by parish against parish, barony against barony, county against county, or even province against province. It is played not only by the peasant, but by the patrician students of the University, where it is an established pastime. TwIss, the most sweeping calumniator of Ireland, calls it, if I mistake not, the cricket of barbarians; but though fully prepared to pay every tribute to the elegance of the English game, I own that I think the Irish sport fully as civilized, and much better calculated for the display of vigour and activity. Perhaps I shall offend Scottish nationality if I prefer either to golf, which is, I think, but trifling compared with them. In the room belonging to the Golf Club on the Links of Leith, there hangs a picture of an old lord (Rosslyn) which I never could look at without being struck with the disproportion between the gaunt figure of the peer and the petty instrument in his hand. Strutt, in "Sports and Pastimes" (page 78), eulogises the activity of some Irishmen, who played the game about twentyfive years before the publication of his work (1801), at the back of the British Museum, and deduces it from the Roman harpastum. It was played in Cornwall formerly, he adds ; but neither the Romans nor the Cornishmen used a bat, or, as we call it in Ireland, a hurly. The description Strutt quotes from old Carew is quite graphic. The late Dr. Gregory, I am told, used to be loud in panegyric on the superiority of this game when played by the Irish students, over that adopted by his young countrymen north and south of the Tweed, particularly over golf, which he called "fiddling wi' a pick;" but enough of this. How hard is my fortune And vain my repining; The strong rope of fate For this young neck is twining ! My strength is departed, My cheeks sunk and sallow, While I languish in chains In the jail of Clonmala.* No boy of the village Was ever yet milder; I'd play with a child And my sport would be wilder ; I'd dance without tiring From morning till even, And the goal-ball I'd strike To the light'ning of Heaven. At my bed-foot decaying My hurl-bat is lying; Through the boys of the village My goal-ball is flying; * Clonmala-i.e., the solitude of deceit-the Irish name of Clonmel. JACOBITE SONGS. 67 My horse 'mong the neighbours Neglected may fallow, While I pine in my chains In the jail of Clonmala. Next Sunday the patron* At home will be keeping, And the young active hurlers The field will be sweeping; With the dance of fair maidens The evening they'll hallow, While this heart, once so gay, Shall be cold in Clonmalla. THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE. O many a day have I made good ale in the glen, That came not of stream, or malt, like the brewing of men. My bed was the ground, my roof, the greenwood above, And the wealth that I sought-one fair kind glance from my love. Alas ! on that night when the horses I drove from the field, That I was not near from terror my angel to shield. She stretched forth her arms-her mantle she flung to the windAnd swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find. O would that a freezing sleet-winged tempest did sweep, And I and my love were alone far off on the deep ! I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace to save,With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave. 'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides, The maid of my heart, the fair one of Heaven residesI think, as at eve she wanders its mazes along, The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song. 3arobite Song. That the Roman Catholics ef Ireland should have been Jacobites, almost to a man, is little wonderful; indeed, the wonder would be were it otherwise. They had lost everything fighting for the cause of the Stuarts, and the conquerors had made stern use of the victory. But while various movements in favour of that unhappy family were made in England and Scotland, Ireland was quiet; not indeed from want of inclination, but from want of power. The Roman Catholics were disarmed throughout the entire * Patron-Irish, Patruin-a festive gathering of the people on tented ground. 68 0 SAY) MY BROWN DRIMIIN. land, and the Protestants, who retained a fierce hatred of the exiled family, were armed and united. The personal influence of the Earl of Chesterfield, who was Lord Tieutenant in 1745, and who made himself very popular, is generally supposed to have contributed to keep Ireland at peace in that dangerous year; but the reason I have assigned is perhaps more substantial. But though Jacobitical, even those songs will suffice to prove that it was not out of love for the Stuarts that they were anxious to take up arms, but to revenge themselves on the Saxons (that is, the English generally, but in Ireland the Protestants) for the defeat they experienced in the days of William III., and the subsequent depression of their party and their religion. James II. is universally spoken of by the lower orders of Ireland with the utmost contempt, and distinguished by an appellation which is too strong for ears polite, but which is universally given him. His celebrated expression at the battle of the Boyne, " O spare my English subjects," being taken in the most perverse sense, instead of obtaining for him the praise of wishing to show some lenity to those whom he still considered as rightfully under his sceptre, even in opposition to his cause, was by his Irish partizans construed into a desire of preferring the English, on all occasions, to them. The celebrated reply of the captive officer to William, that " If the armies changed generals, victory would take a different side," is carefully remembered; and every misfortune that happened in the war of the Revolution is laid to the charge of James's want of courage. The truth is, he appears to have displayed little of the military qualities which distinguished him in former days. The first of these three songs is a great favourite, principally from its beautiful air. I am sure there is scarcely a peasant in the south of Ireland who has not heard it. The second is the White Cockade, of which the first verse is English. The third is (at least in Irish) a strain of higher mood, and from its style and language, evidently written by a man of more than ordinary information. 0 SAY, MY BROWN DRIMIN. A Drimin d6wn dilis no sfoda* na mbo. Drimin is the favourite name of a cow, by which Ireland is here allegorically denoted. The five ends of Erin are the five Kingdoms-Munster, Leinster, Ulster, Connaught, and Meath-into which the island was divided under the Milesian dynasty. O say, my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kine, Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of thy line? Too deep and too long is the slumber they take, At the loud call of freedom why don't they awake? My strong ones have fallen-from the bright eye of day, All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay ; The cold turf is o'er them-they hear not my cries, And since Louis no aid gives I cannot arise. O where art thou Louis ? our eyes are on theeAre thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the sea? In freedom's last strife if you linger or quail No morn e'er shall break on the night of the Gael. But should the king's son, now bereft of his right, Come proud in his strength for his country to fight, Like leaves on the trees, will new people arise, And deep from their mountains shout back to my cries. * Silk of the Cows-an idiomatic expression for the most beautiful of cattle, which I have preserved in translating. THE WHITE COCKADE. When the Prince, now an exile, shall come for his own, The isles of his father, his rights and his throne, My people in battle the Saxons will meet, And kick them before, like old shoes from their feet. O'er mountains and valleys they'll press on their rout, The five ends of Erin shall ring to their shout; My sons all united shall bless the glad day, When the flint-hearted Saxons they've chased far away. THE WHITE COCKADE. Taid mo gra fir fi breataib du, King Charles he is King James's son, And from a royal line is sprung; Then up with shout, and out with blade, And we'll raise once more the white cockade. O my dear, my fair-hair'd youth ! Thou yet hast hearts of fire and truth; Then up with shout, and out with blade, We'll raise once more the white cockade. My young men's hearts are dark with woe, On my virgins' cheeks the grief-drops flow, The sun scarce lights the sorrowing day, Since our rightful prince went far away. He's gone, the stranger holds his throne, The royal bird far off is flown: But up with shout, and out with bladeWe'll stand or fall with the white cockade. No more the cuckoo hails the spring, The woods no more with the staunch-hounds ring; The song from the glen so sweet before, Is hush'd since our Charles has left our shore. The Prince is gone : but he soon will come, With trumpet sound and with beat of drumThen up with shout, and out with blade; Huzza for the right and the white cockade. 69 70 THE AVENGER. THE AVENGER. Da bfeacin se'n la sin bo sehsta bfeic m'intin. O Heavens ! if that long-wished-for morning I spied, As high as three kings rd leap up in my pride; With transport I'd laugh, and my shout should arise, As the fires from each mountain blazed bright to the skies. The Avenger shall lead us right on to the foe, Our horns should sound out, and our trumpets should blow; Ten thousand huzzas should ascend to high heaven, When our Prince was restored, and our fetters were riven. O Chieftains of Ulster ! when will you come forth, And send your strong cry to the winds of the north ? The wrongs of a King call aloud for your steelRed stars of the battle, O'Donal, O'Neal ! Bright house of O'Connor, high offspring of kings, Up, up, like the eagle, when heavenward he springs ! O, break ye once more from the Saxon's strong rule, Lost race of Mac Murchad, O'Byrne, and O'Toole ! Momonia of Druids-green dwelling of song !Where, where are thy minstrels ? why sleep they so long? Does no bard live to wake, as they oft did before, M'Carthy-O'Brien-O Sullivan More? O come from your hills, like the waves to the shore, When the storm-girded headland are mad with the roar ! Ten thousand huzzas shall ascend to high heaven, When our Prince is restor'd and our fetters are riven. The names in this last song are those of the principal families in Ireland, many of whom, however, were decided enemies to the house of Stuart. The reader cannot fail to observe the strange expectation which these writers entertained of the nature of the Pretender's designs : they call on him not to come to reinstate himself on the throne of his fathers, but to aid them in doing vengeance on "the flint-heartediSaxon." Nothing, however, could be more natural. The Irish Jacobites, at least the Roman Catholics, were in the habit of claiming the Stuarts as of the Milesian line, fondly deducing them from Fergus, and the Celts of Ireland. Who the avenger is whose arrival is prayed for in the last song, I am not sure; but circumstances, too tedious to be detailed, make me think that the date of the song is 1708, when a general impression prevailed that the field would be taken in favourof the Pretender, under a commander of more weight and authority than had come forward before. His name was kept a secret. Very little has been written on the history of the Jacobites of Ireland, and yet I think it would be an interesting subject. We have now arrived at a time when it could be done without exciting any angry feelings. In Momonia (Munster), Druidism appears to have flourished most, as we may conjecture from the numerous remains of Druidical workmanship, and the names of places indicating that worship. The records of the province are the best kept of any in Ireland, and it has proverbially retained among the peasantry a character for superior learning. THE LAMEMT OF O'GNIVE. 71 THE LAMENT OF O'GNIVE FEARFLATHA O'GNIAMH was the family Olamh, or Bard, to the O'Neil of Clanoboy, about the year 1556. The Poem,of which the following lines are the tranlation, commences with " Ma thruagh mar ataid' Goadhil." How dimm'd is the glory that circled the Gael, And fall'n the high people of green Innisfail ;* The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore, And the mighty of nations is mighty no more ! Like a bark on the ocean, long shatter'd and toss'd, On the land of your fathers at length you are lost; The hand of the spoiler is stretched on your plains, And you're doom'd from your cradles to bondage and chains. O where is the beauty that beam'd on thy brow? Strong hand in the battle, how weak art thou now ! That heart is now broken that never would quail, And thy high songs are turned into weeping and wail. Bright shades of our sires ! from your home in the skies O blast not your sons with the scorn of your eyes ! Proud spirit of Gollamht how red is thy cheek, For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are weak ! O'Neil $ of the hostages, Con § whose high name, On a hundred red battles has floated to fame, Let the long grass still sigh undisturbed o'er thy sleep; Arise not to shame us, awake not to weep. In thy broad wing of darkness enfold us, O nlight; Withhold, O bright sun ! the reproach of thy light; For Freedom or valour no more canst thou see, In the home of the Brave, in the isle of the Free. * Innisfail-the Island of Destiny-one of the names of Ireland t Gollamh: a name of Milesius, the Spanish progenitor of the Irish O's and Macs. + Nial: of the Nine Hostages, an Heroic Monarch of Ireland in the 4th century, and ancestor of the O'Neil family. § Con Cead Catha : Con of the hundred Fights, monarch of the Island in the 2nd century. Although the fighter of a hundred battles, he was not the victor of a hundred fields. His valorous rival, Owen, King of Munster, compelled him to a division of the Kingdom. 72 ON THE LAST DAY. Affiction's dark waters your spirits have bow'd, And oppression hath wrapped all your land in its shroud, Since first from the Brehon's* pure justice you stray'd, And bent to the laws the proud Saxon has made. We know not our country, so strange is her face; Her sons, once her glory, are now her disgrace; Gone, gone is the beauty of fair Innisfail, For the stranger now rules in the land of the Gael. Where, where are the woods that oft rang to your cheer? Where you waked the wild chase of the wolf and the deer ? Can those dark heights with ramparts all frowning and riven, Be the hills where your forests wav'd brightly in Heaven ? 0 bondsmen of Egypt ! no Moses appears To light your dark steps thro' this desert of tears; Degraded and lost ones, no Hector is nigh To lead you to freedom, or teach you to die ! ON THE LAST DAY. Oh ! after life's dark sinful way, How shall I meet that dreadful day, When heaven's red blaze spreads frightfully Above the hissing with'ring sea,And earth thro' all her regions reels, With the strong, shiv'ring fear she feels. When that high trumpet's awful sound, Shall send its deep-voiced summons round,And starting from their long, cold sleep, The living-dead shall wildly leap ! Oh! by the painful path you trod, Have mercy then-my Lord ! my God ! Oh ! thou who on that hill of blood, Beside thy Son in anguish stood;Thou, who above this life of ill, Art the bright star to guide us still; Pray that my soul, its sins forgiv'n, May find some lonely home in heav'n. * Brehons: the hereditary judges of the Irish septs. A LAY OF MIZEN HEAD. 73 A LAY OF MIZEN HEAD. The subject of the "Lay of Mizen Head," was the wreck of the Confiance, sloop of war, lost April 1822, about a mile west of Mizen Head. All on board perished; among the rest many young midshipmen who had just joined the service, and were going to join their respective ships. It was the noon of Sabbath, the spring-wind swept the sky, And o'er the heaven's savannah blue the boding scuds did fly, And a stir was heard amongst the waves o'er all their fields of might, Like the distant hum of hurrying hosts when they muster for the fight. The fisher marked the changing heaven, and high his pinnace drew, And to her wild and rocky home the screaming sea-bird flew; But safely in Cork haven the sheltered bark may rest, Within the zone of ocean hills that girds its beauteous breast. Amongst the stately vessels in that calm port was one Whose streamers waved out joyously to hail the Sabbath sun; And scattered o'er her ample deck were careless hearts and free, That laughed to hear the rising wind and mocked the frowning sea. One youth alone bent darkly above the heaving tideHis heart was with his native hills and with his beauteous bride; And with the rush of feelings deep his manly bosom strove, As he thought of her he had left afar in the spring-time of their love. What checks the seaman's jovial mirth and clouds his sunny brow? Why does he look with troubled gaze from port-hole, side, and prow ? A moment-'twas a death-like pause-that signal !-can it be ? That signal quickly orders out the Confance to sea. Then there was springing up aloft and hurrying down below, And the windlass hoarsely answered to the hoarse and wild "heave yo ;" And vows were briefly spoken then that long had silent lain, And hearts and lips together met that ne'er may meet again. Now darker lowered the threatening sky and wilder heaved the wave, And through the cordage fearfully the wind began to rave, The sails are set, the anchor weighed-what recks that gallant ship ? Blow on ! Upon her course she springs like greyhound fiom the slip. O heavens ! it was a glorious sight that stately ship to see, In the beauty of her gleaming sails and her pennant floating free As to gale, with bending tops, she made her haughty bow, And proudly spurned the waves that burned around her flashing prow ! 74 THE LAMENT OF KIRKE WHITE. The sun went down, and through the clouds looked out the evening star, And westward from old Ocean's head* beheld that ship afar. Still onward fearlessly she flew in her snowy pinion-sweep, Like a bright and beauteous spirit o'er the mountains of the deep. It blows a fearful tempest-'tis the dead watch of the nightThe Mizen's giant brow is streaked with red and angry light,And by its far-illuming glance a struggling bark I see. Wear, wear-the land, ill-fated one, is close beneath your lee ! Another flash-they still hold out for home and love and life, And under close-reefed topsail maintain the unequal strife : Now out the rallying foresail flies, the last, the desperate chanceCan that be she ?-Oh heavens it is !-the luckless Confinance! Hark ! heard you not that dismal cry? 'Twas stifled in the galeOh ! clasp, young bride, thine orphan child and raise the widow's wail ! The morning rose in purple light o'er ocean's tranquil sleepBut o'er their gallant quarry lay the spoilers of the deep. THE LAMENT OF KIRKE WHITE. 'Twas evening, and the sun's last golden beam On that sad chamber cast its farewell gleam, Then sunk, to him for ever. Yet one streak Of lingering radiance lit his faded cheek. His hand was press'd to his pale clouded brow, Where sat a spirit that might break, not bow; And the cold starry lustre of his eye, Than inspiration's scarce less purely high, Seemed, through the mist of one o'ermastering tear, The herald of the minstrel's loftier sphere. On a small table, by the sufferer's bed, The sybil leaves of song were rudely spread. His sad eye wandered with a dark delight O'er scattered gleams of many a thought of light; And pride could not suppress one low deep sigh, To think when he was gone they too must die. * The old head of Kinsale. Such is the meaning of the Irish name. THE LAMENT. Fame long had wooed him with her sunny smile To tread her paths of glory and of toil. His was the wreath that many vainly seekHis the proud temple on the mountain peak ; But the vile shaft from some ignoble string Brought down to earth the minstrel's soaring wing. They little knew, who dealt the dastard stroke, The mind they clouded and the heart they broke. He thought of home and mother-dearer far, He thought of her, his far-off beauteous star. He loved, it may be madly, but too well, One whom he may not breathe, and dare not tell. He could not boast the line of which he came, Of lofty title, honour, wealth, or fame. Hemmed in by adverse fate his fiery soul Like prisoned eagle felt his dark cntrolGive but his spirit scope-to win that hand His pilgrim foot had trod earth's farthest land. He would have courted danger on the deep, Or 'mid the battle's desolating sweepAll, all endured unblenching gaged even life For one sweet word, to call that dear one wife. What now had woman left to gaze upon? Himself a wreck, his bright hopes quenched and gone. Some thus would live, the lightning of his mind Shivered his frame, and left him with mankind Scathed and lone, yet stood he fearlessly On the last wave-mark of eternity ; And as above its shoreless waste he hung, Thus to his harp's low tone the minstrel sung:- THE LAMENT. Awake, my lyre, though to thy lay no voice of gladness sings, Ere yet the viewless power be fled that oft hath swept thy strings; I feel the flickering flame of life grow cold within my breast, Yet once again, my lyre, awake, and then I sink to rest. And must I die? Then let it be, since thus 'tis better far, Than with the world and conquering fate to wage eternal war. 75 76 LINES. Come then thou dark and dreamless sleep, to thy cold clasp I fly From shattered hopes and blighted heart, and pangs that cannot die. Yet would I live-for oh ! at times I feel the tide of song In swells of light come strong and bright my heaving heart along ; Yet would I live, in happier day, to wake with master hand, A lay that should embalm my name in Albin's beauteous land. Oh, had I been in battle field amid the charging brave, I then had won a soldier's fame or filled a soldier's grave; I then had lived to call thee mine, thou all of bliss to me, Or smiled in death, my sweetest one, to think I died for thee. 'Tis past : they've won-my sun has set-I see my coining night, I never more shall press that hand or meet that look of light. Among old Albin's future bards no song of mine shall riseGo sleep, my harp, for ever sleep ; go, leave me to my sighs ! They've won-but, Mary, from this breast thy love they could not part, All freshly green it lingers round the ruin of my heart; One thought of me may cloud thy soul, one tear may dim thine eye, That I have sung and loved in vain, forsaken thus to die ! O England, O my country ! despite of all my wrongs, I love thee still my native land, thou land of sweetest songs; One thought still cheers my life's last close, that I shall rest in thee, And sleep as minstrel heart should sleep, among the brave and free. LINES, WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY, Who, in the Author's presence, had taxed the Irish with want of gallantry, proving /er position by the fact of their not serenadingas the Italians,dec., ao. Yes, lady, 'tis true in our cold rugged isle Love seldom puts on him his warm sunny smile; No youth from his boat or the orange-tree shade, Sings at eve to his lady the sweet serenade. Yet 'tis not that Erin has daughters less fair Than Italy's maids, with their dark-flowing hair; And 'tis not that the souls of her sons are less brave Than the gay gondoliers' on Neapoli's wave. Saw you not when his country her banner displayed, And 'mid victory's glad shout on high flashed her blade, LINES TO MISS O. D--. 77 How that lover so true, with his sprightly guitar, Grew pale at the first blast of liberty's war? Saw you not how, when prostrate yon eagle was hurled, Whose proud flight of conquest would compass the world, Our Erin reared o'er it her green flag on high, And the shouts of her victor sons pealed in the sky ? Thus though scorned and rejected, long, long may they prove The strongest in fight and the fondest in love ! STANZAS, Composed, probably after he' had left for Lisbon, to Erin. Still green is thy mountains and bright is thy shore, And the voice of thy fountains is heard as of yore : The sun o'er thy valleys, dear Erin, shines on, Though thy bard and thy lover for ever is gone. Nor shall he, an exile, thy glad scenes forget, The friends fondly loved, ne'er again to be met-The glens where he mused on the deeds of his nation, And waked his young harp with a wild inspiration. Still, still, though between us may roll the broad ocean, Will I cherish thy name with the same deep devotion ; And though minstrels more brilliant my place may supply, None loves you more fondly, more truly than I. LINES TO MISS O. D.-Who had replied, to some questions of Mr. C.'s about verses, that she " Was getting sense, she would write no more." You're "getting sense," you'll "write no more ! " The sweet delusive dream is o'er, And fancy's bright and meteor ray Is but a light that leads astray. No more the wreath of song you'll twine, Calm reason, common sense be thine ! As well command the troubled sky, When winds are loud and waves are high; As well call back the parted soul, Or force the needle from the pole, 78 LINES TO MISS O. D , False to the star it lov'd so longAs turn the poet's heart from song. If aught be true that minstrel deems Of sister spirit in his dreamsThe still pale brow's expression highThe silent eloquence of eye, Its fitful flashes bright and wildThou art and must be fancy's child. And reason, sense-are they confined To the austere and cold of mind? Must thoughtless folly still belong To those who haunt the paths of song, And o'er this vale of woe and tears Pour the sweet strain of happier spheres ? No, lady ; still let fancy spring On her own wild and wayward wing; Still let the fire of genius glow, And the strong tide of feeling flow; The bright imaginings of youth Are but the Titian tints of truth. When chill November sweeps along With its own hoarse and sullen song, And withered lies the Autumn's pride, And every flower you nursed hath died; Whilst other hearts in ennui pine, The poet's raptures shall be thine. Then gaze upon the lightning's flash And listen to the wild wave's dashOthers may tremble at their tone, Not thou-their language is thine own ; Mark how the sea-gull wings his way Through billow's foam and wintry spray, With tireless wing and joyous cry Proclaims its ocean liberty ! Yes, my young friend, if I may claim For humble bard so dear a name ; Still let thy heart revere the lyre, Still let thy hands awake its fire, WELLINGTON'S NAME. Walk in the light that God hath given, And make Dunmanus' wilds a heaven. For me, believe, where'er I stray Through life's uncertain, toilsome way ; Whether calm peace my lot may be, Or tossed on fortune's stormy sea, I'll think upon the young, the fair, The kind warm hearts that met me there. LINES TO ERIN. When dullness shall chain the wild harp that would praise thee, When its last sigh of freedom is heard on thy shore, When its raptures shall bless the false heart that betrays thee, Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more ! When thy sons are less tame than their own ocean waters, When their last flash of wit and of genius is o'er, When virtue and beauty forsake thy young daughters, Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more ! When the sun that now holds his bright path o'er thy mountains, Forgets the green fields'that he smiled on before, When no moonlight shall sleep on thy lakes and thy fountains, Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more ! When the name of the Saxon and tyrant shall sever, When the freedom you lost you no longer deplore, When the thoughts of your wrongs shall be sleeping for ever, Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more ! WELLINGTON'S NAME. How blest were the moments when liberty found thee The first in her cause on the fields of the brave, When the young lines of ocean were charging around thee With the strength of their hills and the roar of their wave ! Oh, chieftain ! what then was the throb of thy pride, When loud through the war-cloud exultingly came, O'er the battle's red tide, which they swelled as they died, The shout of green Erin for Wellington's name. 80 THE EXILE'S FAREWELL. How sweet, when thy country thy garland was wreathing, And the fires of thy triumph blazed brightly along, Came the voice of its harp all its witchery breathing, And hallowed thy name with the light of her song ! And oh, 'twas a strain in each patriot breast That waked all the transport, that lit all the flame; And raptured and blest was the Isle of the West When her own sweetest bard sang her Wellington's name ! But 'tis past-thou art false ! and thy country's sad story Shall tell how she bled and she pleaded in vain; How the arm that should lead her to freedom and glory, The child of her bosom, did rivet her chain ! Yet think not for ever her vengeance shall sleep, Wild harp that once praised him, sing louder his shame, And where'er o'er the deep thy free numbers may sweep, Bear the curse of a nation on Wellington's name ! THE EXILE'S FAREWELL. Adieu, my own dear Erin, Receive my fond, my last adieu ; I go, but with me bearing A heart still fondly turned to you. The charms that nature gave thee With lavish hand, shall cease to smile, And the soul of friendship leave thee, E'er I forget my own green isle. Ye fields where heroes bounded To meet the foes of liberty; Ye hills that oft resounded The joyful shouts of victory, Obscured is all your glory, Forgotten all your former fame, And the minstrel's mournful story Now calls a tear at Erin's name. But still the day may brighten When those tears shall cease to flow, And the shout of freedom lighten Spirits now so drooping low. DE LA VIDA DEL CIELO. Then should the glad breeze blowing Convey the echo o'er the sea, My heart with transport glowing Shall bless the hand that made thee free. SON G. AIR.-" Laddie of Buchan." Awake thee, my Bessy, the morning is fair, The breath of young roses is fresh on the air, The sun has long glanced over mountain and lake, Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake. Oh come whilst the flowers are still wet with the dew, I'll gather the fairest, my Bessy, for you. The lark poureth forth his sweet strain for thy sake, Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake. The hare from her soft bed of heather hath gone, The coote to the water already hath flownThere is life on the mountain and joy on the lake, Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake. DE LA VIDA DEL CIELO. [OF HEAVENLY LIFE.] (From the Spanish of Luis de Leon.) Clime for ever fair and bright, Cloudless region of the blest, Summer's heat or winter's blight Comes not o'er thy fields of light, Yielder of endless joy and home of endless rest. There his flock whilst fondly tending, All unarmed with staff or sling, Flowers of white and purple blending O'er his brow of beauty bending, The heavenly Shepherd walks thy breathing fields of spring. F 81 82 TO THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. Still his look of love reposes On the happy sheep he feeds With thine own undying roses, Flowers no clime but thine discloses; And still the more they feast more freshly bloom thy meads. To thy hills in glory blushing Next his charge the Shepherd guides, And in streams all sorrow hushing, Streams of life in gladness gushing, His happy flock he bathes and their high food provides. And when sleep their eye encumbers In the noontide radiance strong, With his calumet's sweet numbers Lulls them in delicious slumbers, And rapt in holy dreams they hear that 'trancing song. At that pipe's melodious sounding Thrilling joys transfix the soul, And in visions bright surrounding Up the ardent spirit bounding, Springs on hey pinion free to love's eternal goal. Minstrel of heaven, if earthward stealing This ear might catch thy faintest tone, Then would thy voice's sweet revealing Drown my soul with holiest feeling And this weak heart that strays, at length be all thine own. Then with a joy that knows no speaking, I would wait thy smile on yon high shore, And from earth's vile bondage breaking Thy bright home, good Shepherd, seeking, Live with thy blessed flock, nor darkly wander more. TO THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. Fair star of the morning, How pure is thy beam, Though the spirit of darkness Half shadow its gleam ! LINES TO THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. In the host of yon heaven No bright one doth shine With a glory more purely Refulgent than thine. LINES TO THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. Thou dear and mystic semblance, Before whose form I kneel, I tremble as I think upon The glory thou dost veil, .And ask myself, can he who late The ways of darkness trod, Meet face to face, and heart to heart, His sin-avenging God? My Judge and my Creator, If I presume to stand Amid Thy pure and holy ones, It is Thy command, To lay before Thy mercy's seat My sorrows and my fears, To wail my life and kiss Thy feet In silence and in tears. Oh God ! that dreadful moment, In sickness and in strife, When Death and Hell seemed watching For the last weak pulse of life, When on the waves of sip and pain My drowning soul was toss'd, Thy hand of mercy saved me then When hope itself was lost ! I hear Thy voice, my Saviour, It speaks within my breast : " Oh, come to Me, thou weary one, I'll hush thy cares to rest ;" Then from the parched and burning waste Of sin where long I trod I come to Thee, Thou stream of life, My Saviour and my God ! 83 84 THO' DARK FATE HATH REFT ME. THO' DARK FATE HATH REFT ME. Tho' dark Fate hath reft me Of all that was sweet, And widely we sever, Too widely to meet, O 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 ! NOTES TO THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY. -4--- (It will be at once seen that these Poems have all been written long before the passing of the Relief Bill. To none more than to the writer could the pleasing prospects opened up by the enactment of this healing measure be more truly or sincerely gratifying. To behold the unworthy fetters of a noble and gallant nation riven, her energies unbound, her centuries of strife and disunion terminated, and the day of her liberation and repose arrived, was a consummation which, though devoutly desired, was scarcely to be looked for in his generation ; and were these Poems to be now re-written, doubtless the tone of sorrow and despondency which perhaps too much pervades them, would give place to one more cheerful and congenial to the altered circumstances of Ireland. In the East, as well as in the West of Europe, the prospect is equally cheering. While Ireland has been unscaling and purging her long abused vision, the cause of freedom has not stood still in a country too much akin to her, in fate and misrule. Greece has happily shaken off her Iron Bondage; her independence may now be considered as achieved, and the shout of Freedom once more be heard on the mountains This is a pleasing state of things; but how of Hellas-in the pass of Thermopyle. shall we speak of those degenerate nations of the south, of Naples and of the Peninsula ? They have permitted the young hope of their freedom to be strangled in its cradle, and submitted their necks to a yoke, as baneful and contemptible as ever bowed down a people. In these countries the tide of liberty was setting in with impetuous strength, when these poems were written. That it has been partially checked, he must lament; but that it must eventually prevail, need admit of little fear or question.) NOTE 1, page 3, last line. " Soft sleeps the moon on Inchidony's hill." Inchidony,-an island at the entrance of Clonakilty bay. The channel lies between it and the eastern shore. NOTE 2, page 5, line 20. " On Cleada'shill the moon is bright." Cleada, and Cahirbearna (the hill of the four gaps), form part of the chain of mountains which stretches westward from Mill-street to Killarney. NOTE 3, page 5,line 21. " Dark Avondsu still rolls in light." Avondu-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. It is subject to very high floods, and from its great rapidity and the havoc which it commits on those occasions, sweeping before it corn, cattle, and sometimes even cottages, one may, not inaptly, apply to it what Virgil says of a more celebrated river : " Proluit insano contorquens vortice silvas, Rex fluviorum Eridanus." Spenser thus beautifully characterises some of our principal Irish rivers, though he has made a mistake with regard to the Allo; it is the Blackwater that passes through .Sliav-logher"There was the Liffie rolling down the lea, The sandy Slane, the stony Au-brian, The spacious Shenan, spreading like a sea, The pleasant Foyne, the fishy, fruitful Ban, 86 NOTES. Sweet Awniduff, which of the Englishman Is called Blackwater, and the Liffar deep, Sad Trowis, that once his people overran, Strong Allo tumbling from Slew-logher steep, And Mulla mine whose waves I whilom taught to weep." NOTE 4, page 6, line 14. the beauteous Reeks." Macgillacuddy's Reeks, in the neighbourhood of Killarney, are the highest mountains in Munster. For a description of these, and of the celebrated lakes of that place, see Weld's Killarney; by far the best and most correct work on the subject. " NOTE 5, page 8,line 18. " And by the assassin's steel the grey-hair'd Desmond died." Gerald, Earl of Desmond. The vast estate of this nobleman, in Desmond (south Munster), was the cause of his ruin: it held out to his enemies too strong a temptation to be resisted, and the chief governors of Ireland determined to seize upon it by any means. Without having committed any overt act of high treason, or (one anything inconsistent with the duty and peaceful demeanour of a subject (unless some private quarrels with the rival house of Ormond could be construed into such) he was declared a traitor, and driven, in his own defence, into a rebellion, which, by letters expressive of his unshaken loyalty to her Majesty, and by every possible means, he endeavoured to avoid. After having undergone incredible hardships and privations, he was surprised by night in a cabin near Tralee, by one Kelly of Morierta, and twenty-five of his kerns, employed for the purpose by Ormond. Kelly struck off his head, which was sent to the Queen, by whose order it was impaled on London bridge. For this barbarous murder of a helpless and persecuted old man, Kelly received a pension of forty pounds a year, but was afterwards hanged at Tyburn. NOTE 6, page 16, line 24. " The far Seven-Heads thro' mists of purple smile." Seven-Heads : Dundeedy, Dunowen, Dunore, Duneene, Dunocwig, Dunworly, and Dungorly. On all these headlands the Irish had formerly duns, or castles. NOTES TO DONAL COMM. NOTE 1, page 27, line 1 and 2. "'Tis midnight, and November's gale vale." Sweeps hoarsely down Glengarav's The following beautiful description of Glengarav and the Bay of Bantry is takers from the Rev. Horace Townsend's Statistical Survey of the County of Cork: "The Bay of Bantry, from almost every point of view, exhibits one of the noblest prospects, on a scale of romantic magnitude, that imagination can well conceive. The extent of this great body of water, from the eastern extremity to the ocean, is about twenty-five miles; the breadth, including the islands, from six to eight. It contains, beside some small, two very large islands, differing extremely from each other in quality and appearance, but perfectly suited to the respective purposes of their different situations. Bear Island, very high, rocky, and coarse, standing a little within the mouth of the Bay, braves the fury of the western waves, and forms, by the shelter of its large body, a most secure and spacious haven. Safe in its more retired situation, at the upper end of the Bay, the Island of Whiddy presents a surface of gentle inequalities, covered by a soil of uncommon richness and fertility. The grandeur of the scene in which this noble expanse of water bears so conspicuous a part, is greatly enhanced by the rugged variety of the surrounding mountains, particularly those on the west side, which far exceed the rest in altitude and boldness of form. Among these, Hungry-hill, rising with a very steep ascent from the water, raises his broad and majestic head, easily distinguishable from a great distance, and far surpassing all the other mountains of this country in height and grandeur. The effect produced by such an assemblage of objects can hardly be conceived, and is impossible to be described. The NOTES. 87 mind, filled and overborne by a prospect so various, so extended, so sublime, sinks beneath its magnitude, and feeling the utter incapability of adequate expression, rests upon the scene in silent and solemn admiration. The soul must be insensible indeed which will not be moved by such a contemplation to adore the God of nature, from whom such mighty works proceed. Large as the ground of this great picture is, it comes within the scope of human sight, a circumstance upon which the powerfulness of its impression materially depends. A greater extension of the parts, by throwing them far from view, would diminish their effect, and a reduction of their scale would lessen their grandeur. Much, and justly, as Killarney is celebrated for the beauty of its scenes, no single view it affords can vie with this in sublimity of character, and greatness of effect. " But the place most celebrated for combining the softer graces of the waving wood with the wildest rudeness of mountain aspect, is Glengariff (the rough glen), situated on the north side of the bay, at the head of a small harbour or cove. The hills that enclose this romantic glen rise in great variety of rocky forms, their sides and hollows being covered profusedly with trees and shrubs, among which the arbutus, rarely found to adorn our native woods, appears in a flourishing state. Here, as at Killarney, nature seems to have been at wanton variance with herself, and after exciting a war between two rival powers, to have decided in favour of the weaker party. Among stones of an immense size, thrown together in the wildest confusion, and apparently forbidding the possibility of useful produce; among bare and massive rocks, that should seem destined to reign for ever in barren desolation, arises a luxuriance of sylvan growth, which art would hardly hope for in the happiest situations. The extent of this woody region, winding through the mountains for some miles, is very considerable. Iron was formerly smelted in this neighbourhood, when timber was more abundant and less valuable. A river, abounding with salmon and sea-trout, runs through this glen : in dry weather (as Johnson observes of a similar situation), 'fretting over the asperities of a rocky bottom;' when swollen with rains, rolling a torrent of frightful magnitude into the bay. It is passed by a good stone bridge, attributed to Cromwell, and still bearing his name. " The last of nature's uncommon and astonishing displays that remains to be mentioned, is the waterfall, or cataract, of Hungry-hill, in comparison with which O'Sullivan's Cascade at Killarney, and the waterfall at Power's-court near Dublin, shrink into insignificance. The eye, accustomed to the various wonders of Alpine scenery, may doubtless view this stupendous fall with less emotion; but what will the lowland inhabitant think of a river tumbled from the summit of a mountain, elavated more than 2,000 feet above its base, and almost perpendicular in its ascent. In the first part of its progress, the side of the hill is so steep as to suffer the water to fall from a vast height, unimpeded by the rocky projections which the spreading base of the mountain opposes to its descent in approaching the bottom. It thus assumes the double character of a fall and cataract. At the back of this great mountain are several lakes, one of which supplies the water of the fall. This grand and singular spectacle, often to be plainly distinguished from the town of Bantry, fourteen miles distant, appears in full majesty only after heavy falls of rain, sufficiently frequent in this district to give the inhabitants numerous opportunities of seeing it in all its glory." This is very clear and graphic; but it would be injustice to the reader to omit the following picture of Glengariff, by a gentleman, a resident of Bantry, whose fine poetical feeling, and almost intuitive perception of the beautiful in natural scenery, had happily fitted him for the task of describing this magnificent region, which he had undertaken in the 9th No. of "Bolster's Magazine." "After visiting some of the most picturesque parts of the south-western coasts, we lingered a few days amid the enchanting wilds of Glengariff. We had the advantage of reviewing its wood-crowned steeps, gleaming under a cloudless sky, in all the rich variety of tints which the fading glory of autumn left upon the frail but beautiful foliage. Less imposing in its mountain barriers than Killarney, and less enriched by the fanciful variety of sparkling islands in its sea-views,-and the inland scenery exhibits a character equally magical and partakes as much of the seclusion,-the loneliness, and the flowery wilds of fairyland, as any portion of the country on the borders of the lakes. The summer tourist who pays a hurried visit of a few hours to the Glen is by no means competent to pronounce an opinion upon its peculiar attractions. His eye may wander with delight over the startling irregularity of its hills and dales; but he has not time sufficient to explore the depths and recessep of its woodland solitude, in which the witching charms of this romantic region operate most forcibly NOTES. on the mind. It is by treading its tangled pathways, and wandering amid its secret dells, that the charms of Glengariff become revealed in all their power. There the most fanciful and picturesque views spread around on every side. A twilight grove, terminating in a soft vale, whose vivid green appears as if it had been never violated by mortal foot; a bower rich in the fragrant woodbine, intermingled with a variety of clasping evergreens, drooping over a miniature lake of transparent brightness; a lonely wild suddenly bursting on the sight, girded on all sides by grim and naked mountains; a variety of natural avenues, leading through the embowered wood to retreats, in whose breathless solitude the very genius of meditation would appear to reside, or to golden glades, sonorous with the songs of a hundred foaming rills. But what appears chiefly to impress the mind in this secluded region is-the deep conviction you feel, that there is no dramatic effect in all you behold, no pleasing illusion of art; that it is nature you contemplate, such as she is in all her wildness and all her beauty. "The situation of Lord Bantry's lodge is very picturesque; the verdant swell on which it rises, and the tasteful arbours that surround it, appear in fine relief to the frowning hills in the rear. But although I consider what may be called the inland beauties of Glengariff the most striking and characteristic, I am far from depreciating its coast scenery. The view of Mr. White's castellated mansion and demesne from the water is very imposing. The architecture of the house, which corresponds with its situation, is in admirable keeping, with the mountains in the background. The demesne is laid out in very good taste, exhibiting no violent triumph of art over nature; but that inimitable carelessness-that touching simplicity, which shows that she has not been subdued and conquered, but gently wooed and won. From a wooded steep on the old Bearhaven road, to the north of Cromwell's bridge, you may command the most comprehensive view that is afforded by any spot in the neighbourhood of the Glen. " On the left you have the entire woodland sweep of Glengariff, stretching far to the south and east, and clothing many a hill in its imposing verdure, but disclosing most agreeable vistas, through which the mountain streams may be seen wildly rushing and sparkling in their course; to the west, you have the lofty mountains of Bearhaven, with their graceful outline terminated by the "waste of waters wild," whilst Lord Bantry's demesne lies to the south in dim perspective. The sunset over Goul and Hungry, the most prominent in the western chain of mountains, as seen from Glengariff, or any of the heights in the neighbourhood of Bantry, is particularly grand. 'Ihe waterfall, which takes a leap of some hundred feet from the crest of the former, can sometimes be plainly distinguished at a distance of twenty miles, with its illuminated iris. The white mists with which its brows are frequently wreathed give this mountain a peculiarly soft and graceful character. On a few occasions it has exhibited an aspect of transcendent glory, having its entire figure veiled in a transparent curtain of the rainbow tint. As you may suppose, the majority of the mountains in the neighbourhood of the Glen are crowned with lakes; no less than 365 of these Alpine reservoirs are to be found on the summit of one of them." NOTE 2, page 29, last line. swell." "It is the sad Ululla's Though Byron has Wulwulla and Campbell Ollolla, have not hesitated to use the I word, as no one has a better claim to it than an Irishman. NOTE 3, page 30,line 3. "Inver-na-marc thy rugged shore." Inver-na-marc (the bay of ships), the old name for Bantry Bay. Inver (properly spelled In-mar) gives name to many places in Ireland. It signifies a creek or bay : lInverary, Inverness, &c., in Scotland, have the same origin. This bay is so large and well sheltered, that all the ships in Europe might lie there in perfect security. In 1689 there was a partial engagement here between the English fleet under Admiral Herbert, and the French, commanded by Mons. Renault, in which the former had the worst of it, owing to a great part of the ships being unable to come into action. (See Wilson's Naval History.) The division of the French fleet which came to anchor here in the winter of 1796, never attempted a landing. A Bantry pilot who ventured on board one of their ships, and remained with them for a week, said that they spent the time in every species of amusement; their bands were continually playing, and they were very often seen from the shore dancing on deck. It is remarkable that it was in Irish they conversed with this person. They questioned him about the state of the roads, which some of them appeared to know very well, and the disposition of the people. He was NOTES. 89 treated with the greatest kindness, and nothing but his having a family could have induced him to leave them. By this account, which we have had lately verified in the autobiography of Napper Tandy, there was a great number of Irishmen in the expedition. NOTE 4, page 30, lines 15 and 16. " Or listened the deep copse among To hear the Spanish seaman's song." This place was formerly much frequented by the Spaniards. It carried on a very extensive trade in pilchards with Spain, Portugal, and Italy; but for these last seventy or eighty years not a pilchard has appeared on the coast. The following two instances, taken from " Smith's History of Cork," prove what an inexhaustible source of wealth and comfort the Irish fisheries would be, if properly encouraged. " In 1749, Mr. Richard Mead, of Bantry, proved to the Dublin Society, that he had in that year caught and cured 380,800 fish of different kinds, six score to the hundred; and in the preceding year, Mr. James Young, of the same place, caught antd cured 482,500 herrings, and 231 barrels of sprats." One year with another, fish is as plentiful on this coast as at the above period. NOTE 5, page 30, line 30. " Of Leim-a-tagart'smountaineer." Leim-a-tagart (the Priest's Leap) is a wild and dangerous mountain pass from Bantry into Kerry. The people dwelling about this spot have been, from time immemorial, noted creach drivers, or forayers; they go by the name of Glannies, or the Glen boys, and so unsubdued, even at this day, is the spirit of their ancestors in them, that rather lead an inactive life, they make frequent descents upon a clan of lowlanders called Kohanes, or boys of the mist, not for the purpose of driving cattle, for that would not be quite so safe in these times, but for the mere pleasure of fighting, or to revenge some old affront. This gave rise to numerous conflicts until very lately, when the unwearied and persevering exertions of the Rev. Mr. Barry, Parish Priest of Bantry, effected what the law might attempt in vain; for these mountaineers, though not living exactly beyond the leap, come within the application of the proverbial saying, " Beyond the Leap, beyond the Law." .than NOTE 6, page 30, line 36. " -go climb that height, Whose depth of shade yields scanty light, Where the dark elders droop their head O'er Ard-na-mrahar's countless dead." Ard-na-mrahar (the Brethren's, or Monk's Height), so called from an abbey which once stood there. The "Hibernia Dominicana," in its enumeration of the monasteries of Friars' Minors, thus speaks of it: " Bantry in agro Corcagiensi, Canobium fundatum a Dermito O'Sullivan, circy A, 1460?" 7, page 31, line 32. "All knew Ivera's chief." Ivera-the barony of Bear. I-bera is the Irish word, the b having the sound of v. Smith thinks the place so called from the Iberi, a Spanish colony which settled originally in this quarter. NOTE 8, page 35, line 21. ! " Carriganassig from thy walls No longer now the warder calls." The castle of Carriganass, situated upon the river Ouvane (the fair river), five miles from Bantry, was built by one of the O'Sullivans, who formerly possessed the entire of the county. It was a high structure, with four round flanking towers, and a square court. In Queen Elizabeth's time it was obstinately defended against the English forces by Daniel O'Sullivan, surnamed Comm. In the "Pacata Hibernia" its surrender is thus related : "Sir Charles (Wilmot) with the English regiments, overran all Beare and Bantry, destroying all they could find meet for the reliefe of men, so as the countrey was entirely wasted. He sent also Captain Flemming with his pinnace, and certaine souldiers into O'Sullivan's Island; he tooke there certaine boats, and an English barke which O'Sullivan had gotten for his transportation into Spaine, when he should be enforced NOTE 90 NOTES. thereunto; they took also from thence, certaine cows and sheepe which were reserved there, as in a secure storehouse, and put the churles to the sword that inhabited therein. The warders of the castles of Ardea, and Carrikness, on the sixth of the same month, dispayring of their master, O'Sullivan's returne, rendered both their castles and their lives to the Queene's mercy; so that although he should have animium revertendi, he had neither place of safetie whereunto he might retire, nor corn, nor cattle to feed himselfe, much less to uphold or renew any warre against the state." William O'Sullivan, Esq., had an idea of restoring this noble edifice of his ancestors; but its ruinous state presented tuo many difficulties for the undertaking. The entire country around it was formerly very thickly wooded, and had plenty of red deer. NOTE 9, page 37, line 4. " The heiressof Clan-Donal-Roe." Clan-Donal-Roe is a small track in Carbery once the property of the M'Carthys. NOTE 10, page 40, line 21. "I tore her from Finbarra'sshrine." The lake of Gougane Barra-i. e., the hollow or recess of Saint Finn Bar-in the rugged territory of Ibh-Laoghaire (the O'Leary's country), in the west of the county of Cork, is the parent of the river Lee. It is rather of an irregular oblong form, running from N. E. to S. W., and may cover about twenty acres of ground. Its waters embrace a small but verdant island, of about half an acre in extent, which approaches its eastern shore. The lake, as its name implies, is situate in a deep hollow, surrounded on every side (save the east, where its superabundant waters are discharged), by vast and almost perpendicular mountains, whose dark inverted shadows are gloomily reflected in its waters beneath. The name of those mountains are Derreen (the little oak wood), where not a tree now remains; Maolagh, which signifies a country, a region, a map, perhaps so called from the wide prospect which it affords; Nad an'uillar,the Eagle's nest; and Faoilte na Gougane-i. e., the cliffs of Gougane-with its steep and frowning precipices, the home of an hundred echoes. Between the bases of these mountains and the margin of the lake runs a narrow strip of land, which at the N.E. affords a few patches for coarse meadow and tillage, which support the little hamlet of Bossalucha-i. e., the lake inch. Two or three houses at this place in some sort redeem the solitude of the scene. " As we approached the causeway leading to the island," says a writer in the 8th No. of " Bolster's Magazine," who describes this place with great minuteness, "we passed a small slated fishing lodge, beside it lay a skiff hauled up on the strand, and at a small distance, on a little green eminence, a few lonely mounds, without stone or inscription, point out the simple burying-place of the district; their number, and the small extent of ground covered, gave, at a glance, the census and the condition of a thinly-peopled mountain country; and yet this unpretending spot is as effectually the burial-place of human hopes, and feelings, and passions-of feverish anxieties, of sorrows and agitations-it affords as saddening a field for contemplation, as if it covered the space, and was decked out with all 'the cypresses, the willows, and the marbles of a Pyre-la-Chaise. It is a meet and fitting station for the penitentiary pilgrim, previous to his entry on his devotions witlin the island. Some broken walls mark the grave of a clergyman of the name of O'Mahony, who, in the beginning of last century, closed a life of religious seclusion here: considering how revered is still his memory amongst these mountains, the shameful state of neglect in which we found his grave astonished us. We sought in vain for the flag mentioned by Smith in his "History of Cork," from which he copied this inscription, " Hoc sibi et successoribussuis in, eadens vocatione monumentumr imposuit Dominus Doctor Dionisius O'Mahony, presbyter licet indignus;" either it has been removed or buried under the rubbish of the place. "A rude artificial causeway led us into the holy island. At the entrance stands a square, narrow, stone enclosure, flagged overhead. This encloses a portion of the water of the lake, which finds admission beneath. In the busy season of the pattern, this well is frequented by pressing crowds of men, women, and cows; the lame, the blind, the sick, and the sore; the barren and unprofitable; the stout boccaugh of either gender repair to its healing water, in the sure hope of not getting rid of those lamentable maims and afflictions of person, which form their best source of profit, and interest the charity of the peasantry. " We find the greater portion of the island covered by the ruins of the small chapel, with its appurtenant cloisters, andalarge square court containing eight cells arched over. NOTES. 91 This square faces the causeway, from which a passage leads through an avenue of trees, to a terrace about five feet in height, to which we ascended by a few steps. In the middle of the court, on a little mound, with an ascent on each side of four stone steps, stands the shattered and time-worn shaft of a wooden cross. The number of hair and hay tethers, halters, and spancels, tied round it, prove that the cattle passed through the waters have done so to their advantage. This court is beautifully shaded with trees. Each side contains two circular cells, ten feet deep and eight feet high, by four broad. In two of these we found some poor women at their devotions, preparing to pass the night in watching and penitence, for which purpose they had lighted up fires within them, and on inquiry we found that the practice was quite common. " The terrace leads, by a few steps, down to the chapel, which adjoins it at the north side. This little oratory, together with the buildings belonging to it, are all in complete ruin; they were built on the smallest scale, and with the rudest materials, They solidity not appearing to have been at all looked to in the construction. are evidently very ancient. How, in so remote and secluded a situation, the hand of the desecrator could have ever reached them, I cannot conceive; but he has done his work well and pitilessly. Though here, we may reasonably presume, was none of the pride of the churchman, none of the world's wealth, nothing to temp rapacity-though in this retreat, sacred " to ever musing melancholy," dwelt none of the agitators of the land--yet the blind and reckless fury of the fanatic found its way through the wild and rocky land that encloses it, and carried his polemical rancour into the hut of the hermit. " The oratory runs east and west ; the entrance is through a low arched doorway in the eastern wall; the interior is about thirty-six feet long, by fourteen broad, and the side walls by four feet high, so that when roofed it must have been extremely low, being at the highest, judging from the broken gables, about twelve feet, and then the entire lighted by the door and two small windows, one in each gable. The walls of the four small chambers adjoining are all of a similar height to those of the chapel. The entire extent is fifty-six feet in length, by thirty-six in breadth ; one or two of these consist of extremely small cells, so that when we consider their height, extent, and the light they enjoyed, we may easily calculate that the life of the successive anchorites who inhabited them was not one of much comfort or convenience, but much the reverse-of silence, gloom, and mortification. Man elsewhere loves to contend with, and, if possible, emulate nature in the greatness and majesty of her works; but here, as if awed by the sublimity of surrounding objects, and ashamed of his own real littleness, the humble founder of this desecrated shrine constructed it on a scale peculiarly pigmy and diminutive. " The buildings stand at the south-east side, and cover nearly half the island. The remainder, which is clothed with the most beautiful verdure, is thickly shaded to the water's edge by tall ash trees. Two circular furrows at the north side of the cloisters are pointed out as the sites of tents, pitched here during the pattern by the men of Bantry and their servants. "In this island the holy anchorite and bishop, St. Fin Barr, who flourished, I conceive, contrary to the opinion of Ware, early in the 6th century, wishing to lead a life of pious retirement, found a situation beyond all others most suitable to his desire : a retreat as impenetrable as the imagination could well conceive, and seemingly designed by nature for the abode of some sequestered anchorite, where, in undisturbed solitude, he might pour out his soul in prayer, and hold converse "with nature's charms, and see her stores unrolled." St. Fin Barr, however, was reserved for purposes more useful to society, and for a scene where the example of his virtuous life might prove more extensively beneficial. He became the founder, not only of the Cathedral, but of the City of Cork, and laboured successfully in the conversion of the people of the adjacent country. A long line of successive anchorites occupied his retreat at Gougane, who, by their piety and virtues, rendered its name celebrated through the island, and a favourite pilgrimage and scene of devotion to the people. The last of these hermetical occupants was Father Denis O'Mahony, whose grave on the mainland I have before spoken of. The succession seems to have failed in him. He found this place a ruin, and the times in which he lived were not calculated for its re-edification; and a ruin A large tombstone-shaped slab, which lies at the foot of a has it since continued. tree, contains, together with a short history of this hermitage, directions for the devotions of the penitent pilgrims; but Dr. Murphy, the Catholic Bishop of Cork, and his clergy, have so thoroughly discountenanced the religious visitations to this place, that its solitude stands little chance of much future interruption. 92 NOTES. " Old people remember, with fond regret, the time when Gougane was inaccessible to horses, and almost to man ; when it was no small probationary exercise to pilgrim or palmer to overcome the difficulties of the way ; when the shores of the lake, and even some portions of the surrounding mountains, now naked and barren, were a continued forest, which lent its gloomy shade to deepen the natural solitude of the place. Rossalucha had then no houses, and no clumsy whitewashed fishing-hut destroyed the effect of the surrounding solitude and scenery; but man, with his improvements, has even approached this desolate spot, and familiarly squatted himself down beside its waters, cut down its woods, smoothed its road, and given an air of society to its solitude. " The view from the summit of Derreen, the highest point of the mountain-enclosure of the lake, is beautifully magnificent. Though other mountains that I have seen may boast a prospect of greater extent, yet it is reserved for Derreen to take in a reach of mountain and of flood, of crag and glen, as wildly diversified, as bold and as rugged, as any over which the lofty Reeks may look down from his royal residence: it is a splendid panoramic picture, of the grandest dimensions and outline. " From the Faoilte, on the preceding evening, we had obtained a view of the high outline of the Killarney mountains to the north-west; but here, now, from our superior height, they arose before us in all their purple grandeur, visible almost from their basis, in one long and splendid range, from Clara to the lordly Reekach. To the southwest appeared in the distant horizon the trackless Atlantic, bounding the blue hilly shores of Ivera, and reaching inland the fine estuary of Bantry, chequered with 'islets fair,' spread its still waters to meet the long brown valley which extends from the foot of Derreen, skirting Hungry-hill and Glengariff to the right. Wheeda, or Whiddy Island, appeared prominent in this calm and reposing picture, and near the head of the Bay lay, bright and sparkling, the small mountain lake Loch-a-derry-fadda, the Lough of the long oaken wood-but the wood was gone; cultivated gardens and brown pastures covered its site. Before us lay the infant Lee, a long winding silver thread, stealing through sterile glens, until, in the distance, it reached the lakes of Inchageela, and spread itself along their rocky shores, brightening in the morning rays. Between the chain of lakes and the head of the Bay of Bantry, lay three dark disconnected and cone-figured mountains: Sheha, the farthest south, feeding at its base a blue lake, called Luch an bhriic dearig, the loch of the red trout or charr; the other two mountains are Douchil-i.e., dark wooded-and Doush, a name which also occurs amongst the mountains of Wicklow. Beneath us, apparently at the mountain's foot, we could observe for a considerable distance a dark tortuous line, proceeding inwards from the course of the Lee, and resembling the irregular and fretted course of a small mountain stream. This was the celebrated pass of Kaoim-an-eigh-i.e, the pass of deer-through which a good road winds now to Bantry. "We had heard so much of Kaim-an-eigh, that we were impatient to see it ; and after having bade our long farewell to Derreen and Gougane, we descended the steep side of the former. We had arrived on the verge of a cliff, and on looking down, beheld the road winding at a great distance below, at the bottom of a narrow strait, the deepest, the most abrupt, and romantic imaginable. To get on this road we found a matter of difficulty, from the great general steepness and abruptness of its deep overhanging sides; and it was after considerable time and exertion that we effected our descent from rock to crag, through thorn and tangled briar, grasping at times the long heath, and furze, and brambles, or holding the dwarfy branches of the underwood, which grew abundantly in the interstices. " Nothing that ever I beheld in mountain scenery of glen, or dell, or defile, can at all equal the gloomy pass i$ which we now found ourselves. The separation of the mountain ground at either side is only just sufficient to afford room for a road of moderate breadth, with a fretted channel at one side for the waters, which, in the winter season, rush down from the high places above, and meeting here, find a passage to pay a first tribute to the Lee. A romantic or creative imagination would here find a grand and extensive field for the exercise of its powers. Every turn of the road brings us to some new appearance of the abrupt and shattered walls, which at either side arise up darkling to a great height; and the mind is continually occupied with the quick succession and change of objects so interesting; resolving and comparing realities, sometimes giving form and substance to 'airy nothings.' "The enthusiasm of my companions was unbounded as they slowly strided along, every faculty intent on the scene before them. Their classic minds found ready associations everywhere-each crag and cliff renewed classical reminiscences, and 'infamese scopuli,' ' Alta,' and ' Nemorosa,' were flying out between them without intermission. They found no difficulty in fancying themselves in Thermopyle's far-famed strait; and NOTES. 93 having decided on the resemblance, the location of the Polyandrium, or tomb of the mighty Leonidas, and his associate heroes-that grave 'whose dwellers shall be themes to verse for ever'-was quickly settled; and so was the temple of Ceres Amphyctionis. The fountain where the Persian horseman found the advanced guard of the Spartans occupied in combing their hair, was easily discovered in one of the placid pools of the trickling stream. The Phocian wall was also manifest; and to perfect the picture, they ascended again to the head of the pass, to catch another glimpse of the Maliac Gulf, as they called the Bay of Bantry. Time and space became annihilated before them; and a brace of thousand years were but as a day in their imagination. Their eager eyes sought out and found everywhere monuments of the unforgotten brave of Greece, and all the burial-places of memory sent forth their phantoms of the olden demigods, to people the scene. I confess, I could not see things in the same light. The place reminded me of nearer times-our own classic middle ages, and of different people-their arches were grey ruins, keeps, and dungeons to me. I saw but 'bristling walls,' battlemented courts, turrets, and embrazures, to which their perverted judgments gave other names'While memory ran O'er many a year of guilt and strife,' and Creaghadoir and Bonnoght, Kern, and Gallowglass, Tory and Rapparee, passed before me, sweeping the encumbered pass, driving their prey of lordly cattle down the defile: and loudly in my mind's ear rung the hostile shouts of the wild O'Sullivans and the O'Learys, their fierce hurras, and Farraghs, and aboos, mingled with the ringing of their swords, and their lusty strokes on helm and shield. It is with associations of spoil, adventure, and daring-of chasing the red deer, the wolf, or the boar, with horn and hound, that this place is properly connected. To behold it with other eye than that of an Irish senachie, is a deed less worthy, assuredly, than to drink, as my friend Falstaff says. "I think I may say, that at its entrance from the Gougane side, this pass is seen with best effect ; there its high cliffs are steepest, and the topling crags assume their most picturesque forms and resemblances of piles and ancients ruins. These receive beauty and variety from the various mosses which encrust them, and the dwarf shrubs and underwood, ivy and creeping plants, which lend their mellow hues to soften and give effect to the whole. The arbutus, a plant most indigenous to Killarney and Glengariff (into the first of which places it has been plausibly conjectured it had been brought from the continent by the monks who settled in the islands of its lakes) is not even uncommon among the rocks of Kaoim-an-eigh. We behold itself and the ash, and other hardy plants and shrubs, with wonder, growing at immense heights overhead, tufting crags inaccessible to the human foot, where we are astonished to think how they ever got there. The London pride grows here, and on the surrounding mountains, as well as amongst the ruins of Gougane Barra, in most astonishing profusion. I have seen it in great abundance on Turk and Mangerton, near Killarney, but its plenty in the neighbourhood of the Lee far exceeds all comparison. "A number of lesser defiles, formed by many a headlong torrent, or shelving cascade, shoot inward from the pass in deep and gloomy hollows, as you wind along, which greatly increase the interest of the place; and these, forming at their entrance high round headlands, thickly covered with the most luxuriant clothing of long flowering heath, have, at a distance, the appearance of rich overhanging woods. As we proceeded, we found the channel of the stream, which winds along with the road blocked up in various places with vast fragments of rock, rent in some violent convulsion or tempest from the cliffs around, or hurled downward in wild sport by the presiding genius of the scene. Trophied evidences of his giant energies long choked up the now unencumbered defile, and told the history of his fierce pastime during the many ages that he continued its uninterrupted lord. But the road-maker has successfully encroached uponi its savage dominions, and crumbled his ponderous masses, and smoothed down the difficulties which he had accumulated. The present diminished number of these vast fragments remain, however, as a sufficient record of the rocky chaos which Smith spoke of eighty years ago, and which long remained the astonishment of successive travellers." Dr. Smith's description of this place is far from being correct, and is too highly coloured. A person visiting the place after having read it, would feel a little disappointed, though it is in reality, as may be seen from the above extracts, one of the wildest and most romantic retreats that caa well be imagined. V4 NOTES. NOTE 11, page 42, line 10. " 'Tis morning, and the purple light On Noc-na-ve gleams coldly bright." Noc-na-ve (the hill of the deer) is the name of the hill over the town of Bantry. NOTE 12, page 42, line 18. " And falls the sun with mellower streak On Sliav-na-goila's giantpeak." Sliav-na-goil (the mountain of the wild people), now Sugar-loaf hill, appears, from its proximity and conical form, to be the highest of that chain of mountains which runs all along the western side of Bantry Bay, and divides the counties of Cork and Kerry. NOTE 13, page 43, last line. " Then wildly rushing down the shore, Was never seen or heard of more." Donal Comm made his escape into Spain. GILLA HUGH: on, THE PATRIOT MONK, A LAY OF CORK IN THE 12TH CENTURY, AND BY T. CONDON. GILLA HUGH: OR, THE PATRIOT MONK. INTRODUCTION. A tale of Cork I fain would tell, A tale of by-gone vanished years, Ere silence chain'd each convent bell, Or rust had dimm'd our battle-spears; When vesper hymns, at daylight's close, From many a chaunting choir around Upon the balmy air arose, And echoed with celestial sound; When freely flow'd the generous blood Of Erin on her Emerald sod, And England's first invading brood Before her wrath stood trembling, awed. Alas ! the misery and pain With which we drag our gallant chain ; The aching heart with which we see Our nation sunk in slavery; The sickness of the soul which falls Upon us in our lonely halls, From which the bravest and the best Have pass'd to North, South, East, and West, To seek a livelihood which ne'er Might they expect or hope for here ! And oh ! how sad it is to know That we are fall'n and sunk so low, That we have shed our blood in vain On many a well-contested plain, When fired by Freedom's smile we fought, And fell as Freedom's children ought ! But sadder still, to hear each day, In earth's remotest wilds away, Of triumph's gained by valour's steel In Irish hands, for England's weal. G 98 GILLA HUGH : OR, Ah, woe the day ! that Celtic hands Were forced to grasp the hireling brands Which opened a broad path before The Saxon's course on many a shore, And added strength to every wile That rules their own down-trodden isle ! Oh ! surely it must give relief To turn for some few moments brief Back to those days of generous strife When Irish veins, the stream of life Pour'd freely on the battle plain At Freedom's shrine, tho' all in vainWhen thro' the cloisters of Finn Barr Loud roll'd the echoes wild of war, And many a peaceful grey-eyed friar Dark frown'd in patriotic ire, And fain would grasp the deadly brand To strike a blow for Fatherland. Perhaps the echoes of this lay Of times long gone and vanish'd, may Awake to sense of thraldom base Those who'have slept too long a space In utter deep forgetfulness Of Erin's lot of wretchedness. Nor tell me of prosperity, And prospects bright'ning joyously : Alas! the census but too well The tale of dire misrule can tell : In whose sad columns may be read The millions exiled far, or deadThe hope of future Erin freeHer banish'd, murder'd peasantry. Oh, yes ! some rich indeed there are Who revel beneath Fortune's star, But wealth has saxonised their souls, And Saxon pride their heart control's; They hate the thought of Ireland free, They hate all those that lowly be; Within the church of God they strive Far from their sight the poor to drive, THE PATRIOT MONK. As tho', without the pomp of gold, All praise and pray'r should be untold. Ah ! sad indeed it is to know Times are not now as long ago ! Our language too-that brave old tongue Whose accents oft triumphant rung Above the fierce marauding Dane, And scared him from the smiling plainWhose tones had sail'd for centuries So softly on each peaceful breeze; Whose balmy sound, the deepest smart Could heal within the Irish heart; Whose notes in pray'r were never heard But Faith, and Hope, and Love were stirr'd Within the breast of young and old, Of holy priest and warrior bold.Oft 'mid the battle's thunder rang Its accents with a martial clang, Which swept with such resistless force Upon the foe, that troop of horse Charging with couch'd and gleaming spear, Ne'er brought such thrilling throbs of fear. And oh ! when Winter's howling gale Swept shrieking thro' the leafless vale, And dark o'er hut and castle hall The shades of night were seen to fall, Then by the brightly beaming hearth How flow'd its tones in social mirth, Or in some strong, embattled keep Told tales of warlike interest deep ! But now, alas ! 'tis all but dead, Its lingering days are nearly fled ! Scarce ever now its tones we hear So softly strong, resounding clear, Save, when his pray'r of deepest want Pours forth some ag6d mendicant Whose snowy locks and furrow'd brow Have been by it sustain'd till now ! Alas ! alas ! and must it go Into the silent grave below? And must we lose the shield that saved Our Faith from foreign tyrants glaived ? 99 100 GILLA HUGH : OR, And must we soon those accents miss That were so often wont to bless ? To live without it lonely now, How can we Brothers-Sisters, how? 0 thou by Youghal's dark-green wave, Whose manly voice instruction gave In early youth, when first my soul Had need of wisdom's strong control,Thine was the heart that ever sought To have the dear old Gaelic taught, thine infancy Whose sounds had lull'd To sleep upon thy mother's knee, And still are cherish'd in thy breast, Beyond all others lov'd the best : To thee, who first from thraldom's sleep, Which on it lay in slumbers deep, Awoke my soul to feelings grand That ever throb for Fatherland To thee, who long hath ponder'd on Our ancient glory sadly gone; Whose pen hath traced the history Of Erin's cbequer'd destiny; Whose mission, like "The Monks of old," Is, Faith and Science to unfold,A grateful debt in part to pay, To thee I dedicate my lay. And thou whose youthful forehead yet Is shaded by thy jet-black hair, But whose fresh youth disease hath met, And in thy heart lies cank'ring there 1 O gentle friend ? 0 master kind Whose image in my heart is twin'd, Tho' all unworthy I may be To speak, or write, or think of thee, Yet shall I also dare to say, I dedicate to thee my lay. Thou too, whose noble mission 'tis, Close by our own metropolis, Clothed in robes of snowy white, With leathern cincture girdled tight, THE PATRIOT MONK. To spend thy strength in holy zeal Which only hearts like thine may feel; Whose eloquence hath borne thy name Upon the broadest paths of fame,Lover of lofty chivalry ! My lay I dedicate to thee. And lastly thou, whose raptur'd ear Our own sweet tongue did lately hear In distant Rome resounding sweet, Where youths of every nation meet; Whom Tasso's numbers musical, And Dante's song surpassing all, Could never make forget the strain Thou yet may'st hear at home againWithin the Quercia's hallowed shade. Brother thy thoughts have never stray'd From Erin's weeping land, I ween, From what she is and erst had been ; Her glory past is dear to thee Her Valour, Faith, and PietyThen lastly, with affection great, To thee my lay I dedicate. CANTO THE FIRST. THE ABBEY. Griffin, thy heart is cold, thy fancy flown, Sweet plaintive bard ! whose tender notes were flung In silver accents tinged with golden tone Life's busy ways and crowded streets among ! I've dared to grasp the harp that lay unstrung Upon thy grave so long and silently, And in the accents of a lisping tongue, To sing of times when Erin yet was free, And stemm'd the Saxon's raid with her fair chivalry. I. The summer sun shone brightly down, With morning's early smile, On Corca's wave-encircled town, On Finn Barr's holy isle; 101 102 1 GILLA HUGH : OR, And softly on the crystal Lee, That rippled onward joyously, Pour'd a rich flood of silver rays That made her trembling bosom blaze As if a countless host of gems Flash'd from unnumber'd diadems, And fill'd the eye with dazzling light For mortal vision all too bright. A soft low sound came from the trees Waved by the early morning breeze, And mingling with it, faint was heard The noise of trembling grasses stirr'd, While the soft plashing of the wave Full many a fitful chorus gave. II. A high, o'erhanging steep upon, The Abbey glisten'd in the sun, And far extending on the hill Lay wrapp'd in holy silence still, As if the only dweller there Were silent meditative pray'r. But hark ! what sound of choral song Floats the green valley's length along, And swells as if that loud acclaim From twice three hundred voices came ? Ahl ! 'tis the early matin hymn That rings within those cloisters dim, Waking the quick expectant air To sounds of grateful praise and pray'r. It ceases, and that numerous choir Wend slowly to'ards Saint Finn Barr's spire, To hear the holy mass, and pray Before the labours of the day. III. It was a very ancient spire, The shrine of Erin's sacred fire Ere yet its light had sunk beneath The holier flame of Christian Faith. Upon that lonely spot revered, Lochan his holy temple rear'd THE PATRIOT MONK. Beside the fire-god's lofty fane That frown'd upon the marshy plain And when the Druid bow'd him down To Him who made the glorious sun, And ceas'd, the throne of Baal before, To bend him lowly as of yore, Then from the tower's open throat Rung out the Christian bell's sweet note, Bidding each cenobite prepare To chaunt the frequent hymn and pray'r. IV. The church was but an humble pile In Erin's early simple styleTho' when 'twas building, Goban Saer Was raising many a structure fair, And far surpass'd in building fame His father Turvy's wondrous name, Whose axe could stay the billows' speed, And bid the coming tide recedeThe narrow doorway slightly sloped Towards the top with lintel coped, And show'd but very little trace Of ornament upon its face; Thro' the deep windows, inward splay'd, The uncheck'd sunshine freely stray'd, And patches pour'd of dazzling light On wall, on floor, and habit white : But nought was there that might amaze, Or catch the curious stranger's gaze, Unless, perhaps, the roof of stone On which outside the sun now shone, And the gold shrine that held the saint, Enrich'd with many a carving quaint. V. Within, devoutly, now they kneel, Loud swells the clairseach's solemn peal; With contrite hearts aloud they pray, And the Confiteor" humbly say. And when the absolution's said, The vested Abbot lifts hs head, Ascends the altar, and his look Is bent upon the illumin'd book: " 103 104 104 GILLA HUGH : OR, The " Gloria in excelsis " rings Throughout the church; the censer swings And sends its odorous clouds aloft Rolling in volumes dimly soft. The Gospel and the Creed are said With form erect and hands outspread But at the " Homo factus est" Each knee to earth is lowly press'd; And at the "Elevation " dread, All on the floor are prostrate laid In adoration of the Lord, Brought down from Heaven by mortal word. Next the "eimento " for the dead In silence by the priest is read, Until the Saviour's hallow'd pray'r, The " Paer Noster," fills the air. After the " Agnus Dei's" notes The " Domine 2ton sung dignus" And then the holy hymne is sung, Composed by angul-choirs above, Which on the ear of Patrick rung When Seachnall was restored to love. floats; VI. HYMN. "Come, ye holy ! Come, nor slowly, Take and eat the flesh of God ; Head low bowing, Bosom glowing, Drink the red redeeming flood. " Shining newly Purchased truly, By the blood of Christ are we, Tasting Heaven, Praise be given Unto God unboundedly. "Right stupendus. And tremendous Of his sacred flesh and blood, The original of the following hymn (entitled htyseaus quando communeicaerent sacerdetes) is found in the Liber Hymnorunnand is said to have been composed by Angels at the time St. Patrick was reconciled to St. 'Oeacbnall. THE PATRIOT MONK. Snatching mortals From the portals Of eternal pain's abode ! " Source of power, Life bestower, Christ, the only Son of God, To creation Hath salvation Given upon the lloody rood. " Struck and hated, Immolated, For the world the Lord was seen ; Victim proffer'dPriest that offer'd.Both together he had been. " In past ages, Israel's sages Saw the blood of victim's, red, Ever flowing, Dimly showing What should on the Cross be shed. "Dazzling, glowing, Light bestowing, Saviour he hath been of all, Wondrous favour Giving ever Unto those who on him call. "Here all holy, Bending lowly Let the clean of heart draw nigh, And receiving, Firm believing, Eat that they may never die " Sweet protector, Lord and rector Of believers faithful, he, Joy transcending, Life unending Grants to them eternally. "Bread from Heaven He hath given To the hungry and the weak; Waters gleaming, Crystal seeming, Gives he unto those who seek. 105 106 GILLA HUGH : OR, "Christ eternal, Lord supernal, Omega and Alpha dread, Next in wonder, Girt with thunder, He shall come to judge the dead." VII. Then ceas'd the hymn, and one by one The meek-brow'd monks approaching came With claspdd hands, and eyes that shone With holy Faith's immortal flame, .Unto the altar steps to eat That food beyond all other sweetThe very flesh and blood of God, Before whom heavenly cherubs awed, Veil with their wings their reverend gaze When on them his dread glories blaze. The sacred feast was ended soon, And peace on every visage shone; " Dominus vobiscum " was said, And the response was answered : Then sung the priest, nor faint, nor low, " Benedicamus Domino ! "And " Deo gratias" sweetly rose Before the final blessing flows. Lastly the Gospel of Saint John By all erect was enter'd on; Again to earth the knee was press'd At " Verbum carofactum est," And mass was ended : turn'd they then To toil and sweat like other men. VIII. I said the Abbey's lofty site Was on a steep and rocky height, That placed it far in safety from The wintry torrent's tawny foam. It was a lovely spot, indeed, As ever urged a plund'rer's speed, And tempted Odin's votaries To spread their dark sails to the breeze. THE PATRIOT MONK. Full often had their murd'rous shout Upon that peaceful hill rang out; Full oft the fierce attack was made Upon Saint Finn Barr's hallow'd shade; Nor yet, I ween, with such success, But that full many a pirate less, They spread their dark retreating sail, And turn'd their back on Corca's vale: For well each holy monach fought For home and shrine as monach ought, Nor ever from the conflict shrunk Young student, priest, or hoary monk. IX. Northward, a chain of oak-clad hills, Dotted and lined with bubbling rills, Stretch'd east and west in long array To meet the dim horizon grey. The silv'ry winding crystal Lee Than which no stream may purer be, Flow'd calmly at the limestone base Of the meek Brothers' dwelling-place. To the bright south, nor far away, A line of verdant hillocks lay Teeming with rich luxuriant crops, And lowing herds, and fleecy flocks; While in the valley'd space between Gleaming the fairy Lough was seen. But fairer than all else, I trow, Of all the wondrous scene below, Was the broad, hill-bound, glittering bay That to the eastward stretch'd away, Laving the lovely slopes that bound With a rich frame its waters round. x. Yet tho' the view outside was fair, And beauty made her dwelling there. Within the Abbey walls, I ween, Far fairer, lovelier far the sceneBrighter in Corca's diadem, Than the rich setting, shone the gem. 107 108 GILLA HUGH : OR, Nor was it that the architect A lofty pile did there erect; For, save the hall where strangers dwelt, Each humble cell was meanly built; And scarce sufficed in breadth and height To lodge each holy cenobite, No matter what his rank might be, Even tho' the son of royaltyBut 'twas that Christian peace had made Her dwelling in that holy shade. Around was drawn, encircling all, A thick and strong protective wall, Within which frequent refuge found The unprotected poor around, When tyrant chief or ruthless Dane Invading swept o'er hill and plain. I wot, no worldly pomp and glare Might pour their baleful flashes there. XI. Oh ! to behold six hundred dwell Within that peaceful citadel, The son of proud nobility And the poor friar of low degree, Both kneeling in united pray'r, Brothers in very truth they were ! And many a dark-eyed youth of Spain, And embrown'd son of Italy, Mingled amid the Celtic train And shared their hospitality : Welcome were they to hall and board, And to a share in all the lore Within Saint Finn Barr's Abbey stored, And freely given to rich and poor. Great was the fame of Erin then, Thro' Christian Europe's farthest ken, For generous, wise, and holy men. XII. Oh ! yes; from many a distant shore, In the bright palmy days of yore,From many a far and famous strand, Young students pour'd to Erin's land, THE PATRIOT MONK. And dwelt in peace within her halls, And mingled in her festivals. Nor was the bright illumin'd page, Fair offspring of the bard and sage ! The only glitt'ring object here, Since many a gleaming, polished spear, And bossy shield, and deadly skian, Of point and edge and temper keen, Lay piled around in dread array, Ready at hand for danger's day. Nor might the Abbey well dispense With shield and spear for its defence, In times when Denmark's plund'rers came With naked sword and torch of flame, To fire the sacred shrines of Faith And doom the monks to certain death. XIII. And well Fionn Barra's sons could wield The spear and sword, and use the shield ; For, many, 'mid the hosts of France Had met the treacherous Grecian lance, When Conrad and King Louis sped Upon their chivalrous crusadeAnd wept when home returned again, Full many a brave companion slain. Alas ! that such a host should die The victims of foul treachery ! But one there was whose agld head, The snows of ninety years and more Had bow'd to earth, tho' still his tread Show'd something of the strength of yore: That form of huge gigantic mould, Full seventy years long past and gone, Upon the Paynim host had roll'd And ever swept to victory on;The friend of Godfrey brave, I wot Conaun like Irish warrior fought. But now within the Abbey walls No more the martial trumpet calls The agdd monk to charge the foe, Yet, on the robber Dane, I trow, 109 1-10 GILLA HUGH : OR, Some flashes of his youthful days Of fiery strength would sometimes blaze. XIV. Beautiful, truly, 'twas to see Cluster around the old man's knee The youthful students listening still, With heaving breasts and fiery thrill, When seated near some shady oak, Of fair Jerusalem he spoke, And told of many a mighty deed Perform'd before the Tomb was freed, To which, full many a weary mile, From land remote, and distant isle, The pious pilgrim came to pray, And holy votive offering pay ! Beautiful, truly, 'twas to see Cluster around him lovingly The fiery youths with burning cheek, And those with subdued look and meek! For he was lov'd by young and old, By the retiring and the bold; And reverence deep by all was paid To ev'ry word the old man said. xv. But two of all that youthful band Of students, cull'd from many a land, Were fav'rites with the ancient man, For whom his predilections ran, One was a peasant's son, MacTyre, With broad bold brow, and glance of fire, And rich red glow upon his cheek Like Autumn's morning vermeil streak: Scarce twenty summers yet had shone His darkly curling locks upon; And ripening manhood's clust'ring down Had tinged his chin but slightly brown : Yet lack'd his limbs nor strength nor grace To match the beauty of his face, While his tall form's breadth and length Gave promise of maturer strength. THE PATRIOT MONK. A fairer youth 'twere hard to see 'Mid Europe's proudest chivalry. XV I. The other was of slighter mould, Nor was his dark eye's glance so bold ; And on his cheek a pallor hung That seem6d strange for one so young: But Ivor's heart affliction learn'd Ere yet the woes of life were earn'd. His father was a pirate Dane, And in the Abbey halls was slain, Which, with his crew and youthful child, He had attack'd one midnight wild, But found upon that peaceful spot A foe that well and bravely fought. The boy within the hall remain'd, With his dead father's life-blood stain'd, And sad and fearless there he stay'd When every Ostman far had fled, Until the good monks wept to see Such proof of filial piety. Then wild revenge aside he laid, And with them his abode he made. XVII. Nine times the summer sun had smil'd Upon that strange pale orphan child, Nine times the wintry gusts had blown, Adown the vale with hollow moan, Since he the monks had dwelt among, And join'd in morn and vesper song. His hand the best of all could trace, Upon the smooth white vellum's face, Those wondrous characters that shed Such glory on the ancient dead ; His hand could sweep the clairseach too, With a rare skill possess'd by few; And many a wild and touching lay He sang at dusky twilight grey, When some few hours of rest were given To priest and monk at silent even. 111 112 GILLA HUGH : OR, XVIII. Some three and twenty summers now Stamp'd youthful manhood on his brow ; But yet, tho' oft the Abbot spake, Nor cowl nor frock he wished to take. Altho' a pious youth was he, And learn6d in a high degree :Perhaps his youthful friend, MacTyre, Could whisper why a holy friar, He would not be, and why so oft His wild harp struck those numbers soft, Whose tender fairy notes would melt The flinty heart of harden'd guilt. XIX. This summer morn, when mass was said, Conaun and his two youthful friends Along the verdant valley stray'd, Where the clear Lee fantastic wends. The wave, from many a ripple bright Reflecting morning's early light, Playfully struck the sedges dank That clust'ring lined the mossy bank, And a sweet laughing music made That softly filled the silent glade. Not far beyond the Abbey's base Did they their winding pathway trace, When to a little grassy seat That lay within a dim retreat, They turn'd to sit and speak awhile Of Erin's woes and England's wile : Nor long in earnest converse grave Sat they beside the glitt'ring wave, When slowly pacing towards them cameFor well his stately form they knewThe Patriot Monk of wide-spread fame, Their saintly Abbot, Gilla Hugh. THE PATRIOT MONK CANTO THE SECOND. THE ABBOT. I. With gentle smile and princely air, The halo of his virtuous mind, Slowly the Abbot turn'd him where Conaun and his young friends reclined : Full quickly from their grassy seat, The moment they beheld him come, All rose with reverent action meet, And stood outside the leafy gloom To meet the meekest monk that e'er Succeeded to Saint Finn Barr's chair. II. A man of powerful frame was he, Well knit, with easy motion free, Broad shoulder'd, too, of stature high, With dome-like brow, and deep-set eye Whose gray beam pour'd in mildness soft To keener glance would change full oft : His silver hairs were thinly spread Around his finely-formed head; And covering his deep, rounded chest, His flowing beard hung down his breast; Thrown back, that on his brow might play The morning breeze, his hood now lay; And loosely from his shoulders broad The white robes of his order flow'd. I wot, a man so dignified, Without a particle of pride, So firmly brave, so sweetly kind, 'Twere hard in Christendom to find. III. And was he born of parents high, Of noble rank and dignity? And were his young limbs proudly dress'd In glittering many-colour'd vest? H 113 114- GILLA HUGH : OR, And did he live luxuriously As chieftain's son of high degree, Ere he had chose a life so strict As lives each son of Benedict? Not so; an humble origin Was that of Gilla Hugh O'Mween : A poor man's offspring, far away On Connaught's bleak and rocky coast Young Gilla first beheld the day, And o'er life's threshold shivering cross'd. A hardy life meanwhile he led Upon that wild, romantic shore, Until his infancy had fled, And wondrous dreams began to pour Into the musing soul of youth, Filling him with celestial truth. IV. Clearly he saw the nothingness Of Earth's vain transitory bliss And promises of happiness. " Temptation's arm is strong," he said, " And wily foes around are spread To lure my soul from virtue's path And brand it for eternal wrath. How can I innocence preserve, And from the path of Truth anot swerve, When fierce rebellious throbs I feel Within my bosom madly thrill, And Guilt hath emissaries hid My heart's recesses deep amid ?I'll brave the stormy billows' foam That flecks Saint Fechin's peaceful home, And hid in lonely Ard Oilleen My trembling soul secure I'll screen From ev'ry foe that lurks abroad To snatch the youthful heart from God." V. Thus thought and spoke the young O'Mween, Ere manhood's down had tinged his chin; Nor was he one to while away The precious hours in fancies vain, THE PATRIOT MONK. And idly sit the livelong day On lofty crag beside the main, Watching the billows' numerous host Dash ceaseless on that rocky coast. No; Fancy's clear depicting beam But traced the bright design for him To be in toil and patience wrought, Else her fair dreams he valued nought. Short time he took for last adieu To home and friends and kindred true; Short time he took to bid farewell To mountain crag and shady dell, When o'er the rolling billows fast To Ard Oilleen his currach dash'd ; And ere day's last beam ceased to shine, "Hestood within Saint Fechin's shrine. VI. The Abbot view'd the stranger youth With kindly glance of pitying ruth. " 0 Father !give me here to dwell In some lone, solitary cell, That I may spend the years of life, Far from the world's tumultuous strife, In serving Him who life bestowedThe sweet, eternal, wondrous God !" Thus spoke the fervent boy ; and then The Abbot, with prophetic ken, Beheld the sanctity sublime Of that fair youth in after time: " Welcome, belov6d child !" he said. " By God's directing finger led, Hast thou this lonely hermitage Sought thro' the billows' foamy rage. Here, amid ocean's angry roar, Ever thy thoughts shall heavenward soar, And, mingling with the wild waves' cry, Thy hymn of praise shall float on high; Until thy destiny shall bear Thy footsteps to a home less grand And wild than this, but oh ! as fair As smiles in yonder beauteous land ! 115 116 GILLA HUGH: OR, There, by the clearest crystal wave That ever flash'd, shall be thy grave." VII. Long years remain'd the young O'Mween A holy friar in Ard Oilleen, Chaunting the oft-repeated pray'r In union with his brethren there; Or tracing many a curious page With life of saint or lore of sage, The wonders of a future age! It was a blessed life to lead For one of meditative mind, From wordly interruption freed, And fraught with heavenly joys refined : That wild harp, the sea, Play'd by the giant tempest strong0 !what is softer symphony To those majestic peals of song ? Lifted his soul to thoughts sublime, And bade it ever heavenward climb. But here he may no longer be; His home henceforth is by the Lee. .Eolian viii.ll It was a mild autumnal eve, The weary ocean slept around, Motionless, save the slumb'ring heave That rose and fell with scarce a sound,It was the vesper hour of rest; And all Saint Fechin's holy band Sat on a hillock's grassy crest, By evening's gentle zephyrs fann'd: The slanting sunbeam mildly fell And gilded ocean's lazy swell, Pouring a soft and temper'd light That wrapp'd the soul in calm delight, Upon a scroll illumin'd bright. 'Twas Gilla Hugh's sweet peaceful look That rested on that pictured book; 'Twas Gilla Hugh's deep mellow bass That broke the silence of the place, THE PATRIOT MONK. And pour'd, of Aongus mild, the tale Upon the soft autumnal gale ; Whilst ev'ry Brother, ranged around, Listen'd in quietness profound. IX. THE LEGEND OF ST. PATRICK AND KING AONGUS. " The wintry blast blew fierce and fast, The hill of Cashel o'er; In regal state King Aongus sate, His jewell'd robes he wore. " Retainers brave, with spear and glaive, Beside the monarch stand; And hard and sage, with harp and page, Were there at his right hand. " In dreamy guise the wolf-dog's eyes Half-closed were in sleep; But as he lay, a watchful ray Would frequent from them leap. " A sudden pause-the wolf-dog's jaws Flew open; loud he bay'd, And sprung erect, with fangs foam-fleck'd : 'Hush ! Craov,' the monarch said. " The door flew wide; with kingly stride A stranger enter'd thereHis beard was white, his brow was bright, His face was wondrous fair. "His staff was rais'd; rich jewels blazed Upon its twisted top; His feet were bare ; his silver hair Fell downward from his cope. "The wolf-dog shrunk, and backward slunk In peaceful cowering mood. The monarch saw that guest with awe, And up erect he stood. " 'The storm is high; the cloud-wrapp'd sky Frowns dark and fierce to-night: I may not hence, 0 Gaelic Prince ! Depart until the light.' " 'A welcome warm, from rain and storm, We give thee,' quoth the king; 'Ho ! quickly here our bravest cheer Unto the stranger bring. 117 118 GILLA HUGH : OR, " 'Our deadliest foe might here, I trow, Claim shelter and repast; Then safely stay till morning's ray Shall hush the angry blast.' " The stranger sate, but ere he ate He touched his brow and breast, And something sung in foreign tongue, Unknown to all the rest. " The prince sat near, and soon did hear A tale of wondrous love, And how the sun was made by One Who rules in Heaven above; " Nor Druid might with sacred rite Before that sun bow down, But kneel to Him whose dazzling gleam Its brightest rays would drown. " While shriek'd the gale, Redemption's tale Was pour'd unto the king ; His heart approv'd, his soul was moved, His eyes were glistening. "' I wish,' he saith, ' to know thy faith And be a Christian man !' That stranger guest within his breast The light of Faith did fan. " 'Bring hither now to bathe thy brow The cleansing crystal wave !' The monarch did as he was bid; The bowl to him he gave. "The stranger took his jewell'd crook, With pointed iron shod, That it might stick, he drove it quick Beside him where he trod. "The rite was done; the king looked oa All pale, but calmly still; Then something wet beneath his feet The guest began to feel. "He look'd and saw with trembling awe A pool of blood aroundHis Crosier thro' the monarch's shoe And foot had pierced the ground ! " He drew it forth from foot and earth: ' Now wherefore spak'st thou not When this was done? the pain, my son, Was terrible, I wot !' THE PATRIOT MONK. " 'Ideem'd it might for this great rite Be needed,' quoth the Gael, 'And so I bore the pain, tho' sore, As one that may not quail.' " 'O king, thou art of noble heart !' The holy stranger spake : 'Right soon, I deem, thy wounded limb All sound and whole I'll make.' " The wound was seal'd, the foot was heal'd; Saint Patrick 'twas that spoke :Thereat each stern unbending kern To Christian Faith awoke. " And where the blood, a crimson flood, Around in lakelets lay, A blessed spot it was, I wot, And is unto this day." x. The tale had ceas'd : the list'ning air Had drunk each echo ling'ring there; And fearful lest too rude a pace Might break the stillness of the place, The trembling zephyrs softly stole On tiptoe past that grassy knoll, Where sat each holy Brother now With placid meditative brow, On which repose, with action calm, Had mildly pour'd its soothing balmWhen, lo! across the noiseless wave A currach gliding quick was seen, And a tall stranger came to crave A word with Gilla Hugh O'Mween. "I come from Malachy," he said, "Ard-Easbog, and a man renown'd, Whose fame hath far and near been spread, Through every rood of Christian ground : He wills that, of great Finn Barr, thou Place the rich mitre on thy brow." XI. O'Mween look'd on that stranger tall, Then sadly view'd his brethren all; He gazed upon the Abbot sage, And on the lowly hermitage 119 120 GILLA HUGH : OR, With its sweet oratory, where His heart was pour'd so oft in pray'r" And must I leave thee, Ard Oilleen ?" He said in bitter anguish keen" And must I leave thee, island home ! Where I so oft the angry foam Have seen in vainest efforts break Upon thy rugged brow and cheek? And must I leave my brethren, whom I've loved with love beyond the tomb ?And thee, dear Father Abbot, too ?Alas ! alas for Gilla Hugh XII. "Depart, my son !" the Abbot said, " Nor tears of vain regret be shed. Where Heaven decrees that thou shalt be, There is thy home : on land or sea, In city throng'd, in deep defile, On mountain-top or desert isle, A friar's heart should e'er be given To do the holy will of Heaven." XIII. A sad farewell of all he took With mute embrace and tender look; Some moments lowly he did kneel In humble reverent guise until The Abbot blessings on him heap'd, Then in the stranger's currach leap'd, And o'er the green wave's bosom soon Dash'd, lighted by the rising moon, To hold Fionn Barra's famous see, And dwell beside the winding Lee. XIV. An angel, to those lovely bowers, That lay round Corca's guarded towers, He came, the new-made Abbot meek, Protector of the poor and weak. No friendless orphan's sigh of pain Might reach that watchful ear in vain ; THE PATRIOT MONK. No victim of oppression e'er Pour'd forth the supplicating pray'r, That Gilla Hugh was not hard by To shield him from his enemy; No sinner near the convent lay Passing from life, in guilt, away, That Gilla Hugh's sweet, tender care Was not beside him tireless there, Holding before his dying eye The bleeding Saviour lifted high, And wooing from the dread abyss That harden'd soul to heavenly peace. What pen might trace the priceless good Effected, mid the Brotherhood; The generous works of holiest grace Perform'd within that holy place; The fervour there rekindled warm For Virtue's most heroic form, And the strict practice of each rule That marked Saint Finn Barr's early school ? It seemed some heavenly paradise To Earth transplanted from the skies ! XV. Oh ! many a weary century Hath pass'd o'er weeping Erin since That Abbot dwelt beside the Lee, And cheer'd the kern, and awed the prince; And many a change hath pass'd since then O'er tow'r, and town, and mount, and glen; Full many a chief of mighty sway Lies in forgetfulness to-day; Full many a prince from earth hath pass'd Forgotten like the rushing blast, Without a record of his fame Or single stone to tell his name: But ever holds remembrance here, That Abbot's name to Corca dear, And aye ! is blended with each spell That hangs around GILL ABBEY hill! No marvel then, his presence brought That group so quick from out the grot. 121 122 GILLA HUGH : OR, CANTO THE THIRD. MACTYRE. I. " God and Our Lady with you be !" The Abbot mildly said. " Now wherefore left you thus, for me, Such lovely, leafy shade? Come sit awhile : I too would speak Of what has flush'd young Keeran's cheek, And to his flashing eye hath given A flame that mocks the burning leven; For I can see by Ivor's brow, On which the frown is ling'ring now, And by the deep'ning pallor spread Upon his cheek from hate, not dread, The Saxon plund'rer was the theme: Is it not thus ? or do I dream ? " II. " OFather ! yes ; we spoke but now Of England's robber bands, and how More numerous here to Erin's land Each day they come with hostile brand ! Conaun replied, with accents low. That rang with mournful sounds of woe. "And if 'twere mine to find me now As in the glorious days of yore, With hehlmet laced upon this brow, And horse and lance such foes before, Freely the last red drop would flow Ere Freedom should receive a blow ! III. "But Keeran is a goodly youth, And well can wield a sword in sooth ! I wot no Saxon might rejoice To hear his clear indignant voice Ring 'mid the battle's angry flood; Each tone were death-a death of blood ! THE PATRIOT MONK. And Keeran hath determin'd ere, To-morrow's sun shall flash his beams On Corca More, to turn him where O'Tuohy's stainless banner gleams : He cannot bear in idleness To linger here, nor draw the sword, When Erin's cry of deep distress Hath touch'd his bosom's tend'rest chord; And as he loveth not M'Cawra, Heart, bosom, soul, blood, bone, or marrow, He bears him to'ards O'Tuohy's camp, A chief of more inviting stamp, Tho' his small band a brooklet seems Beside King Dermot's flooded streams. Nor will, I deem, stay here alone Ivor, when Keeran hence bath gone." IV. The Abbot smiled a gentle smile, And looked approvingly the while : " Keeran ! " he said, " the soul of fire Is thine, that marks the clan MacTyre : A hot impulsive heart thou hast, Quicker for action than the blast That rushes on the whirlwind's back, Or than the lightning's lurid track! It is a noble thing indeed, At Freedom's shrine to fight and bleed; But oh ! beware, lest in thy zeal Too far may rush the bloody steel; For, where thy duty calls thee not, Glory with blood is dearly bought ! Nor do I blame that thou shouldst flee M'Cawra, thy proud enemy : I trust him not myself, in truth Tho' Corca's King he be, forsooth !Tho' many a blow his arm hath dealt, And sorely it the Saxon felt, I trust not to that swaggering pride To Saxon perfidy allied. Fain would I strike, myself, a blow For Erin in her hour of woe 123 124: GILLA HUGH: OR, Fain would I lead with spear and brand My monks, I ween, a martial band, To battle for our Fatherland; But I might not those youths forsake, Since I their care did on me take, Whose mothers watch from lands afar Their safe return uncheck'd by war ; Nor could I leave the old and weak In vain, protection here to seek From petty tyrants, flinty chiefs And kings the cause of Erin's griefs.No Keeran ; tho' I wish it much A sword from home I may not touch. V. "But go, my son, at Freedom's call To strike for home and kindred all: Bold be thy heart and strong thy hand To smite the foes of Fatherland ! Yet, Keeran, should adversity Press on thy young soul heavily, And shouldst thou wish a home to find To soothe the anguish of thy mind In that sad hour, remember then The friends that dwell by Corca's glenThe Abbey-home that yearns to press, With more than earthly tenderness, Thy weary heart unto her breast, Where thou may'st find repose and rest." VI. A tear-drop glist'ning in his eye, MacTyre arose with glowing cheek, And vainly there all tremblingly Essay'd his grateful thanks to speak: At length the bright bead downward roll'd, And far more eloquent than speech His grateful feelings mutely told In clearest terms around to each. Then Ivor rose, and tenderly Flow'd forth his tones of melody: " 0 Father! Keeran's heart must now In silence some brief moments flow; THE PATRIOT MONK. Too full, except with grateful glance, To give those feelings utterance, That vibrate in the inmost chords, And may not be express'd by words. Ivor would, too, essay to tell The grateful feelings strong that dwell Within his heart, for kindness proved From those who had an orphan loved And tended with such Christian care In holy Finn Barr's house of prayer:But words are cold and weak to show The fires that in the bosom glow; And the deep thrills of gratitude That may not be by time subdued, Outside the heart cannot be viewed. VII. "' And now that Keeran seeks the fight, To struggle in the cause of right, And rush against the tyrant foe Who aims at Freedom's overthrow,Ivor, who ne'er hath left his side Since trusting boyhood first had tied The sacred knot that binds our hearts, With Keeran hence this hour departs. No penance light it were to me If I, this eve my friend should see Depart to stem the battle's tide Alone, nor be there by his side. No; Ivor parts from Keeran not In peaceful bow'r, or on the plain Where deadly conflict rages hot, And blood is pour'd like summer rain, Until the hand of Death shall sever Our souls, awhile, to meet for ever." VIII. " Go, Ivor, go !" said Gilla Hugh, "I may not hold thee from the strife: But think on those who love thee true When rashly thou wouldst venture life Upon the havest-field of Death, Where warrior mowers pant for breath. 125 126 GILLA HUGH : OR, Yes, go, pale youth! and wield the brand For this thy fair adopted land ! Away ! the foeman waits thy blow : No feeble arm thou hast, I trow !" And then Conaun his ag6d eyes Lifted a moment to the skies, And said : " My children ! nevermore Upon the old man's vision dim The bright rays ye were wont to pour From loving hearts may kindly beam : But I thereat shall not repine; And while you bleed at Freedom's shrine, Conaun to Finn Barr's patriot heart Above, where tyrants have no part, The voice of tireless pray'r shall lift That Erin's victory be swift, And England's mercenary horde Receive for pay the spear and sword !" IX. The youths a tender farewell bade To each; and then, with tear-dimm'd look, Slowly along the winding glade Their way to Keeran's homestead took, That he might bid adieu to all, And leave his farewell shadow fall Across the threshold of that door Which he might never enter more. Beside the Lee, nor far away, MacTyre's lone humble shieling lay : Two verdant hills behind it stood To guard it from the north blast rude, Whose frosty breath with speary chills Each winter slew the laughing rills, And hush'd the prattling tones that woke Sweet echoes soft 'neath elm and oak. A little lawn that faced the door Spread outward to the river's brink, Whilst thro' it a clear brook did pour Nature's sweet purest crystal drink; And wild flowers on its banks grew bright Shining in summer's dazzling light. THE PATRIOT MONK. x. Not long did Keeran and his friend Thro' Corca's winding valley wend, Drinking the Sylvan beauty there That revell'd round them everywhere, When they beheld that meadow green Fringing the water's silv'ry sheen; And, sitting on the flow'ry bank, Whose ferny beard was trailing dank Upon the brook that babbled by, A youthful maiden caught their eye. A slight, slight tinge of faintest red On Ivor's pallid cheek was spread; And brighter, brighter glow'd each streak On Keeran's ruddy smiling cheek; And brighter grew the joyous look That from his dark eyes laughing broke."See, Ivor, see ! 'tis Maurya Bawn Spinning outside upon the lawn: I wot her heart will thrill to see A wild intruding youth like thee : Nor fear will cause that thrill, I deem,But, hark ! she sings some holy hymn !" XI. HYMN. " Ave Maria ! holy Queen ! Bright shines the sun on vale and hill, Pouring a flood of silver sheen On river, brook, and tinkling rill : The breeze is hush'd, the air is still, The morning mingles with the day; In thee we hope thro' good and ill ! Mother of God ! to thee we pray ! Ave Maria ! be our stay ! " Ave Maria ! mother dear ! Look down on this thine own dear land, And a poor suppliant maiden hear, With tearful eye and lifted hand ! The Saxon wields the naked brand, With head erect and scornful eye : O ! nerve'dear Erin's patriot band ! Mother of God ! to thee we cry ! Give to the Gael the victory !" 127 128 GIILA HUGH : OR, XII. 0 Sweetly the last faint note had died Upon the glassy gleaming tide. The maiden, with a glist'ning eye, Plied her quick wheel all silently, Nor deem'd her patriot hymn was heard By aught except the greenwood bird. A lovely maid she was, I trow, With eyes far darker than the sloe, And forehead fairer than the snow : Her cheeks were tinged with roseate hue; Her mouth and chin were perfect grace; Her nose of Grecian outline, too, Match'd the sweet oval of her face; Her glossy ringlets, darker far Than midnight swept of moon and star, In many a rich, luxuriant tress Hung down and floated on the grass; Her slender form appear'd to be Moulded in perfect symmetry With queenly grace, although her claim Was nought beyond a peasant's name ; And from her skin surpassing fair, Despite her eyes and raven hair, The youthful peasant maid had drawn The lovely name of Maurya Bawn. XIII. A sudden scream-the friends beheld A mailed warrior grasp the maid: With lightning rage their bosoms thrill'd, And quick they sprang from out the shade. With burning cheek and frowning brow Upsprung the angry maiden now, And fiercely struggled to unclasp From off her arm the stranger's grasp. Not quicker sweeps the hurricane Among those lovely tropic isles Which but an instant back had lain Bathed in peace and sunny smiles, Than rush'd the angry youths to aid That young indignant struggling maid. THE PATRIOT MONK. The stranger loosed his hold; the sword Flew swiftly to his ready hand : He sternly stood, he spoke no word, But shook aloft his flashing brand. "Ivor ! " the fiery Keeran said, "The cause is mine : afford no aid ! Alone the Saxon seems to be, And tho' not over-courteously He acted now, yet shall he know The Gael is e'er a generous foe, And loves the laws of chivalry : Then mine alone the conflict be !" XIV. That instant clashed the angry strife : Both sword-blades seem'd instinct with life, So fierce their angry flashes flewSo sharply rang their accents true. The stranger was of giant height, And all in armour strong bedight. Full fatal on the young MacTyre Had fall'n the blows he dealt in ire, But that the youth was never slow To turn him from the coming blow, And nimbly sprung aside, when came Towards him swift as lightning flame The murd'rous blade, while swift his own Rung the huge Saxon's frame upon. Yet vainly might the youthful Gael Show'r blows upon that temper'd mail, Had he not seen the stranger's neck Gleam frequent through an opening joint, And there, with skilful movement quick, Had thrust his good sword's slender point. The Saxon stagger'd, reel'd, and fell, Clutching his sword hilt firmly still, And lay upon the staindd grass Nor show'd of life the slightest trace. xv. Low knelt MacTyre, with face of woe, Beside his prostrate, fallen foe, 129 130 GILLA HUGH : OR, Unlaced his helm, and bared his brow, On which cold beads of sweat were now; Then Ivor call'd he quickly there, And bade his sister, Maurya Bawn, Within the cot a couch prepare To lay the wounded stranger on. Full soon, in slumber still and calm Upon a bed of fragrant heath, That guest, his wound assuaged with balm, Reclined his foeman's roof beneath And tended well he was, I ween, As if a brother he had been; Nor was there aught remember'd now, Except that he was sick and low. XVI. Whilst balmy sleep upon their guest Breathed, and soothed him to rest, The inmates of that lowly cot, Against whose peace the stranger fought, Spoke of each varied change which might Be theirs when pass'd the coming fight, To which MacTyre, and Ivor too, Should lend their aid as patriots true. "My child ! " the agdd mother said, And rais'd her wasted, wither'd hand"Alas ! that with the silent dead Thy father sleeps, or his good brand Full soon would gleam beside thine own To smite the robber Saxon down. And thou, the apple of mine eye, Art doomed perhaps ere long to die Beneath the heartless stranger's steel At Freedom's shrine for Erin's weal ! And do I weep that thou should'st go, Perchance like him to slumber low, In all thy youthful beauty now, With soul of joy and laughing brow, The solace of my ag6d heart ?No; duty bids thee hence depart To risk thy life against the foe, And I, thy mother, bid thee go ! THE PATRIOT MONK. May God and Mary watch thy life, And guard thee safely thro' the strife " Adown her cheek the bitter tears Too truly told her grief and fears; While silently the weeping boy Confessed the portion of alloy That mingles with each earthly joy. XVII. "Bless thee ! " at length he proudly said. " Mother, thy heart was ever true : When Faith or Honour spoke its need Thy gifts were never small or few, And well thou givest for Erin's weal Thy son to meet the Saxon's steel, Nor, if 'tis doom'd that I shall ne'er Return to guard and tend thee here, Wilt thou then be defended less; Another son perhaps will bless Thine ag6d eyes, and take for me The charge of filial charity." He glanced at Ivor, while he spoke, With a half sad, half smiling look. "But then," he said, "why speak of death, Since ours must be the victor's wreath, If ev'ry prince and chief would deign, Except upon the battle-plain, No answer to the wily foe That seeks our nation's overthrow ? What are the Saxons but a few Whom Dhonal Righ full oft o'erthrew, And who in Erin dare not stay, If Erin will'd, a single day? XVIII. "But, Ivor ! one sweet parting strain, Ere that we seek the tented plain, I'd hear. 'Twill not awake our guest, Nor break the deep untroubled rest Which sleep has given, and which, this eve, Refresh'd and strong enough will leave The wounded stranger to be borne On stalwart limbs, ere breaks the morn, 131 132 GILLA HUGH : OR, To where O'Tuohy's slender band Awaits King Roderick's command.Then pour one soft, sweet, parting lay, One farewell strain to cheer the soul, Ere that the echoes of the fray In wilder notes around us roll: 'Twill be a sweet remembrance dear When we are found no longer here." XIX. Quickly the youth prepared to sing, And swept the clairseach's sounding string. His nimble fingers swiftly flew, To prove each varied note was true; Now pour'd a wild and angry strain, That echoed of the battle-plain; And now a tender note was heard, Like the sweet warbling of some bird Singing in woodland shadows dim Nature's untaught thanksgiving hymn; Then when the youth his lyre had strung In harmony, 'twas thus he sung : XX. SONG. " Fairest of lovely isles ! Home of the Gael ! Bright were thy sunny smiles, Sweet Innisfail ! Red was thy cheek's soft glow, Until the Saxon foe Hither his sail, Aiding MacMorrogh, spread,Now thy bright smiles are fled, And thou art pale ! " But thou shalt not be long, Isle of the brave ! Pain'd by oppressive wrong, Crushed by the knave ! Mothers and sisters fair, Dishevell'd their raven hair, In anguish crave Death for the Saxon rudeRed with his blood imbued Shall be each glaive. THE PATRIOT MONK. " When in the open field, With Freedom's might, Our hands the sword may wield In equal fight; Soon shall the Saxon flee Back o'er the rolling sea, Bowman and knightQuick may that moment come ! Then shall our island home Again smile bright." CANTO THE FOURTH. THE BIVOUAC. I. Broad Avondu gleam'd dimly bright, Lit by the pale moon's trembling light, And with a lulling peaceful sound Beneath a steep bank slowly wound, Where many a moonbeam glinting shone A little group of tents uponO'Tuohy's camp, which counted then Scarce twice one hundred fighting men. The chieftain stood beside the waveA man of tall Iberian mould, With musing aspect nobly grave, And Celtic brow, high, broad, and bold. Beside him sat an ancient bard Upon the dimly shining sward, Holding his clairseach in a hand That yet could wield the deadly brand, Altho' an aged warrior now Was he, with snow-besprinkled brow. II. It was indeed a lovely night, Clothed in robes of pale moonlight, And wrapp'd in stillness, save the sound Of rippling waves that broke around ! " Conal !" the chieftain, starting, said, " MacTyre, I deem, ere now should be Among us.-Why can he have stayed? I did not think that lingeringly 133 134 GILLA HUGH : OR, A youth like him would crawl to give His aid, that Freedom's light may live." " O'Tuohy !" said the aged bard, " I know the youth :I'd pledge my life His heart is valour's-honour's guard. No light cause holds him from the strife; But while we wait his coming here, I'll touch my harp, and sing a lay Of one Mononia cherish'd dear, Who broke the Danes' tyrannic sway In Munster, ere their army knew Clontarf's defeat from great Boru." III. THE LEGEND OF O'TUOHY AND THE DANE. 'The noontide sun of summer, With scorching ray of light, Flash'd down its dazzling radiance On Coolnagearagh's height, And glancing on the armour Of Dusky Tor the Dane, Fell broken from its surface Like drops of sunny rain. " Flash'd also on the fallaing Of young O'Tuohy, chief, Whose brow is plough'd already With furrow'd tracks of grief ; Caressingly it linger'd Around him as he strode, With measured step and stately, Along that lonely road. " Unheeded went before him The Dane of giant mould, Until, some twenty paces, His glances on him roll'd; But when his gray eye lighted Upon that mail-clad form, Clouds dark and thick upon his brow Foretold a fearful storm. "This Dusky Tor was famous Throughout the Southern land, And many a daring vassal Bow'd low at his command ; THE PATRIOT MONK, Fear never lighted on them Save at their master's frown, And well had they in many a fray Upheld that chief's renown. ' Well form'd was he to rule them, That man of iron will, Whose voice was as the thunder That shakes the trembling hill; Whose tow'ring stature bore him Six inches full and more Above the stately peasantry From Eochall to Glandore. " Steel'd was his breast to pity, Nor spared he sex or age When fury lash'd his bosom Into its wonted rage; And trembled all around him Whene'er his with'ring frown, Like thunder-cloud with lightning charged Fell on them darkly down. ' One youth alone excepted, Upon whose pallid cheek, The first dark down of manhood Was yet a tinted streak: O'Tuohy of Athnowen Ne'er quail'd before the glance Of Dusky Tor the Northman, Nor ever look'd askance. -' And now that he has met him Upon that lone hill-side, Why curls his lip so proudly? Why haughtier is his stride? Why deepens on his rugged brow That ever-settled gloom ? Why wears his haggard visage now The pallor of the tomb? " Oh ! 'twere a tale of horror Too sad for mortal ear, In all its wild enormity Recorded full to hear: The trembling flow'r he cherish'd, Torn rudely by the Dane, And thro' deep shame unspeakable, Her young heart rent in twain ! 135 136 ,1OILLA HUGH : OR, " Fiercely the wild remembrance Of the past comes-o'er him now, And stamps with whiter rage his check, And deeper glooms his brow : With cry qf joy exulting He shouted forth aloud : 'Ho, carrion !see, the eagle Comes swooping from the cloud" 'He chafes to whet his famish'd beak Upon thy cursed frame; His hunger-lighted eyeballs Are two red globes of flame ; His talon's work convulsive To clutch thee in their gripe, And in the full tide of thy blood Their deep-dyed stains to wipe !' " 'Ha.!' laugh'd the other scornfully, 'Rash youth and would'st thou dare To cross the wild wolf on his pathTo beard him in his lair ?Away !ere that my anger Shall reach its wonted height, Or else, by Odin dread, I swear Thou shalt not see the night ! " 'See'st thou this silver bugle Before my bosom swing? One blast, eight hundred Northmeni Around thy path would bring: But, stripling, need I have not Of vassal to assist; For twice a score of Celts like thee, I am a match at least.' " As speeds the whizzing arrow Forth from the twanging bow ; As darts the flashing sunbeam Down on the vales below; So swiftly sprang O'Tuohy Upon that warrior proud, And half way to the earth at first His tow'ring stature bow'd. " Then lock'd in closest embrace They struggled might and main, Until the sweat-drops from their brows Fell thick as summer rain. THE PATRIOT MONK. Ha ! Dusky Tor has stumbled, His form is prostrate laid, And o'er him kneels O'Tuohy, And brandishes his blade. " With grim, fierce smile of vengeance He plunged it in his breast, And in hoarse smother'd accents The Northman thus address'd: 'Accursad tyrant ! Heaven Hath heard my pray'r at last, And we are quits in this life For the dark, gloomy past !" " Thus fell the Northern spoiler By young O'Tuohy brave : On Coolnagearagh's hill-side They yielded him a grave. Even yet with thrill of horror The peasant looks upon That spot where Tor lies buried Beneath the old Dhallaun." IV. When Conal's voice and harp no more Their echoes o'er the wave did pour, The chieftain turn'd to praise the lay, And meetly to the minstrel pay The meed of thanks that, aye, was due For those wild notes by Avondu. But, sudden glimmering 'neath the ray That palely lit their weary way, A group he saw, that strange at first Upon his wondering vision burst. 'Twas Ivor and the young MacTyre With friends, who bore their wounded foe Aloft; nor did the chief require Another glance that group to know. " Conal !" he said, "thy lay was good; But one there comes whose northern blood Would brook but ill thy recent tale ; For, tho' his heart be with the Gael, Ivor, MacTyre's young friend, remains True to his race and loves the Danes; Nor would it please him well, I wot, To hear how my ancestor fought.- 137 138 GILLA HUGH : OR, But what they carry shoulder high I cannot clearly yet descry. V. " Ha, Keeran !-art thou come at last? And why hast thou so long delay'd Whose foot than winter's stormy blast Is swifter far? " the chieftain said. " Ivor ! a thousand welcomes !-how?-I dream'd not thou would'st follow too The rough red path which we must now For Freedom, Home, and Hearth pursue." " O'Tuohy !" then replied MacTyre, " Nay, not so swiftly now require Why we have stayed; but aid us quick To give this mailed warrior weak Such help as he most needs, and then The cause of our delay thou'lt ken." Without a word or question more, Within the chieftain's tent they bore That weak, exhausted, wounded guest Upon the chief's own bed to rest. Then Keeran swift related all That did erewhile to them befall. VI. Now seated by the watch-fire lone, That mingling with the palely ray Its lurid light fantastic shone, And laugh'd in bursting flashes gay, The chief, the youths, and Conal sate Conversing loud, with hearts elate, Upon the almost sure defeat That soon would place at Roderick's feet The Saxon proud, who scorn'd to yield Nor yet would dare the open field. And soon their converse round them drew Of Galloglasses not a few, Whose soul-mark'd brows, now dark, now bright, Gleam'd in the watch-fires flickering light. VII. Then look'd O'Tuohy round, and spake : " Conal, I'd have thy lyre awake 139 THE PATRIOT MONK. And pour some lay upon our ears That hath the rattling clank of spears ; For warrior's soul is ever stirr'd To highest deeds by minstrel's word, And we, perhaps, await but day To mingle in some bloody fray." Then Conal struck his clairseach loud, And sung in wild excited mood : VIII. SONG. 'On, on with the spear and sword, sons of the Gael ! To strike the invaders of fair Innisfail! Let the lightnings of vengeance flash forth from each eye ! And the thunder be drown'd in your loud battle-cry ! " On, on in the victor's path ! tyranny's might Shall fade in the dazzling effulgence of right ! For the gleam of each blade that for Freedom is drawn Is a bright truthful herald of Liberty's dawn ! " Loud, loud raise the battle-cry : Freedom for all ! And death to the Saxon who comes to enthrall ! Remember, the Saxon is Liberty's foe, Then death be his doom, nor delay'd be the blow " ! IX. I wot, each active Gallowglass Upsprung full quickly from the grass Where he had lain, and seized his sword When that the minstrel's strain was pour'd; And from each rolling eye, the light Of valour leap'd in flashes bright, And on the brow of chief and kern Was carved the frown of battle stern, Until the clairseach Ivor took, And each from that wild trance awoke When the soft notes around he flung And thus of generous Guaire sung. X. THE LEGEND OF KING GUAIRE AND THE LEPER. " 'Twas when the troops of Guaird Had suffer'd sore defeat, And he a lowly prisoner Was brought to Dhiarmuid's feet; 140 GILLA HUGH : OR, Unto him came a Druid All at the king's behest To sound the sea of charity That dwelt in Guaird's breast. " The Druid knelt beside him, And thus to Guair6 cried : 'A gift ! a gift ! great chieftain ! Thy fame spreads far and wide, For that thy hand is open, And thou are wont to giveA gift ! a gift ! great chieftain ! And long, long may'st thou live ! ' I have no gift,' said GuairdAnd had I one to give, Methinks for thee it should not be, For I can now perceive That thou art well maintaindd All at the king's expense; Then quick, I pray, that thou away Good Druid take thee hence ! ' " Now when the Druid left him, A wretched leper came Unto the chief : in tones of grief Assistance he did claim : 'For God and his dear Mother's sake ! Give something unto me; It is a wretched leper That craves thy charity.' " I wot when Guaird saw him, And heard his pray'r of woe, His soul was moved within him, His heart felt many a throe : ' Alas ! alas, good leper! That I am poor like thee ! But take this silver bodkia For blessed charity.' " He pluck'd the silver bodkin, While thus to him he spake, That pinn'd the vest upon his breast, And bade the leper take : His falling now all loosely Around the chief did flow, As from his sight, with bosom light, The leprous man did go. THE PATRIOT MONK. " With-doleful look of anguish Came back that leper swift' Good chief ! good chief ! I'm wretched ! They've ta'en from me thy gift.' The golden girdle from his waist The generous Guaire took, And gave it to the mendicant With kindly, pitying look. " Then gratefully the leper Unto the Lord did pray For Guaird's weal, nor harm nor ill Might ever near him stay : He went away rejoicing, But soon return'd again: ' Good chief ! good chief ! I'm wretched ! Thy gift from me they've ta'en.' " Now 'when that Guair6 heard him, He was afflicted sore; The tears adown his visage brown In streams began to pour : King Dhiarmuid there beheld him Afflicted thus at heart : ' And weepest thou, 0 Guair6 ! now That thou a prisoner art ?' " 'I mourn me not my own hard lot, King Dhiarmuid !' Guaird said, ' 'Tis hard I wot, but tears may not For such by me be shed; But I do weep in anguish deep That I have nothing more To give unto that man of woe, That wretched leper poor ! " '0 Guair !' then replied the king, 'I clearly now can see, All free from stain of motive vain Is thy great charity ! And for that I esteem thee No longer as a foe, I humbly pray that from this day All strife we do forego. " ''Twas I that sent the Druid To ask a gift of thee; ''Twas I that bade implore thine aid This man of misery : 141 142 GILLA HUGH : OR, I know thy wondrous valour; I seek thy friendship dear; And in my stead, when I am dead, Thou shalt be monarch here!' " XI. " Ivor, thy lay did sweetly flow," O'Tuohy said. " But one I see From Roderick's camp approaching nowI wot he hath commands for me." Then quick arose the chief in haste, And thus the messenger address'd : " Soldier ! how fares it with the king? What news from Castleknock dost bring? Does Strongbow ride in open fight, Or hide him still from Roderick's sight ? And are we order'd hence to move That we with him the fray may prove?" XII. " At large is now the Saxon chief; His soul, I deem, is crush'd with grief. Wexford has fall'n; Fitz Stephen lies A pris'ner 'mid his enemies; But Strongbow, joined by Dhonal Righ, Hath turned him to'ards fair Ossory, MacGilla Patrick's fertile lands : And these are Roderick's commands,That thou with short delay do hence March to assist that ancient prince, With counsel wise and ready brand, Against the plund'ring Saxon band." XIII. " Ho, Keeran ! Ivor ! soon, I trow, Our swords shall flash before the foe! Right joyous news for every heart ! This very moment we depart Our wounded guest, I deem, till morn On stalwart shoulders can be borne, Without disturbing in the least His peaceful sleep or needful rest. Then, quick prepare ! our spears shall gleam Full soon beside the Suir's broad stream. THE PATRIOT MONK. CANTO THE FIFTH. THE SNARE. I. Earl Strongbow sat within his tent, Deep furrows did his brow indent, And ever while in pain he frown'd His eye was bent upon the ground, With a deep fixdd stare that seem'd As if awake the chieftain dream'd. At length he started up and cried To a young knight who sat aside : " Ho, quick !Fitz Henry, hie thee fast, And send me here De Prendergast; MacGilla Patrick's friend is he, And meeter for this embassy I could not find-a fair pretence 'Twill be to snare that haughty prince. And Muskerry's chieftain too, the proud O'Tuohy here shall find his shroudThen quick ! Fitz Henry, say from me De Prendergast I fain would see." II. Full soon the chief beheld that knight. " Earl Pembroke, thou hast sent for me : Speak out thy need. I hold it light To peril life and limb for thee." " Maurice," the chieftain said, "no need Is there to peril life or limb. Unto MacGilla Patrick speed And say that I would treat with him About Fitz Gerald's ransom, who Had all but spoke his last adieu To sun, and sky, and landscape gay, And horse, and lance, and wild foray, When lately by the winding Lee He sought MacCawra, Dhiarmuid Righ, A prince who is not as he was, And now would aid the Norman cause. 143 1.44 GILLA HUGH : OR, God wot, Fitz Gerald is a lord Than whom none better wields a sword; Yet hath that train'd and practis'd knight Fallen by a youth in open fightA peasant youth who ne'er till then A belted knight his foe had seen, And now, O'Tuohy's band among, The captive and his captor young Have journey'd here to Ossory. Then, Maurice, tell the chiefs from me That I would treat with them to-night About the wounded captive knight." III. When from the tent De Prendergast, To seek MacGilla Patrick, pass'd, Strongbow Fitz Henry then did call, And bade him choose twelve yeomen tall, Of valour proved in fierce attacks, Who well could wield a battle-axe, And strike a guest or open foe, When bid, nor question why 'twas so. " Place them," he said, "around the tent, When here the Irish come to-night; And be thine ear attentive bent To catch my signal whistle slight. No more need I disclose to theeLeave me ! I'd be some moments free." IV. De Prendergast his horse hath ta'en, And, dashing fast, with flowing rein, Hath reach'd the woody ambush where MacGilla Patrick, in his lair, With eager spear and ready sword, Awaited Strongbow's plund'ring horde. The Norman Knight was known to be On friendly terms with Ossory; And quick unto that Prince was brought, Thro' many a wild and rugged spot, Where the rough path of jagged stone Could scarce be trod by one alone. THE PATRIOT MONK. V. O'Tuohy sat the Prince beside; MacTyre and Ivor too were near, When the mail'd warrior's clanking stride Smote sudden on their startled ear." Ha ! welcome to our greenwood hall ! De Prendergast," said Ossory, When that the Norman soldier tall Appear'd among them suddenly."' I come on Pembroke's part," replied The knight. " He would this eventide Treat of Fitz Gerald's ransom, who At present wounded lies with you : Fain would our chieftain also see O'Tuohy brave of Muskerry." VI. Outspake O'Tuohy then, and said : " Stranger, I'd have nor fear nor dread To meet thy chieftain hand to hand In open fight, with equal brand; Nor would my scanty followers here, Upon the plain, with level spear, To meet his maild warriors fear. But ah, mavrone ! well known to me Is Strongbow's wily treachery : Nor can I slightest confidence Place in this ransoming pretence. MacGilla Patrick thither may Depart; but yet to him I say, Unwise I'd deem it thus to go Alone to meet such wily foe." VII. The Norman's cheek grew red and pale By turns, when thus he heard the Gael Denounce aloud his chieftain brave, And call Earl Pembroke faithless knave. In angry tone he spoke and said : "For his good faith I pledge my head !Ossory ! thou dost know me well, And thou canst Muskerry's chieftain tell 145 146 GILLA HUGH : OR, How that De Prendergast hath e'er Preserv'd his stainless honour fair, And aye, would gladly forfeit life A thousand times to save his word, Nor would he shrink in deadly strife On his own chief to draw the sword, Should he but in that chieftain see The slightest sign of treachery." VIII. " De Prendergast, thy word for me Sufficient is," said Ossory. " I've known thy stainless faith too long To doubt it now, or deem that wrong Or faithless treachery could hide Within thy camp this eventide.O'Tuohy thou canst hear remain Until that I return again, If still a doubt or fear thou hast Of Strongbow, when De Prendergast Hath sworn upon his goodly sword That we may trust the chieftain's word." IX. "Nay, then, I journey hence with thee," Said the proud chief of Muskerry. "Keeran and Ivor too, I trow, Will not be loth with us to go, Whose swords perhaps of use may be Ere our own camp again we see.Nor do I doubt, De Prendergast, That thou, this moment, spoken hast In knightly faith; yet still can I Not chase this doubt of treachery My bosom from, when that I know So well thy chieftain's deeds of woe-Albeit, in God's name let us go." x. That night, the wassail sound of glee Rung out its notes of revelry THE PATRIOT MONK. In Strongbow's tent, where seated were The guests he had invited there. MacGilla Patrick loudly laugh'd And the full goblet frequent quaff'd In frankest confidence the while His generous soul dream'd not of guile, But silent sat O'Tuohy there, With watchful eye and brow of care, On which the sternly frowning mark Of deep distrust was carved dark. Untasted had the goblet been By him, although the host had press'd Full often, as with glances keen He eyed that silent moody guest, Who seem'd since there he enter'd first Prepared to meet and dare the worst. Keeran and Ivor, who were train'd Within Saint Finn Barr's Abbey hall To strictest temperance, refrain'd From joining in the festival; But kept them to'ards O'Tuohy turn'd, Whose eyes like blazing watch-fires burn'd. XI. And now a long low whistle sent Its sound unheeded thro' the tent, Until Fitz Henry's armdd band Burst in with battle-axe in hand. Upsprung O'Tuohy, swift as light Out flashed his blade as lightning bright"MacGilla Patrick !-treachery ! He shouted like the tempest strong" Ho, Keeran !-Ivor, follow me !" And dash'd Fitz Henry's band among. He seem'd endow'd with giant might, His flashing eyes shone wildly bright; He smote the yoemen down like reeds; Nor lifted axe, nor brand he heeds, But, follow'd by the youthful pair Hath cut his way to open air ; Then turn'd undaunted back to see How fared it still with Ossory. 147 148 GILLA HUGH : OR, XII. De Prendergast unto his feet Had sprung as whizzing arrow fleet, With ghastly look of agony, When the dread sound of treachery Hiss'd in his ear, then sprang beside MacGilla Patrick, as he cried ;" Who dares at Ossory strike a blow, Shall perish as my deadly foe !Pembroke, thou hast deceived me deep, And Maurice de Prendergast shall keep A dark remembrance of this deed, Which makes his heart more deeply bleed Than if a thousand daggers there Were plung'd by frenzied wild despair !" A silver bugle, at his breast That hung, unto his lips he press'd, And blew a blast long, loud, and shrill : Quickly the tent began to fill With arm6d men, his followers brave, Who waited now with naked glaive The orders which their captain gave. XIII. "'Soldiers !" he said, with fiery glow Upon his cheek, "this hour we go To guard the Prince of Ossory, To-night upon his route abroad;Perhaps O'Brien, Dhonal Righ, In ambush waits upon the road To pay an ancient debt of blows Which he to Ossory's chieftain owes; scruple much what way Nor would hie Might serve him best that debt to pay." Then quick with Ossory forth he went From out false Strongbow's hated tent, And with the youths and Muskerry's chief Set forth with short delay, and brief, Thro' a deep woody gorge of gloom, Dark, wild, and horrid as the tomb. THE PATRIOT MONK. XIV. Not long did they thro' that wild gorge Their stumbling way in darkness urge, When the fierce startling shout arose That preludes Erin's deadliest blows, And the next moment, Dhonal Righ, With his Dalcassians, furiously Rush'd on the troops, who, long prepared, Expected with their weapons bared Some fierce assault like this, and now Not unaware receiv'd the blow. XV. Loud echoing, floated far on high Each tall Dalcassian's battle-cry, As wildly in that gloomy spot He with proverbial courage fought: But what avail'd their courage when O'Tuohy sweeping thro' the glen With deadly charge in fury pass'd, Fierce as the hurricane's wild blast! At every blow a foeman fell Beneath his arm, in that dark dell To sleep with still'd and noiseless breath, The long, long slumber deep of death. Press'd onward too, with equal stride, Keeran and Ivor by his side, With gleaming blades whose crimson hue The bleeding foeman too well knew. XVI. Well fought the Norman chief-I trow, Life fled at every angry blow He dealt around; and Ossory too, Like a wild mountain eagle, flew Upon the foe : nor longer they Could now maintain the bloody fray, But quick retreated, fighting still, And gain'd a sheltering woody hill Which darkly hid their further trace, And gave them time to breathe apace. 149 150 GILLA HUGH : OR, XVII. As now the path was clear and free, And fled the troops of Dhonal Righ, Calmly the little Norman band, When they the wounded well had cared, At brave De Prendergast's command, To march for Ossory's land prepared. At length the watchful Gallowglass, Who sentinell'd the rugged pass Where Ossory's camp lay hid from sight, Heard thro' the stillness of the night, The clattering clank of mail6d men Roll rumbling down the lonely glen, And soon his piercing glance upon His chief, MacGilla Patrick, shone. XVIII. Soon sat they by the bright watch-fire, MacGilla Patrick, Conal too, Ivor, O'Tuohy, young MacTyre, And the brave stranger chieftain true: And Gael and Norman mingled lay Around in many a group, while gay The Celts a thousand welcomes gave Unto their Norman brothers brave. " Conal," O'Tuohy said, " pour forth A strain of welcome to our guest, Whose stainless faith and knightly worth Was proved erewhile by sharpest test." Then forth the lay from Conal broke, And many an echo round awoke. XIX. SONG. Cead mile failte ! young warrior brave ! Cead mile failte we give thee to-night ! All honour to him who unsheathed his glaive To keep the bright mirror of chivalry bright ! "A " Darkly indignant the frown on thy brow Hurl'd scorn on the false hearted chief of thy race, Who trampled on knighthood's fair honour and vow, And blasted the warrior's name with disgrace. THE PATRIOT MONK. 151 " To posterity handed, a bye-word of scorn, With deep execrations his name shall be known; And thousands shall curse him in ages unborn, And heap maledictions his mem'ry upon. " But long, long shalt thou be remember'd with pride, De Prendergast, bravest of all in the strife ! To redeem thy pledged word, thou wouldst gladly have died, And for honour, would'st freely have forfeited life. " Then Cead mile failte ! young warrior brave ! Cead mile failte we give thee to-night ! All honour to him who unsheathed his glaive To keep the bright mirror of chivalry bright !" XX. His grateful thanks the Norman spoke To Conal for such honour'd strain; And until morning's eye awoke, And glanced around on hill and plain, He and his followers remain'd Within the camp of Ossory ; But when the fading star-light waned, And shone the sun out brilliantly, He bade farewell to all around, And promised, that on Irish ground He and his trusty spearmen brave No longer would with naked glaive Remain henceforth to aid a cause That spurn'd at honour's sacred laws. Then at their valiant chief's command, Prepared to march his trusty band; And soon along the winding dell Their spears gleam'd out a last farewell. CANTO THE SIXTH. THE BATTLE. I. O'er Castleknock the Autumn breeze Blew slightly chill at eventide. 1Passing the stately guarding trees Whose challenge in low murmur's died ; 152 GILLA HUGH : OR, And many a skirmish now took place, Within the grassy woodland space, Between it and each ruddy blaze That fought and roll'd in many a maze Where Roderick the monarch lay Hourly expectant of the fray, With many a Celtic chief and prince, Whose warrior bosoms might not wince When Erin in her hour of woe Call'd them to meet the Saxon foe. II. What men are these whose laugh so clear Rings merrily upon the ear ; Who shout and sing as if they ne'er Had other thought or other care; Who seem with joy alone endow'd When gloomy feelings others shroud ? Who can they be, but thy brave clan, Moy Liffey's chief, O'Murrigan ! III. And shall they in the fray, less fierce The Saxon foeman's bosom pierce? And shall their shout of battle less Have in its tone of dreadfulness, Because those accents now are found Loudly thus joyous to resoundBecause their faces kindly beam, Nor wear the scowl of anger grim? Oh no; Moy Liffey's clan will prove The bravest where the foemen move, And loud above the battle's cry Their fierce farrah shall rend the sky With twice more terror in its tone Than if to laugh they ne'er had known. But hark ! they cease to shout : a tale Their bard relates of Innisfail, When the brave Firbolgs fought and fell Beneath the wizard warriors' spell. THE PATRIOT MONK. IV. LEGEND OF NUADH AIRGIODLAMH, or Nuadh of The Silver Hand. " The fate of Eochy the Firbolg king, Who reigned in the days of oldThe fate of Eochy the brave, I sing, Whose name on the cruits of time shall ring While a bard of Erin his harp shall string To the praise of the brave and bold. " More than three times twenty years and ten The Firbolgs held full sway O'er the lands of Erin : a race of men 'Twere hard to meet in the wide world then'Twould be hard to find in the world againOf mightier mould than they. " But what is the might of a mortal frame To the spirit's strength and skill ? A tribe from over the ocean came, The Tuatha de Danann of magic fame, And Nuadh their chief, as king laid claim The throne of Erin to fill. " 'Ho, Firbolg !' to Eochy the king, he said, 'Thy sceptre and crown now yield ! Jobath, Nevy, and Parolan dread Were my forefathers, and in their stead A stranger king may no longer tread-Now yield thee or take the field.' " Then Eochy call'd on his captains brave, And marshall'd his fighting men : By broad Lough Mask's blue gleaming wave Shone spear-head sharp, and keen-edged glaive: Death smiled around : wide yawn'd the grave As loud rose the battle's din. " Bravely the Firbolgs fought, I trow, Tho' courage and strength were vainDeath follow'd the sound of each dread blow They dealt in ire on the stranger foe; And blood in red torrents began to flow Like the floods of winter rain. " At length a terrible cry aroseEochy the king is dead ! He fell, 'neath an iron show'r of blows, His couch was a heap of his fallen foes "; Now fainter the rage of the battle grows Around his ghastly bed. 153 154 GILLA HUGH : OR, " His followers faint and few stood by : The strangers the field have won, And their victor-shout arose on high; A wild farrah,it rent the sky, Which echoed back the thunder cry; War's weary task is done. " But the stranger chief is maim'd and weak, He has lost his good right hand; His heart grows hourly faint and sick, His trembling tongue can scarcely speak, His breath comes hurriedly and thick, And scarcely he can stand. " Yet soon they made him, of silver bright, By the aid of a magic wand, A hand that could grasp the sceptre light, Or manage the sword in deadly fight : And long o'er Erin he ruled in might, The King of the Silver Hand." V. But now a murmur deep is heard, The camp to busy life has stirr'd, And tents are struck, and warrior men Well arm'd alert around are seen : The king will southward march to night, And tempt false Strongbow to the fight ; With lightning speed the tale has spread, And youthful warriors lift the head With hope bright gleaming on each brow To do some deed of prowess now. VI. Along their march the rising moon In friendly guise look'd smiling down, As issuing from the shady trees They felt the midnight's chilly breeze Across the hill-side's opening wold Upon their brow and cheek blow cold. Beneath, lay dark-brow'd Astagobe, Where slow the winding Liffey flow'd, Trailing its glittering silver robe . On which the gleaming moonlight glow'd: Yet still along the Northern side They held, nor cross'd the shallow tide, THE PATRIOT MONK. Until at thickly-wooded Clane, M'Donnell join'd the marching train. VII. Along their course to Ossory thence They met full many a chief and prince, O'Connor brave of Offaly, O'Dempsey lord of Portnahinch, O'Moore the chief of Stradbally, Who ne'er in danger's hour might flinch, O'Dunn, O'Harty, and O'Duff, O'Regan, and of Ballyboy The angry chieftain fierce and rough, The brave impetuous O'Molloy. And many a chief whose fame was less, Came crowding there in eagerness, Willing on Freedom's field to bleed, And aid the Ard Righ in his need. VIII. MacGilla Patrick now was seen Crossing the Suir below Turreen, And hastening quick to join the king With all the aid that he could bring; And with him came O'Tuohy's band, With Keeran and Ivor in command; Nor braver join'd the swelling ranks That camp'd around the Suir's green banks. IX. They rested them that day and night; And when the gray autumnal light From morning's brow began to steal Along the woods of Brittas hill, Rolling the misty clouds away That veil'd the sides of Farranreigh, And thick on Lachtnagalla lay, They saw the Saxon harness shine In deep, well order'd battle line, Advancing quick from Thurless now Along the marshy vale below. 155 156 GILLA HUGH: OR, x. That traitor king, MacMurrogh base, Had died ; and Strongbow now would place The crown of Leinster on his head To rule as king in Dermod's stead. Leading an overwhelming horde, He swept the land with fire and sword, Till Leinster bled afresh with wounds Almost to Munster's very bounds. The burning cot, the silent hearth, Where lately flow'd the sounds of mirth, Too sadly told the deeds of blood, With more than cruelty imbued, Wreak'd by the savage Saxon brood. XI. But now they meet a sterner foe Beside the slowly winding Suir, One train'd to deal a warrior's blow And the hard toil of war endure. Ho, Pembroke ! for the fight prepare, And well thy mailed legions care, The flow'r of Erin's chivalry As foemen forward there you see, Eager thy serried ranks to plough, Then Saxon well prepare thee now. XII. Around him many a Norman knight, Well train'd long since in deadly fight, Rides proudly on his charger there, Prepared the worst to do and dare Beside his captain in that hour When the dark shades of battle lour, And spears the red blood fast devour. There reined his steed in haughty guise Fitz Gerald of the flashing eyes, Who never turn'd him from the foe While strength remain'd to strike a blow. And there rode William de 1ldelmel, And fiery Hugo Gundavil, Fitz Bernard, Barry, Cogan, and Fitz Henry, treacherous and bland; THE PATRIOT MONK. With many a knight besides, whose name Was shadow'd by the others' fame; And a thick swarm of yoemen who, Unknown, the worst must dare and do. XIII. The Ard Righ Roderick arose, Gazed for a moment on his foes, And ordered all his chieftains then To marshall swift their fighting menArrange their varied clans with care, And well the plan of war prepare. And vvhen he saw his stern commands Obey'd among the order'd bands, The stillness of the hour he broke, And thus unto his warriors spoke :XIV. " Ho, freemen ! heirs of Freedom bought In many a deadly struggle fought Until the niggard foemen fled, In weary toil and blood outbid ! Remember how erewhile the Dane Roll'd vanquish'd on the battle-plain, When at Clontarf Ard Righ Bori Their allies and themselves o'erthrew, And broke the Northern pirates' sway O'er Erin's lovely land for aye! Remember every Celtic name Encircled with immortal fameFreedom's defenders, staunch and true, Nor let their fame depart from you. Remember these, and let each blow Fall swifter, stronger on the foe, Until each proud invader grieve, A captive or a fugitive, O'er those that strew the battle-plain, By your sharp spears and skians slain." Xv. The monarch ceased to speak,-and now, With hoary beard and wrinkled brow, 157 158 GILLA HUGH : OR, The aged minstrel of the king Arose the song of war to sing. He seized his deep resounding harp, And woke a sound like sword-edge sharp; Then flung upon the startled ear War notes terrific loud and clear, That rang like clashing sword and spear; For he was master of his art, And into it flung soul and heart, Until, almost a living thing, He made his harp at moments ring; And now amid such strains he sung, And forth the song of battle flung. XVI. WAR SONG. " Soldiers of Erin, for Freedom combined, Sword, spear and huge battle-axe seize ! Fling the bright sunburst aloft to the wind, And shake ev'ry fold to the breeze ! Swift on the foe let your weapons alight, Fierce deal each blow with a warrior's might, Scatter the Sassanach headlong in flight, Like wither'd leaves swept from the trees ! " Forward ! behold where the bright sunbeams glance, On the deep shining ranks of the foe; Bowman and belted knight proudly advance, With steady pace, measur'd and slow : But let your onset be swift as the wind, Shame on the laggard who lingers behind ! Freedom with valour is ever entwined; Let death shriek aloud at each blow! " Strong be the sway of each battle-axe bright, Fierce be the thrust of each spear; Cease not to wield the keen sword, till affright In the ranks of the Saxon appearCease not to strike while a foeman remains To shadow one spot of your green sunny plains; Break the last link of the enslaver's chains, And freemen in freedom live here !" XVII. Now rang the battle's dreadful cry, The word on either side was given, THE PATRIOT MONK. And foemen to'ards each other fly Like stormy cluds on winter even ; The clash of arms resounds amain, The foes are mingled on the plain, And knights, unhorsed, with kern are seen To use the sword and dagger keen. Vain task !-on horse they well could fight, And deal their blows with warrior mightMounted, the lance they well could thrust, And make the foeman bite the dust; But now on foot, oppress'd with mail, They cannot match the nimble Gael, And, pierced with Erin's subtle skian, In ghastly heaps they strew the green. XVIII. Like reapers on their gory path, When stately ranks fall 'neath their wrath, Moy Liffey's erewhile laughing clan Swept, headed by O'Murrigan, While fiercely thro' the hostile crowd A crimson furrow track they plough'd, And such dread warfare did they wage, The foemen shrank before their rage, And scarcely dared a blade to wield While slow retreating from the field. XIX. But braver still (if such might be), The stalwart sons of Muskerry, O'Tuohy's clan, swept onward there As when the lightning cleaves the air, Resistless in their rapid course, And aye, endow'd with deadlier force ! Keeran and Ivor, side by side, Stemm'd gallantly the battle's tide, And each had oft the other's life Saved in the fury of the strife, For each the other's welfare sought, Tho' caring for his own in nought, And watch'd with careful eye his form Sweep thro' the fury of that storm, 160 GILLA HUGH : OR When thoughtless Celtic valour hot In danger's thickest toil was caught. XX. Now fierce the waves of battle roll'd Around the southern chieftain bold: Divided from his clan, afar O'Tuohy's sword, like meteor star, Flash'd thro' the dark midnight of war. Struggling alone, the youthful pair Beheld him 'mid the foemen there, And rushed unto the chieftain's aid With all the speed that they could use, Ploughing a track with gory blade That stream'd with death's thick crimson dews. But Ivor from the path was crush'd The foe's retreating ranks among, Who now in deep confusion rush'd O'er marsh and plain in flight along. Ho ! raise the victor's deaf'ning cry ! The vanquished Saxons wildly fly ! Let Erin shout, the field is won, Dead foes around are thickly strewn And the hard task of battle done. The chronicles of Erin tell That, of the Saxon legions, fell Seven hundred and a thousand men, Wounded or dead upon the plain. Then Thurles shout, thy plains shall be Renown'd in Erin's history, Which saw the proud invader flee. XXI. O'Tuohy Ivor's fate had seen, And felt it like a brother keen ; Then dashing o'er the corse-strew'd plain. His flying captors hoped to gain, And rescue from their hands a youth He cherish'd as a son, in sooth ! But vain his speed ! a shaft has flown From some base Saxon hand unknown, THE PATRIOT MONK. And, quivering strong, the thirsty dart Drinks the fresh stream of Ivor's heart, Who falls abandon'd on the plainO'Tuohy, all thy toil is vain ! XXII. And now on Ivor's dying ear The victor's shout comes ringing clear; He gazed upon his chief, and smiled To hear the cry of victory wild In Erin's accents pierce the skies, With war's deep sounding harmonies : Then press'd O'Tuohy's hand, and sought Some holy priest might there be brought To cheer him in his final hour, And use with him his wond'rous pow'r, Ere yet the strong, cold hand of death Should stop his faintly heaving breath. To Keeran, who stood o'er him now And wiped the cold dews from his brow, He whisper'd something faint and low That Keeran's ear alone might know. And when the good priest there had come, And aye prepared him for that doom Which waits for all; death's shadow crept Soft o'er him, and in peace he slept. CANTO THE SEVENTH. THE SUBMISSION. I. The fight was o'er ; the foe had fled; The wounded well attended were; The grave had closed above the dead, And side by side slept peaceful there The Celt and Saxon, who but now, With hatred carved upon each brow, Shot forth defiance fierce and proud From the red flame of passion's eye, Like lightning from a thunder-cloud When elements are warring high. L 161 .162 GILLA HUGH : OR, The hour was peaceful, calm and still; The red moon rose o'er Britta's hill, And hung her universal lamp Aloft o'er Roderick's sleeping camp, Where all in softest slumber lay Beneath the pale, reflected ray, Save the lone sentinels who trod, With watchful glance, the grassy sod; And a small troop of warrior men Who southward traced the marshy glen. II. O'Tuohy's scanty spearman brave They were; full half their little band Now slumbered in the silent grave, Slain in defence of Fatherland. And now to Corca's distant plains They bore young Ivor's sad remainsTheir idol, whose enchanting lyre By turns could rouse or soothe their ire; For they would lay him side by side With those he loved by Corca's tide, And Keeran and O'Tuohy sought From Roderick a short respiteSince he pursued the foemen not, But rested idly in his mightA short respite they sought, until They bore to Corca's Abbey hill Poor Ivor's last remains; and then, When needed, they were his again. III. A weary road it was, I ween, RQund hill-side bare, thro' valley green, By many a steep and rocky pass, And aye, thro' swamp and deep morass; Until upon their march of love, They cross'd the deep dark Avon Dhuv, And thro' thick woods and forests then At length arrived at Corca's glen, Where flow'd all clear the crystal Lee, The queen of streams in purity. THE PATRIOT MONK. IV. But swifter far than they might tread Had the sad news to Corca sped, And priest and monk came forth to meet The sad cortege, while chaunting sweet In mingled tones of hope and dole The pray'rs for a departed soul; And mass was said, 'mid silence still, For the good youth's eternal weal. V. What a sweet sight ! to see all there United in one single prayer For a departed brother's peaceOh ! faith is love, and love is bliss ! Aye faith, the true faith from above Must ever move to deeds of love, And deeds of love bring holy joy, Without a stain of earth's alloy : So felt all there that weeping knelt, And so have Christians ever felt. VI. His mother and his sister fair, Keeran beheld low kneeling there, While the hot scalding tears of woe Adown their cheeks ceas'd not to flow, And stifled sobs anon broke forth, Sad tribute to departed worth, To youthful truth and genius high Transplanted from mortality. Oh ! deeply mournful did they kneel With bosoms pierced by sorrow's steel, But still resigned to their sad lot As the true Christian ever ought, And hoping each in heaven anon To meet a brother and a son. VII. They buried him by old Conaun, Whose noble soul from earth had gone; And when the ceremony closed, And Ivor in the grave reposed, 163 164 GILLA HUGH : OR, There to await the trumpet call That shall hereafter summon all When the Archangel's sound of fear The scatter'd dust of man shall hear, And quicker than even thought can sweep, To human shape and form shall leap. Her mother and young Maurya Bawn, With Keeran, sought the Abbot meek, And long conversed some theme upon That lit the youthful maiden's cheek With the red rose's brilliant hue Where late the pallid lily grew. VIII. Then call'd O'Tuohy, Gilla Hugh, And brightly smil'd while thus he spoke : " More than my feeble thanks are due," He said, "for thy bold warrior stroke Which lately laid the Saxon low, Freedom and honour's deadly foe ! Yes; of the battle I have heard, And joy within my soul was stirr'd, Joy mingled with affection's moan For the brave spirits who have flown And that dear youth we both had known. Yet fear I, Roderick shall rue That he did not the foe pursue, And break the last link of the chain That aye may grow in length again, And bind from shore to shore our isle, Borne on by treachery and guile. IX. " But let us cease to speak of this, And pass unto a theme of peace. Young Maurya Bawn who would thro' life Have made a faithful loving wife, The wonderful decrees of Heaven A lot far otherwise have given. She will in thy fair Muskerry To holy Cera's shrine repair, And pass in virgin purity Her days among the sisters there; THE PATRIOT MONK. Her agdd mother too would spend There calmly life's approaching end. Thither with Keeran safely see Those friends, and then return to me." X. O'Tuohy, who but too well knew The patriot soul of Gilla Hugh, Who had the South to action stirr'd With many a persuasive word When Roderick sought provincial aid Against the hireling Saxon's bladeNow to Kilcera's fair domains, That lay embower'd in Muskerry's plains, Prepared that instant to set out Along the winding valley's route, And quick return to Corca's hill To hear the Abbot's further will. XI. Two days had swiftly pass'd away, And back O'Tuohy had return'd, Nor Keeran longer wish'd to stay When patriot zeal within him burn'd, And urged him for his native land To lend the aid of his right hand.But what fair youth with flashing eyes, And cheek that burns with shame's deep dies, Speaks with the holy Abbot now, Who listens with contracted brow To the strange news the young man brought? Had some great battle since been fought, And were they in that battle not ? XII. The youth had ceased, at their approach, Some moments short the tale to broach. Upon his youthful brow appears The traces scarce of fifteen years; Yet all might see the sprouting germ Of honour deep, and purpose firm, In his young clear commanding eyes That shone like stars in frosty skies. 165 166 GILLA HUGH : OR, XIII. "Aye," he resumed, "to kiss his hand, And hold of him his crown and land, Dermod MacCarthy basely cameMay scorn forever blight his name, And brand it with eternal shame ! Nay, father, pardon me those words With thee such language ill accords; I know it well ; but passion's force Will sometimes sweep me from the course Yourtender love and wisdom fair Traced for me with a father's care. But oh ! to think M'Cawra should Kneel to a Saxon vassal rude; Mononia's heir ! proud honour'd line ! Ah, what deep shame this hour is thine ! XIV. " Oh ! once my soul exulting might Look on his brow unstain'd and bright, For he loved honour deep sublime, And to its loftiest peak could climb, Until his bosom harden'd grewThe poor man's claims no longer knewAnd pride, aye, selfish pride became His soul's base idol, and its shame. xv. " Yet still I honour'd him and gave, Tho' oft my bosom glow'd with rage, The homage which a king might crave From an obedient Christian page. But now, I'd scorn to press his hand Or hold him 'neath my poor command, Even tho' the king my sires of yore Serv'd faithful to their bosom's coreThe king I serv'd, myself, with trust, Until he basely kiss'd the dust, And knelt a Saxon's slave, M'Cawra, 0 gollar duach ! 0 darrig nawra!" * 0 galar dubhach, 0 darrig naire-Anglice: 0 crimson shame ! 0 gloomy sorrow ! THE PATRIOT MONK. The youth had ceas'd at length to speak, His brow was dark, and red his cheek, And scornfully his lip was curl'd, As tho' defiance proud he hurl'd, And his deep wrath that hour would fling In floods red-hot and withering, On Dermod and the Saxon king. XVI. The tale, alas ! was sadly true. The Saxon king had cross'd the main; Five hundred knights came with him too, Each follow'd by a martial train. Four hundred ships this armdd horde From Milford brought to Waterford, Where recreant Celts were seen to come And seal their country's bitter doomYea, kneel in shame and deep disgrace Before a Saxon monarch base, Who lay beneath the Church's ban, A sacrilegious homicide, An excommunicated man Who should the Church's pains abide, If he could not, by oath at least, Deny the murder of a priest, One faithful to his mission high, And murder'd therefore brutally. XVII. Of other crimes historians speak, That raise a blush upon the cheek, Of blasphemous expressions too Which we shall not repeat anew, Of cruelty, of avarice, That mean and despicable vice, Which ev'ry spirit nobly born Must ever hold in deepest scorn. XVIII. And there to such a monarch came The heirs of many an honour'd name, The homage of a slave to give, And nothing in return receive 167 168 GILLA HUGH : OR, But the deep shame that must ensue When men will such base homage do. XIX. There first of all MacCarthy MoreProud name ere this that well might soar Aloft in peace or righteous war, Honour's refulgent guiding starMacCarthy More, as vassal came Submission lowly there to make, The first to do the deed of shame, And a slave's burthen on him take. False Henry who was pleased the while, Receiv d him with a gracious smile, And kindly deigned to grant him all He erst held free but now in thrall; And Dermod, pleased, his home regain'd A slave where once a king he reign'd. XX. The Saxon army with their king Now march'd to woody, wild Lismore, And thither quickly hastening O'Brien came to bow before The stranger, and as vassal pay The homage which a vassal may. Alas, for fornier kingly pride ! Thomond, thy crystal springs are dried: Nought hast thou now to quench thy thirst But waters muddy and accurs'dNought but a mem'ry now thou hast Of what in former time thou wast : Now childless art thou-son of thee Is not who would a traitor be, And to the Saxon bend the knee ! XXI. Short time Lismore beheld among Her sylvan scenes the Saxons throng. From the green banks that smiled above That noble stream, the Avon Dhuv, They turn'd them back to Waterford, There to receive from many a lord THE PATRIOT MONK. Of Erin's proud Milesian race The homage of a vassal base. And Roderick who had many lost Thro' this, the lordly Shannon cross'd, Where amid swamps well fortified He could the Saxon force deride. XXII. When Waterford received again The Saxon monarch and his train, More would submission basely make And Henry as their ruler take. MacGilla Patrick, is it thou That, with a calm, unblushing brow, Forgetful of thy country's weal, Before a Saxon comes to kneel, To rise no more a prince again But bound by slavery's servile chain ? Deep woe, alas, to Ossory ! And deeper, deeper woe to thee No longer free, unfetter'd chief, But wither'd. like an autumn leaf. Ah, piercing woe ! ah, blinding grief XXIII. Nor there alone came Ossory. MacFlynn and more, by vassal vows, Had earn'd the bays of infamy To brand and scathe their shameless brows. Degraded chiefs ! unfeeling sons ! Loud rose their country's bitter groans, Trampled beneath the invader's hoof, While listlessly some held aloof, Some to assist the invader camne, And some did homage-deed of shame ! But, Heaven be thank'd ! were many too Who to their country's rescue flew, Fought, fell, or still lived firm and true. XXIV. Aye ! many such in Connaught were Faithful by moor and mountain bleak, And still a few in Munster fair Disdain'd the stranger's smile to seek. 169 170 GILLA HUGH : OR, But Ulster, thou wert faithful all, Nor bowed beneath the Saxon's thrall : Freedom her banner proudly waved O'er thee, while Leinster sunk enslaved; Nor did the false invader dare To tread thy soil, or breathe thine air. Too well he knew O'Neill the stern From honour's path would never turn; And well he knew that he might spare The trouble, when a herald there He sent the haughty chief to sue That he would be a vassal true. XXV. When Henry's words O'Neill had heard, Indignant flash'd his fiery eye ; Deep anger in his soul was stirr'd, And frown'd upon his forehead high, While thus, in voice of rage suppress'd : The Saxon herald he address'd : " Go, messenger, and tell the slave Who dares assume the name of king, We pay not homage to a knave As tho' we were some creeping thing, To kiss the feet of those who come Invaders of our island home. Go, tell the Saxon that O'Neill Can as a man and Christian feel, Nor crawls, to manhood's deep disgrace, Before a vassal monarch base." XXVI. Thus spoke O'Neill; and every chief In fair Ultonia would as lief Descend into the yawning grave As come to kneel the Saxon's slave. The herald, thus in anger spurn'd, To Henry quickly back return'd, And told him the unwelcome taleThe proud defiance of the Gael. Of his deep fury too he spoke, And how the lightning flashes broke THE PATRIOT MONK. So frequent in appalling guise From his dark, deep, o'ershadow'd eyes; While far-off thunder sounds, his words Seem'd in their deep, suppress'd accords. Loud sigh'd the Saxon monarch then To know that Erin still had men. XXVII. Fitz Bernard was appointed lord By Henry over Waterford, Who thence to Dublin had set forth To sue the homage of the north, And when he found his efforts vain, Prepared again to cross the main, To meet his sons who had rebell'd, And now prepared to take the field Against their monarch and their sire, Urg'd by ambition's quenchless fire. But wild the stormy tempests blew, Nor dared his fleet to venture out Where the white billows madly flew In mountain masses on their route. Nor, until spring had breath6d balm Upon the winds and made them camirn, And on the rushing billows proud Had laid its hand, and gently bow'd Down to the level of the deep Their raging forms in peaceful sleep, Did the oppressor of the Gael From his rich booty dare to sail, And take his hateful presence from Their bleeding, wounded, lovely home. CANTO THE EIGHTH. THE ABBOT'S DEATH. I. When the meek Abbot heard the tale, He stagger'd, tottering and weak, His cheek and brow grew ashy pale, And unto death hie felt him sick 171 172 GILLA HUGH : ORH Dark shadows round him seem'd to fly, A film came o'er his clear, bright eye; He lean'd upon his youthful friend MacTyre, and seem'd to wait his end, While on his lofty brow the sweat In cold, thick, pearly beads was set. II. Slowly at length, as if by stealth, Came back the rosy tint of health Upon his cheek; and to his eye Return'd its wonted brilliancy. But pain still linger'd round his lip, And on his brow were furrows deep, That told the grief and inward dole Which prey'd upon his patriot soul, And for a moment seem'd to still His life-blood with a deadly chill. III. Once more he stood erect, and said Unto the page, whose look of fire Was quench'd in grief, and whose fair head, Thrown back ere while in anger dire, Now drooping hung, in sorrow bow'd, While fast the blinding tear-drops flow'd : " Cahal, my son, thy tale has thrill'd With horror thro' my heart, and fill'd My soul with deep prophetic fears Of a long train of woeful years Mark'd by our country's blood and tears. Nor do I blame thy sudden burst Of passion at such deeds accurs'd. 'Twas but the indignation just Of thy young heart that sudden woke, When honour vilely in the dust Was trail'd, and knightly faith was broke Too well MacCarthy felt and knew Allegiance was to Erin due : And knew it well the chieftains base Who bow'd like him, and sold their race Slaves to the Saxons-dire disgrace ! THE PATRIOT MONK. IV. " But, Cahal, thou hast need of restGo sleep, and calm thy fiery breast, For I have something grave to say To thee by morning's early rayA last advice, the parting words Of one who feels the slender cords Of life about to snap at last-Whose sands of time are ebbing fast; And aye whose veins begin to fill With fever's deadly burning chill." V. Alas ! and did the Abbot meek Perceive his end approaching near? 'Twas strange; but, ah ! upon his cheek The hectic tint flash'd bright and clear: His brilliant eyes more brightly shone O'Tuohy and MacTyre upon, Who watch'd with deep and painful thrill Those dreaded signs of coming ill. VI. Cahal, with heavy heart, retired, To seek the rest his strength required, Anxious to Gilla Hugh to fly When morning's beam should light the sky, And hear the parting words of one Who had his deepest reverence won. VII. But by his couch a volume layA grand old folio volume graced With many a picture bright and gay, And Celtic letter quaintly traced. His eye ran o'er the storied page, Forgot was toil and grief and rageForgot the needful calls of sleep While thus he read with interest deep : VIII. THE LEGEND OF SAINT FIACRE. Fair to behold was Fiacre bold, and born to high command; His father was as proud a chief as dwelt in Erin's land, 173 174 GILLA HUGH : OR, Who well could wield in battle-field the sparth or spear or sword: His son will grow like him, I trow, a warrior and a lord. " But man is master never of his future destiny, Tho' he be heir to titles fair, or born of low degree: A kingly name may come to shame ; an humble peasant's son, On whom fate frown'd, may yet be crown'd a monarch on his throne. " O'er Cleena's stormy billows white a ship is scudding fast, And to'ards the Frankish coast afar the tempest bows her mast Upon the prow sits Fiacre now-an exile lone is he, Seeking a home beyond the foam of Cleena's stormy sea. " With travel stain'd at last he gained the good old town of Meaux, Where dwelt the famous bishop then, the pious, meek Faroe, Who kindly thus to Fiacre spoke : "Good youth, whence comest thou? What thou dost seek? now freely speak : thy name I too would know. " 'I come from Innisfail,' he said, ' that fair and lovely isle Upon whose verdant valleys rich, the sunbeams ever smile; The name I hold is Fiacre bold, a name renown'd in strife, And I afar would lead from war a friar's holy life.' " Unto him then the bishop gave a goodly strip of land In Brodol's darksome forest green; and soon a holy band Came round him there : in constant pray'r they spent unspotted lives, And now their names like brilliant flames shine 'mid the saints' archives. "While Fiacre bold who left of old, his father and his clan In Erin fair, and spent in pray'r his life, an humble man, Has greater fame than if his name were blazon'd forth in war : And youth and age his patronage invoke in lands afar." IX. When Cahal read the legend thro' He closed the letter'd page anew, Then weary on his couch reclin'd While strange thoughts rushing thro' his mind Upheld the heavy eye-lid long, Nor let it close in peaceful sleep Until at last the busy throng Began in dreams his soul to steep; Forgetfulness then o'er him crept And for a while in peace he slept. THE PATRIOT MONK. X. The youth hath risen ere the first Bright sunbeam from the East had burst, And sought the Abbot in the choir Where now the matin chaunt rose highThe flame of zeal's immortal fire Eternal rising to the sky : But silent was the full-toned bass Of Gilla Hugh, which in that place So oft before had floated free, In deep rich notes of melody. Ah ! sadly seem'd upon his ear To fall the full, deep chaunt, and clear, Which miss'd in its harmonious swell The tones of him he loved so well. XI. He sought the Abbot there in vainThen turn'd him to'ards the narrow cell, With feelings deep of fear and pain, Where the good monk was wont to dwell. The door lay open, and within O'Tuohy and MacTyre were seen, With many a deep unwonted trace Of woe upon each haggard face. He enter'd gently : on a bed Of straw, the feeble form was laid Of Gilla Hugh, who now awoke From a short troubled sleep, and spoke: XII. " O'Tuohy, I must take it ill That thou and Keeran, sleepless still, Should pass the long, long, weary nightBut now the rays of morning's light Begin.to gleam-alas ! alas ! That I cannot arise to pray And offer up the holy mass, As I was wont for many a day ! Ah me ! my sins have this deserved : Oh ! would that I had better served The wondrous God so pure and good Who claims our deepest gratitude ! 175 176 GILLA HUGH : OR, XIII. " But, Keeran, thou hast need of rest, And thou, O'Tuohy, art oppress'd With weariness : go sleep at least A while, and send a vested priest Thither to offer up for me The Sacrifice of Calvary." Then pressing Cahal's hand, he said : " My son, thou art not call'd to tread The worldly paths of other men, And mingle in those scenes again Where deadly passions fierce and strong Their helpless victims urge along The pathway broad of crime and vice Towards destruction's precipice. No, Cabal; thou art call'd to live A friar's life all calm and pure, A life that peace on earth will give And joy eternally secure. Go, ask our Blessed Lady dear To pray for thee, that thou may'st hear, Like Samuel obediently The voice of God which calleth thee." XIV. The good youth wept, his heart was sad, And yet somehow his soul was glad. O'er him a change had crept ere night And fill'd his soul with visions bright Of peace, and heavenly pure delight, And now the words of Gilla Hugh The chords of his young heart anew Had touched. He serv'd the holy mass, With head bow'd down, but radiant face; And when he pray'd for him who lay Upon that humble couch of straw, He offer'd up himself for aye To live a friar in zeal and awe : And the sick Abbot who divined His purpose, back in peace reclined, While a soft slumber o'er him came, Tho' still upon his brow the flame THE PATRIOT MIONK. Of fever fiercely burned and hot, With frequent painful throbbings fraught. XV. O'er Finn Barr's holy brotherhood Now swept an overwhelming flood Of grief, when they the tale had learn'd How Gilla Hugh in fever burn'd. They bore him from his narrow cell To breath a purer air, until The fever should abate its forceBut ah ! the monk grew daily worse; And when he felt death's shadow lour Upon him, and his final hour Approach, he call'd his children there To chaunt for him the wonted pray'r, And his last words of love receive Ere he should cease on earth to live. XVI. With mahy a broken sob and moan The wonted pray'rs were chaunted now, And many a pray'r besides had flown To Heaven, in fervent tones and low, That the good monk might still be spared Whose loss could scarcely be repair'd They thought, so strong their souls adhered To one they had so long revered And cherish'd as some gentle dove That well deserv'd their deepest love. XVII. Cahal, O'Tuohy, and MacTyre The dying Abbot then uprais'd, Within whose eyes the fever-fire In fitful flashes ling'ring blazed, And in the breasts of all awoke Fresh anguish as he feebly spoke : " My children, I have lov'd you long With an affection deep and strong, That daily grew and flourish'd more Around my bosom's inmost core- 17 178 GILLA HUGH : OR, That now upholds my feeble frame With its invigorating flame, And a short time of strength affords To speak a few fond parting words. XVIII. " O frequent raise your hearts thro' life To Him who reigns supreme above : Avoid the slightest shades of strife, And one another ever love. Let zeal and fervour mark your deeds, Pluck from your souls the noxious weeds Of anger, sloth, and avarice, Vainglory, pride, and ev'ry vice Which strives within the heart to hide, And left uncheck'd, with rapid stride, In numerous sprouts would flourish quick, And choke the plants of virtue weak. O ! never fail to love the poorA pledge, the safest and most sure Of heavenly joy: in them you see The Saviour of humanity, For whom a cup of water given Shall find a great reward in heaven: Love them, and aye the rich love too, Love all, love each who loveth you. But still your love must broader be, And you must love your enemy, Aye-even the Saxon who has trod, With ruffian hoof, the sacred sod Where countless saints have honour'd God ? XIX. " But tho' you love the Saxon-still Love not his works accurs'd of ill; Love not the chains of slavery With which the tyrant binds the free And turns their lot to misery. Love not to hear the widow's sigh, And the poor orphan's lonely cry, In their sad wretchedness and pain To tyrant ears ascending vain.- THE PATRIOT MONK. Aye, love the Saxon tyrant still, For His sake, who on Calv'ry's hill Had died for all : but hate the sway Falsehood and crime have won to-day. xx. " My last poor blessing now receiveMy only parting gift to give : May God and His dear Mother bless," He said, with deepest tenderness, " You and your friends eternally, And show'r his grace abundantly Upon your souls, until above You share in His reward of love." XXI. He paus'd awhile, then sadly said, While tear-drops from his eyes were shed: " My brothers and my children dear, If I have ever scandal given, Or any way offended here, Before your sight and that of heaven, Forgive me for sweet Jesus' sake, Who on Himself our sins did take. For oh ! full frequently I wis That I have sadly done amiss, And ever fail'd in part to do My duty as a Christian trueMercy, my God !-dear friends, adieu !" XXII. The last anointing he receiv'd, While penitence his bosom heav'd, And now unto his soul was come His God and his Viaticum, To strengthen him upon his way, To heaven's eternal shining day, Of which THE LAMB is lamp and ray ! All silently some moments there His lips were stirr'd in fervent pray'r : A light came o'er his pale damp brow And lit it with a parting glow; Then a soft shadow o'er him spread, And Gilla Hugh O'Mween was dead. 179 180 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. XXIII. Then deep and loud arose the wail When Corca heard the mournful tale; And while within the church he lay Exposed to view three days and nights Beneath the dimly shining ray Of flickering, pale funereal lights, .In robes episcopal array'd, With mitre, staff, and chalice laid Above his last belov'd remains, Came thronging from the hills and plains Around, a crowd incessantly That calm sweet face again to see, Which erewhile on them shone so sweet, Ere the dark lid should close on it. XXIV. They laid him in his narrow tomb, While from the clouds of grief and gloom Thick fell the heavy show'r of woe; And streams of grief ceas'd not to flow For many a long and weary year, Till time at length dried up the tear, And grief to silence calmly sunk O'er GILLA HUGH, THE PATRIOT Jisclaneous oteems MONK. antb 3allab. Originaland Translated. THE OR, THE LEGEND PENITENT; OF MAELSUHAN O'CARROOL.* Of our land in days of old, many a wondrous tale is told Of the Faith and Hope and Love that fill'd the Gael ; Ere his desecrating foot, the Saxon yet had put On the consecrated soil of Innisfail : When tho' some were frail and weak, ever penitent and meek, When the light of grace their guilt to them reveal'd, * Correctly Maolsuthain O'Cearbhaill. For an account of this prince and sage, who was professor to the celebrated monarch Brian O'Kennedy, better known as Brian Boru, see O'Curry's MS. Materials of Ancient Irish History. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. 181 They confess'd each sin, and wept, many a fast and vigil kept; Nor in vain to the All-Merciful appeal'd As they kneel'd, While with sorrow beaming hope their hearts were filled. II. Amid Erin's men of lore, renown'd in days of yore, Was the learn6d Sage Maelshhan O'Carrool, His fame shone like a star, and bright gleaming from afar, Attracted many students to his school : The poor peasant's son was there with the monarch's royal heir; Christian Wisdom shed her smile on all the same; Bound together by her spell, they studied long and well, Then they parted, each the way by which he came, And the name Of Maels~han O'Carrool increased in fame. III. At length there came one day. from a country far away, Three stranger youths as students to the sageThree graceful youths, and fair, with golden shining hair, And they look'd the same in stature and in age; The vesture which they wore the same appearance bore, And Donal was the name of all the three ; But save in these alone the youths remain'd unknown While they sudied 'neath the guidance of the saoi,* Nor did he Of their parentage know aught, or their degree. IV. Now when three full years had pass'd, the youths resolved at last, To Jerusalem a pilgrimage to make, And tread each path that God their Saviour dear had trod, j And think on all he suffer'd for their sake. They reveal'd it to the saoi, but an angry man was he, And he said to them : "From this you shall not go, Till my guerdon I receive for the lore which I did give." Then they said : "Nor gold nor gift can we bestow ; But yet know, We will serve thee three years more in weal and woe.' SPronounced see: an Irish word signifying a sage. 182 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. V. " No; this you shall not do," replied the sage anew, " But promise me to grant what I shall ask." Then they said : " If it should lie in our power, willingly We shall gratefully apply us to the task." " Go, then," replied the sage, " on your holy pilgrimage: At its close, you shall die in peace, all three; But swear to come again, ere you enter Heaven's domain, And reveal the term of life that yet shall be Unto me, And if I shall live with God eternally." VI. Then they swore with solemn word, on the Gospel of the Lord, To perform what he asked of them that day ; And quickly then they found a goodly vessel bound For Judea, and they sail'd in it away. In each path they walked that God their Saviour dear had trod, And they died at Jerusalem all three; Then the great Archangel came, Saint Michael call'd by name, To conduct them to the blessdd Trinity, And they see Crowns awaiting them of immortality. VII. But they said : " We cannot go yet with thee to bliss; for, knowWe have sworn on our Saviour's holy word To return and tell the saoi who instructed us, when he Shall die, and if his soul shall see the Lord." Then the great Archangel said: "In three years shall he be dead, To Maelsuihan O'Carrool return and tell: And when the Judge shall come, and mankind shall hear their doom, Then with those who dared in Heaven to rebel, Plunged in hell, His soul for all eternity must dwell." VIII "And why," said they, "shall he go to hell eternally ?" " For three sins," said the angel in reply:" He interpolates his word in the canons of the Lord; His life is deeply stain'd with luxury; And the Altus* which he sung is now silent on his tongue, SThis was the celebrated hymn written by Saint Colum Cill Iona, in honour of the at Blessed Trinity, when the messengers of Pope Gregory came to him with the great cross and other presents.-See O'Curry's Lectures, page 77, foot note. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. 183 Since his son the good Maelpatrick pined and died, For whose health the hymn was said seven times around his bed; But God in his wisdom health denied: Then the pride Of Maelsfhan, on his tongue the Altus tied. IX. 'Twas a lovely eve and calm; save the zephyr's wingld balm, No breeze o'er the slumb'ring ether blew ; Lonely musing in his school sat Maelsfthan O'Carrool, When three doves snowy white before him flewThree doves all snowy white, shining with unearthly light, And he knew them for his former pupils three : Then they spoke, and told him all which they learn'd from Naomh Micheal,* How three years were all his term of life should be, And that he For his sins should go to hell eternally. X. " 'Tis not true that I shall go into everlasting woe, Tho' I know my sins deserve it o'er and o'er," Said the humbled, weeping saoi: "A Mhuire 211hathair guidh Air mise peacach criona agus mor.t For at whatsoever time the sinner leaves his crime, He shall not suffer for it, saith the Lord.And those sins that now I own shall henceforward be unknownShall this instant be for evermore ignored, Never word Of mine again the canons shall afford. XI. " I will continently spend henceforth my life, and bend A hundred times each day my knee to earth; I will fast three times each week, and contrition's accents meek Shall replace the sounds of revelry and mirth : And the Altus, which my tongue had for seven years not sung, Seven times each night henceforward will I singNow return to God in peace, and possess eternal bliss; Pronounced Naev Meehaul-Saint Michael. t Pronounced A Wirra Wahir ghee er misha peccough creena ogus more. Literally0 Mary Mother, prayfor me a sinner old and grievous. 1Ezek. xxxiii. 12: " Impietasimpii in quacumque horaconversisfuerit nonnocebit el." 184 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. But ere Death his pallid shroud shall o'er me fling, Spread your wing, And the knowledge of my state unto me bring." XII. The spirits fled away to enjoy the brilliant ray Of everlasting glory which was theirs, And Maelsfhan spent his time weeping daily for each crime Of the past; and with many fervent pray'rs He implored God's grace anew, and he pray'd to Mary too, To assist him at the moment of his death, Till his hope increased each hour in the mercy and the power Of the Saviour, who had breathed his last breath, Plunged beneath Woes unnumbered to redeem us from all scaith. XIII. Three years again had pass'd, and Maelsihan lay, at last, A penitent upon his dying bed : Many priests and friends were there, offering up the wonted prayer, When three snowy doves alighted near his head. Then humbly spoke the saoi, for he knew them instantly : " Is my life to-day as formerly the same ?" And they said : " Far otherwise; for your place in Paradise The wonder of the Cherubim might claim: And we came To conduct your soul to Heaven in God's name." XIV. Then his brow more pallid grew, and the friends around well knew That his final hour was now approaching fast; And a bright celestial ray o'er his features seem'd to play, And a look of sweetest peace upon them cast. His eyes at length grew dim; and like a fading beam Life vanish'd at the touch of Death's cold hand, While each attendant's cheek, as the tears fell hot and thick, Was by zephyrs breathing odours soft and bland, Gently fann'd, As that soul went up to Heaven's blessed land. SONNET. Close by the City, on a rising slope That overlooked the winding Lee they dwelt, Stern foes, I ween, of ignorance and guilt ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. They taught the tender flow'ret to look up, And hold with care within its petall'd cup The precious dew of Heaven : and oft they knelt To breathe in pray'r the gratitude they felt For such sweet task-Faith, Charity, and Hope To plant in Wisdom's soil. Ah me ! how well Their old chief work'd ! how bright his eye, and mild, And his white head, as tho' to hear some child Repeat a pray'r or lesson, gently bow'd !Alas for Corca's poor ! death's silent shroud Enfolds him now, kind-hearted J. B. L. BATTLE HYMN. FROM THE GERMAN OF KORNER. I. Father, I call on Thee ! Booming, the vapours of death thickly bound me, And the red lightnings of war flash around me. Ruler of battle, I call on Thee ! Father, direct Thou me ! II. Father, direct Thou me ! Ordain that I conquer, ordain that I perish : Lord, Thy command I bow down to, and cherish; Lord, as Thou pleasest, direct Thou me. God, I bow down to Thee ! III. God, I bow down to Thee ! In the low breeze when the autumn leaves prattle, As in the deep-pealing thunders of battle, Fountain of grace, I bow down to Thee. Father, 0 bless Thou me ! IV. Father, 0 bless Thou me ! Into Thy hands life I freely deliver, Lord, Thou canst take it, for Thou art its Giver ; In life and in death, 0 bless Thou me. Father, I honour Thee ! 185 186 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. V. Father, I honour Thee ! 'Tis not a struggle for spoil or dominion; For Freedom our swords flash, our flag lifts her pinion : Dying or conq'ring, honour I Thee, Creator, receive Thou me ! VI. Creator, receive Thou me ! When the loud thunders of death shall come roaring, And from my sever'd veins blood is outpouring ; Then, my Creator, receive Thou me ! Father, I call on Thee. SONNET. FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF FR. ANTONIO DE S. FRANCISCO. To thee, who wast in holiest grace conceiv'd, In thy conception, pure, immaculate, Mother of God's own Son ! whose glorious state Predestin'd, grace preventive hadachiev'd. To thee, who hast from God such gifts receiv'd Free from all fault, whose course was ever straight, Without original sin, who was create, And never by the guilt of Adam griev'dTo thee I offer all that I possess, O stainless virgin, hear me while I pray, And be my advocate at Mercy's seat : Refuge of sinners ! pledge of happiness ! Sweet Lady, help us-be our strength andfstay, Till God and thee we praise with honour meet. FATHER MATHEW. I. God reward you, Father Mathew ! You were kindest of the kind, You were Father to the orphan, And a light unto the blind; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. You were comfort to the wretched, You were strength unto the weak, You were health and consolation To the weary and the sick. II. You were sweetness to the guilty When they sorrow'd for their sin, And the vilest and most harden'd Back to virtue you could win; By the bedside of the dying You gave counsel and relief, And your words were like a balsam That could heal the wounds of grief. III. You were ever bright and joyous, Merry-hearted with the young, And like bees around fair flowers, On your honeyed words they hung; You could speak the dear old Gaelic, And you loved to hear them speak In the language of their fathers As they lisp'd it soft and thick. IV. God reward you, Father Mathew ! For you truly loved the poor, And far longer than your statue, Shall your name with them endure: Long with blessings shall they speak it, And your mem'ry be revered For the good that you effected, And the homesteads that you cheered. v. Many a fond, despairing mother, Many a broken-hearted wife, Will remember you with blessings To the last faint breath of life, For the happiness and comfort, Which, thro' you, they now enjoy, Who had changed the drunken husband, And reclaimed the vicious boy. 187 188 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. VI. And the thousands-tens of thousands Who had ever done amiss, Till your gentle voice recall'd them To sobriety and peace, Shall with grateful hearts remember The Apostle who had brought Peace and happiness unto them, And had changed their wretched lot. VII. But my words are feebly utter'd. Vain are they to sound your praiseVain as midnight's gloomy shadows To depict the noontide blaze Of the sun in his full glory, When unclouded, pure, and bright, He is pouring from the zenith Floods of dazzling golden light. VIII. God reward you, Father Mathew ! For the streams of priceless good Which you pour'd upon your country And mankind, in many a flood. Dear departed, kindly hearted ! May eternal joy be given To your soul, with God and Mary, 'Mid the Cherubim of Heaven ! THE ARAB'S DEFIANCE. I. It is the Lord Don Juan de Vera, and he rides Where Muley Aban Hassan the Arab king abides; He rides unto Grenhda, an answer home to bring, Why comes not Moorish tribute now to Ferdinand his king. II. Full stately does he bear him upon his maildd barb; And thick, I ween, the golden sheen gleams on his steel-wove garb; His stature's high, and dark his eye, with brave determined glanceNo Moor hath e'er beheld his peer might meet him lance to lance. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. 189 III. A scanty few his retinue, yet haughtily they bear The wrathful frown of warrior brown, the dusky merchant's stare; Until before the gorgeous door of Aban Hassan's dwelling, The tramp of hoof is heard no more in iron echoes knelling. IV. With lofty stride and air of pride Don Juan seeks the king, Whose council-band around him stand, a swarthy frowning ring; And as he spoke, the dusky smoke of quick-enkindling ire Is swiftly blown their brows upon, from out their orbs of fire. V. " The king of Spain offence hath ta'en that tribute comes not now. And he would know how it is so : speak, Aban Hassan, how ?" Up rose the Moorish monarch then, his wrath was great, I wis; But tho' defiant, courteous still. His haughty answer is: VI. " Sir knight, go tell the king of Spain, the craven Moors that paid A tribute for the Vega's plain are in the cold tomb laid; We cannot spare for our poor share but bright sword-blades and spears, Of these, I trow, he'll find enow to pay for all arrears." VII. Don Juan grimly smiled to hear the Moorish king's defiance, Then slow and stately passed he forth thro' the rich "Court of Lions; But here some Moslem cavaliers would fain with him hold speech, And with a knightly courtesy he answereth to each. VIII. At length an Abencerragd hath spoke a bitter word Which in the Spaniard's fiery soul indignant anger stirred, The Immaculate Conception of our Blessdd Lady dear He dared to slight before the knight with unbelieving sneer. IX. De Vera's eye flashed lightning-" Thou liest deeply, Moor !" And with his sheathd sword he struck him reeling to the floor : With fearful clash and blinding flash a hundred blades outspring, But in among the raging throng hath stepped the Arab king. X. " Ho, back ! fall back !-remember well the Spaniard is our guest, Nor hostile brand by Moorish hand be pointed at his breast : 190 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. Who dares deny the stranger's right unharm6d hence to go, I deem not as a faithful knight, but as my deadliest foe." XI. Then, with a gracious smile, the king undid his scimitar Which oft had gleamed where redly streamed the fierce sunbeam of war: " Stranger, receive this sword I give as mark of high esteem." Don Juan bowed his plumed crest proud, and took the blade from him. XII. " I wot, a gift so goodly it is befitting, I Should take and use right valiantly when a proper time is nigh." How faithfully he kept his word, in after times was seen, When many a Moorish knight went down beneath that weapon keen. IN MEMORIAM. I. Sweet bay of Cork ! how oft in boyhood's days Along thy woody shores I've loved to stray, And mark thy parting with the chief of day ! How sadness stole upon thee when his rays No longer made thy clear, calm face to smile, And slowly waving in the dusk the while Thy breeze-bowed fringing woods rocked to and fro', As when where death hath been we bend our gaze On Irish matron in her depth of woe, And hear her sing in accents gently low, And mournfully, softly sweet, the dead one's praise ! II. On thee I gaze no longer, as of yore, With that same full delight; tho' still thou art Dear, and must ever be so to this heart Until 'neath kindred dust it throbs no more : For ah ! no longer o'er thy trembling tide Glides the light skiff of him who dwelt beside Thy wave from earliest years; now calm he sleeps (Life's weary trials and temptations o'er), Where many an evergreen in sadness keeps Perpetual watch, and many a dew-drop weeps Above the mould'ring clay his gentle spirit wore ! MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. AVE MARIA. Ave Maria ! virgin bright ! How sweet it is to kneel before Thine image when the pale moonlight Is streaming on our humble floor ! When gath'ring darkness dimly shrouds All outward forms from mortal eyes, And quick dispelling passion's clouds, Sweet thoughts of God and thee arise ! Oh ! may it be my lot to kneel For one short hour each night in prayer Before thy statue sweet, and feel The peace of thy protection there ! And may the mem'ry of that hour Each day preserve me free from sin, And, with its soft persuasive power, My soul from all things earthly win ! A SKETCH. In boyhood's happy time of love, I had a friend, calm, wise, and young, With manners gentle as a dove, And heart to friendship's music strung. Oh ! let me paint him as he seemed When first I felt the genial ray That from his bosom warmly streamed, And thawed my cold reserve away. His form was middle-sized and slight, His lip determination showed, His clear eye beamed serenely bright Beneath a forehead high and broad. His hair was jet, of glossy hue, His brows were pencilled dark and thick, His beard, close-shaven, tinged with blue His rounded chin and wasted cheek. 191 192 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. His voice was as the vesper-bell That sounds in silv'ry peals along The smiling heights of Sunday's Well, And floats its peaceful homes among. A black soutane and pointed cap He wore, and in the Winter keen, A pilot cloak of dark blue nap, From frosty airs his form would screen. Except when lowly bent at prayer Before his God in reverence meet, He stood erect with manly air And bearing high tho' softly sweet. Oh ! had you seen him in the school, Caressing with his gentle hand The poor-clad urchins of Blackpool That clustered round, a guileless band ! His merry laugh and ready jest, That lit each youthful smiling face, Revealed a calm and joyous breast Enriched with holiest gifts of grace. But sometimes when affection's smile Would sleep upon his calm pale brow, A struggling shade of pain the while, Would slowly to the surface grow. For stern disease its pointed shaft Had plunged within his youthful form, And deep the poisoned spear-head quaffed His healthful life-blood bubbling warm. I loved him when my thoughtless brow Reflected every boyish whim; And musing manhood tells me now How much of good I owe to him. How oft his pray'r of wondrous power Averted some impending doom, And drew me from each tempting bower That might have been my early tombHad turned the lightning-flash away Of God's avenging anger dread, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. 193 And bore me safely through the spray Temptation dashed above my headHad bridged the chasmy fissures strewed Along my mountain-path of pride; And many a rocky foothold hewed When dangling o'er the yawning tide. But not alone for me has flowed The stream of intercession forth; For many a heart he led to God While life remains shall bless his worth. He lingers still, with winning smile To cheer the early friends he taught; Still lures to good with tend'rest wile That tone with deep affection fraught. But soon within the grave's abode He'll sleep in quiet peaceful rest, And pray'r-bent knees shall press the sod That verdant blooms above his breast. While long his mem'ry graven deep Within each grateful breast shall lie, And mourning friendship fondly keep Remembrance of each former tie. EL MORO SANTO. I. Around Malaga's lofty walls the chivalry of Spain, To battle with the Moorish foe, king Ferdinand has ta'en; And long the loud artillery has hurled its deadly shower In vain, of ball, on bastion tall and battlemented tower. II. Fierce Hamlet rules the Citadel: the scardd townsmen fear His flashing eye whose red shafts fly like foeman's deadly spear : They spoke to him of yielding, ere yet was struck a blow, Their wealthy town to gem the crown of Ferdinand below. III. But Allah ! how his lightning glance shed arrowy jets of fire Around on each whose coward speech awoke his fearful ireN 194 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. " Accursed race of mongrels !and dare ye speak to me Of yielding while in this right hand my trusty blade ye see?" IV. Then added, like the thunder roll that issues from the cloud, While with his quiv'ring scimitar he pointed to the crowd :" Away !and if a single word again I hear you breathe Of this, our swords-mark well my words-shall find your hearts a sheath." V. Now Hamlet was the bravest chief in all the Moorish host; Abdallah could no braver among his captains boast: Full many a daring sally upon the Christian foe He made, and well he bore him amid their spears, I trow. VI. But vain is all his daring, he charges forth in vain, For firmly stand the watchful band of Ferdinand of Spain; And Famine now its scowling brow reveals, more dreadful far Than all the countless evils that haunt the track of war. VII. Yet still the gallant warrior leads forth his famish'd band Against the foe, and many a blow still deals each fleshless hand. Oh ! might the chief but hope relief outside that fortress sealed, The sharpest pang of hunger's fang would never make him yield. VIII. There lived a Moorish hermit near Guadix, greatly famed For deeds of fast and piety, Aldjerrid he was named ; His ghastly look you might not brook, you shrunk, you knew not why, From ev'ry glance which like a lance shot forth his rolling eye. IX. He heard, tho' late, how sore distraight the Zegri still defied From out his tower the Christian power, and mocked its vaunting pride. " Now, by my faith !" the hermit saith, "this must no longer be: For Allah and his prophet's sake-ho ! who will follow me?" x. With twice two hundred Moslem spears that sprang forth at his call, He turned him to'ards the mail6d hordes beneath Malaga's wall; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. 195 His rolling eye he cast on high where stood a guarded gate, ' Allah," said he, "gives victory, no longer we may wait." XI. Then charged the troop the hill-side up, fully bravely sweeping onWith sudden dash they came right crash the Spanish lines upon ; But soon they find, the rushing wind more swiftly does not swing With deaf'ning sound the hill-sides round, than spears before them spring. XII. Yet boldly down on steel-roofed crown each ringing blade descends, While crimson rain, distilled from pain, the scene wild horror lends; Oh ! bravely fell, and fighting well, nerved by their creed of fate, Those Arabs tall-scarce half was all that reached Malaga's gate. XIII. But Aldjerrid he turned aside, nor hostile blow he dealt, Far from the raging din of strife, apart in peace he knelt, And as he prayed, from cattle raid a band, returning, found The lonely spot, and him they brought before their captain bound. XIV. " I am a prophet Santon, and God to me hath given The light to see each high decree that hath been made in heaven ; Malaga's wall in time shall fall-but this I may not tell Unless to him whose diadem befits a monarch well." xv. " Now bear him to the royal tent, that our good king may know How soon shall yield yon frowning shield that hides our Arab foe," The captain said ; and him they led to'ards where the monarch stays : His ghastly face the populace behold with sore amaze. XVI. It chanced just then Fernando slept, as was his wont to do, So to another pavilion the guards the hermit drew; There stood a lovely lady with Alvaro, Campeador, And queenly was the look she had, and kingly air he bore. XVII. ' Now this must be the queen of Spain, and this king Ferdinand," The hermit said-then asked to drink, and freed was his right hand. A sudden change more grimly strange across his features came; His dark eyes blazed, and sternly gazed with awful glance of flame. 196 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. XVIII. He flung aside the long loose wide Albornoz which he wore, Then with a blade he held concealed he struck the knight full soreAlvaro's slain; he swung again the steel to strike the maid, But in the tapestry it caught, and thus his purpose stayed. XIX. Now quick the sword of many a lord fell on his turbaned head, And soon the floor, thick stained o'er, became a crimson red. They hurl'd his form, still quivering warm, high o'er Malaga's gate, O'erjoyed, the Queen and King had been preserved from such a fate ! FROM THE ITALIAN OF SAINT LIGOURI. Virgin fairest, sweetest, rarest, Mary, mother dear, art thou; Brightest beaming, whitest gleaming, Purity lights up thy brow. Seemeth even as a heaven, Thy sweet face all breathing love; Beauty greater, God, Creator, Never hath enthroned above. Two stars shroudless in the cloudless Blue vault, are thy gentle eyes; And thy glances pierce like lances Hearts with loving sympathies. Pearls of whiteness, with whose brightness Hearts are flooded, are thy hands, Graces spreading, like the shedding Dews that nourish thirsty lands. Queen transcending ! lowly bending, Earth, Hell, Heaven thy name revere; But how tender, 'neath that splendour, Doth thy loving heart appear ! When shall rushing rapture gushing, Thee, 0 Lord, in Heaven reveal? When, with burning heart, earth spurning, Mary, near thee shall I kneel? MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. Souls unnumber'd, who had slumber'd Long in sin, thou hast awoke; Grant that never I may waver 'Neath thy Son's sweet blessed yoke. Sing we loudly, raise we proudly, Hymns to Him who ruleth Heaven, Who no other as our Mother, But His own to us hath given. Mary, dearest name, and nearest To our hearts, thee praise we give : Sing delighted, all united, Live, dear Jesus ! Mary, live ! SONNET TO SPAIN. Region of old romance, bright sunny Spain ! Whose deeds of knightly worth unrivalled stand Thro' every clime and age-whose gleaming brand, Of old for Freedom drawn, flashed not in vain. Still doth thine arm its pristine strength retain; Once more thy brow, that look of high command Resumes, that erst was thine, thou glorious land Whose golden age of glory comes again ! And Erin thrills with deepest joy to see Thy glories rise, even though in bondage yet She mourns her fallen state, an outcast lone; For thou hast been in wild adversity A generous friend,-and when the star had set Of all her hopes, thy purest, noblest love had shown. THE PATRIOT MONK. The Patriot Monk is an agld man, And hoary his scanty hair; His high, bald brow is wrinkled now With many a touch of care; But his mild eye grey still sheds the ray Of its wonted gentle light On the youths he taught, a stalwart lot, Who are now grown men of might. 197 198 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. They bore him away from his own loved home By the rolling Lee's clear wave, And they placed him where the wild surging foam Shrieks sad o'er the fisherman's grave; He wept at first, with the passionate burst Of affection's sunder'd ties, But now resigned, with a cheerful mind, The same brave work he plies. He planteth the germs of Faith and Love, Of Knowledge and Patriot Truth, Of Peace below, and of Hope above, In the breast of each Irish youth : O ne'er may the ray of his soul decay Thro' dear Erin's night of gloom, Till Freedom's beam, in a bright, bright stream Of glory, among us shall come ! " THE PAUPER HERO." AN INCIDENT WHICH OCCURRED IN CORK DURING THE FAMINE OF 1847. 'Twas the deadly year of famine, when the wayside corse for days Lay unwaked, uncaioned, unburied, with a dull and filmy glaze Spread upon the starting eyeballs, whose unwinking ghastly stare Shed a vacant look of horror out into the silent air : 'Twas that year of woe and wailing when the poor were forced to lie Weak, exhausted, hourly dying, with no shelter save the sky, With no food to stay their hunger save the green grass of the plain, Which they vainly tried to swallow in their agony of pain. In that sad and mournful season, 'mid the spectral bands that stalked Hunger-stricken thro' the city, there was one whose face was chalked With the last deep pallid touches which the icy hand of death Gives to those o'er whom he bends him with his deadly chilling breath. Slow he stagger'd thro' that city called "the Beautiful ;" but now, Oh, what heavy clouds of anguish darkly hung above her brow ! Oh, how sadly flowed the silver-shadow'd waters of the Lee, Past those wasted, haggard skeletons to hide them in the sea ! Wildly gazed around that lone one; bowed and withered was his frame, And a fierce light from his grey eyes oft in fitful flashes came. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. 199 Ah ! no food hath passed his white lips, for days-long, weary daysNo gentle eye hath looked on him with pity's tender gaze, Since his dying wife upon him cast one faint sweet smile of love Ere her chastened spirit winged its flight to God's bright home above. Yet while hunger gnawed his vitals, saw he windows where reclined White loaves heaped in profusion, but for which he vainly pinedHa ! but see ! apast him hurries one who bends beneath a load Of the sweet food which he longs for, in a pile heaped high and broad, And as onward quick she hastens, see ! from out the goodly heap There has fallen one unnoticed-springs he forward with a leap, And so eagerly he clutched it, with such strong and fearful clasp, That the loaf appeared to tremble e'en with terror in his grasp. Swift he raised it to his pale lips; but what change comes o'er him now ? Why that flush upon his white cheek, mounting even on his brow? Ah ! the thought has woke within him that this bread is not his own, And he hastens to restore it with an agonising groan : Back he gave it still untasted, in that hour of sorest need, Tho' to eat it then were blameless, and a pure and sinless deed : Then he feebly totter'd onward, with his eyes upon the ground, Till beside the dusty pathway a green cabbage-stalk he found, And with painful effort ate it; but his strength had left him now, And he fell upon the pavement with a red gash on his brow. Then too late they gathered round him, and they bore him to the place Where a "Saxon Institution " wreaks dread vengeance on our race ; But no power had he to swallow aught that they might offer there, And he lingered out the weary night in agony and pray'r. In the morning when they sought him, weak and sadly he complained, And he pointed where the green stalk undigested still remained; But his thoughts revert to heaven, for the agld priest has come, And he brings him sweet celestial food for his long journey home. Soon a smile of joy and comfort o'er his wasted features came, Like the flickering in the socket of a candle's dying flame ; Then he sunk into a slumber sweet and peacefully profound, And a nameless grave now holds him in the pauper's burial-ground. THE LAST OF THE ABENCERRAGE'S. 1. Within the council chamber, with bold defiant brow, Muza Ben Abel Gazan erect is standing now: 200 2MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. A giant in his stature huge, a giant in his soul, His words like loud artillery peals upon his hearers roll :II. " And shall the unbeliever be master of Grenada ! And must the Moor no longer charge the foeman's cavalgada ? And shall the lovely Vega to Ferdinand be soldNot for his warrior's crimson blood, but for his drossy gold? III. And fall your craven glances abashed before the sheen Of all those spears and lances around the Christian Queen ? And think you not, a nobler lot 'twould be to find our graves On yonder field, than basely yield to be the Spaniard's slaves?" IV. Then spoke the aged Cassim : " Alas ! it may not be That we can match our might against the Spanish chivalry. Our strength is gone, our hopes undone,-'twere better far to yield, Than spill our blood, a useless flood, upon the battle-field." V. And Boiibdil, the Moorish king, made answer too, and said : " Allah is great ! Against our fate no effort may be made. My destiny I clearly see, to yield me to the foe, Nor longer tire his vengeful ire ; 'tis better thus, I trow." VI. But Muza turned an angry glance upon that monarch weakYou might see the crimson flush of shame shine thro' his swarthy cheek. " Coward !" he said. "For you I've bled in many a deadly strife, But never more shall Muza shed for thee the stream of life : VII. "Nor longer here shall rest his spear, to see the Arab's shame- To see the Spaniard's insolence to Moorish maid and dame. I could not brook the scornful look of our proud foes," he said; Then forth he went, in mail close pent, his steel casque on his head. VIII. And now, with speed, his favourite steed he took from out the stall, And mounting on the fiery barb, rode to'ards the outer wall : Elvira's gate he passed, and straight towards the lovely plain, With visor down, the chief is bowne, ne'er to return again. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. 201 IX. .Ho ! stand, Sir Knight, ye needs must fight, or straightway yield your sword." He saw some ten well-arm6d men; but the Moor spake not a word : The rein he grasped, his lance he clasped, his war-horse proudly reared And charged the foe,-the first lies low upon the herbage, speared. x. Then swift he drew his blade, and slew three ere his charger fell; But now he 's down-on plume and crown six fierce swung weapons tell; Yet still another foe he sees his comrades fall beside; Then, ere he'd yield, with desp'rate leap he gained the Xenil's tide. XI. Soon closed the wave above his grave. His foeman five, I ween, Astonished stood; such hardihood by them was rarely seen. Thus fell the gallant Muza, unconquered still and free; Thus fell in fight that mirror bright of Moslem chivalry. SONNET. Brother far distant by the Tiber's wave, Where calm devotion wraps the enamoured soul Even when war's wild thunders loudest roll, Peaceful as hermit in his lonely cave Thou livest, tho' around thee fiercely rave Infuriate passions freed from all control : Yet not forgotten; for with sweet glad toll Old Shandon's midnight wavelets circling lave This heart, and on their surface gently bear My thoughts to other years when thou wert here And starting thro' the bell-broke tinkling air, Half slumb'ringly we drank with raptured ear Those selfsame notes.-For thee I breathe a prayer, Mingled, at past neglect, with many a bitter tear. THE VESPER-BELL. Softly knelling, Cometh swelling On the silent evening air, Vesper pealing, Gently stealing, Pure as childhood's artless prayer ! 202 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. Head low bowing, Cheek soft glowing, See, the maiden stops to pray; While, with beating Heart repeating Mary's name as wanes the day. DEATH. Most fear to think on death : His charnel breath Is rank with fetid particles of dread, Drawn from those spots where slimy worms are fed, In vaults beneath, With the sad wreck of human pride and power, Of dazzling genius, and the gaudy flower Which poor ephemeral beauty prized so much;, Alas ! how loathsome now its putrid touch ! The very thought, abstractly, sickeneth. And yet how sweetly comes From churchyard tombs A sunny flood of soft and peaceful thought, Which sets sepulchral horrors all at nought, And which illumes The busy mammon-shadow'd souls of men, Leading them back to spirit-life again, Where once in childhood's happy days they trod, When high resolves were theirs' of serving God, Thro' ev'ry phase of life, its joys and glooms ! Oh ! if some time we could, In sober mood, But think on death; yet not to gloom our souls, As those for whom its deep sound always tolls, Despair-imbued, A death-knell to sad lives of vanity and crime; But as the porch to that celestial clime For which our souls would pine, if not that greed Of earthly gain and pleasures mar its creedSoon for such thoughts we'd make the world a solitude. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. SERENADE. FROM THE ITALIAN OF VITTORELLI. Behold the moon on high ! Mark the soft azure sky ! No breath of wind is nigh, Fixed are each pale star's glances!. The nightingale alone, Calling with plaintive tone His absent mate, hath flown On the wild-ash tree's branches. She, whom he scarce perceives, Comes thro' the rustling leaves; Sweet the response she gives : " Weep not-I haste to meet thee." Oh ! the wild throbs that sweep Thro' my heart's channels deep, Shatter the words I keep, Fairest, wherewith to greet thee ! SONNET. FROM THE SPANISH OF DON ANTONIO SOLIS. How long, 0 Lord, shall this unfaithful heart Abuse Thy tender clemency and love? Infinitely patient on Thy throne above With him who hath offended most, Thou art; Chastise me now, and ere my soul depart The rigours of Thy judgment-seat to prove, Cleanse it, and all tepidity remove, My subtle foe, with love's enkindling dart. Thou gavest me Thine image; but my sin Hath blotted it-alas ! no longer now Can it be recognised in my dark soul. Pour forth, 0 Lord, Thy blood on it, and win Its lustre back once more ; and oh ! be Thou Henceforth my guardian till I reach the goal. SONNET (FROM THE SAME). 0 Lord, tho' oft despised, Thy precious blood Cried out for mercy still, as when of yore 203 204 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. It oozed in pain-wrung drops from out each pore, Or rolled down Calv'ry's hill its crimson flood, And she, Thy mother, who beside Thee stood, And felt Thy sufferings in her bosom's core, Pleads too for me, sweet advocate ! before Thy throne-her heart with tend'rest love imbued. My trembling soul can find no other way The Eternal Father's anger to appease, Ere it shall hear from Thee its final doom, Than to point out with hopeful trust, and say : Thy precious blood-Thy mother-oh ! thro' these Save me, dear Lord, when that dread time shall come. GRIFFIN'S GRAVE. 'Neath the green grassy turf of the monks' churchyard, By the pathway that leads to the school, Sleeps Griffin, the purest and tenderest bard That ever gave praise to the soft sunny sward, Tall mountains and dark grottoes cool, Of a land, all whose brightness and beauty are marr'd By the proud Saxon's tyrannous rule. O sweet bard of virtue ! so cherish'd and dear To all who have basked in the rays Of warm sunny light, which thy genius flung clear Thro' thy works : how the rain-torrent wept o'er thy bier The morn thou wast buried ! and the praise Which the old priests bestowed, tho' it reached not thine ear, Fill'd those who stood round with amaze. He said, while the rain drenched the crowd that was by: Were all thy vast writings unroll'd, And a pen in thy hand, with thy death-moment nigh, Whilst the crucified image of God met thine eye, No word-to thy praise be it toldWould'st thou need to dash o'er ; thou that moment thoud'st lie A stiffen'd corse, livid and cold. Farewell to thy grave where the monks wander lone, When the rustling leaves shake to the wind; Oft, oft will a pray'r rise for those who are gone, When their names meet the eye from each humble headstone: MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. 0 ! bright are the links that thus bind The living and dead, and which never are known Where the true faith illumes not the mind ! Farewell to thee, Cork ! to each bright happy scene That spreads round thy wood-bordered wave; Farewell to thy grassy fields sunny and green, To thy beautiful Lee with its barque-broken sheen, And the banks that its bright waters lave Farewell to them all ! and again, once again, Gerald Griffin, farewell to thy grave ! ON THE MOTION TO EXCLUDE LABOURERS YOUNG MENS' FROM THE SOCIETY, GUILD OF ST. JOSEPH, CORK, 1853. And must we from our guild exclude That brother whom we love? Because his work is rough and rude, He shall not dare on us intrude, Or think to share whatever good, We hope for from above? The toil-wrung sweat that daily streams Down from his manly brow, In our proud eyes degrading seems, Tho' pure his heart with virtue teems, And round his soul celestial beams A dazzling radiance throw. Tho' large and bright the heavenly space By humble mortals fill'd, Yet we must think it brings disgrace To view an honest labourer's face, Or see him take a member's place Within our pride-bound guild. O wretched vice ! 0 paltry pride That ever taints mankind ! Upspringing from thy murky tide, Obscuring mists in darkness hide Those gen'rous thoughts extending wide In ev'ry Christian mind. 205 :206 2MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. O brothers ! let us not refuse To take into our band The labouring man, nor dare abuse Those heavenly gifts which we should use To heal each fest'ring wound and bruise That mark our native land. SONNET. FROM THE ITALIAN. When, to vile fear a slave, the Roman chief In days of old addressed the ruffian crowd, And pointing to the thorn-crowned man of grief, Proposed the unholy choice in accents loud : " Give us," they cried, " Barabbas, murderer, thief: Let Christ expire." And lo,! in anguish bowed, Did Jesus die, but from the dead arose 4On the third day, with glorious dazzling brow, And in dismay dispersed the affrighted foes That watched his tomb-O Pius ! thus shalt thou, Unconquered, rise in triumph over those Who choose a robber king before thee now; And he who dares usurp thy crown, by woes Unnumbered girt, shall yet before thee bow. THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. Farewell to thee Erin, thou home of the brave ! Thou Eden of beauty, begirt by the ocean, Where the heart deprived Tribune lies cold in his grave, Who worked for thy welfare with tireless devotion. Farewell to the forest where oft I have roamed, Where twined the huge oak and the ivy together ; Farewell to the torrent which thundered and foamed, And dashed the white spray on the bright blooming heather. Farewell to thee, mother! farewell to thy graveNo more may I kneel on the green sod above thee, To pray for thy soul; but beyond the dark wave I'll remember thee still, and continue to love thee. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. 207 Farewell then 0 Erin ! for thee still I'll pray, Tho' I may not behold thy bright verdure again : there shine on thee, Ireland, that long-wished-for day, When thou'rt freed from the Saxon's dark bondage. Amen. MIay THE SHIPWRECK. Softly the hues of morning tinted the summer sky; Blythely the lark arose, and carolling sweetly, sung Gushes of tender, thrilling melody loud, which fell On the enraptured ear, filling the heart with joy, As when the summer show'r falls on the thirsty ground, And with the grateful draught freshness and bloom imparts. Odour's of flow'rs arose, and on the siffling breeze Scatter'd with lavish hand treasures of sweet perfume. Slowly, and heavily too, seeming but half awaked, Rose the great ox, and snuff'd the scents of the early breeze; And as he waved his tail, bellowed his grateful thanks. But with a clearer sound, thro' the expectant air, Toll'd the loud solemn bell ere the first mass was said. Oh i but 'twas sweet to kneel thus at that early hour, Offering praise and thanks in the dim pillar'd aisle. Silence unbroken reigned whilst the great Sacrifice Was offered, save when the priest, raising his voice aloud, Chaunted, in accents clear, "Dominus Vobiscum." Finally at the close, slowly and sweetly sad, Floated the "De Profundis," which in this Celtic land Ever is heard to rise after each mass, and keeps Remembrance freshly still of those who have pass'd away. Then thro' the Gothic porch issued, with head inclined, Children with angel smiles, maidens and graceful youths, Tall forms in manhood's strength proudly matured and set, And the droop'd frame of age tottering slowly forth : Uncovered awhile they stood at the round, sculptured font, And with the pearly drops sprinkled their peaceful brows. Sunday it was, and some stroll'd for a morning walk, Thro' the gay scenes which grace the western suburbs fair, Of that old city called "the Beautiful," and with truth. But a small group there was, somewhat apart, who walked, Speaking in accents low, and with an earnest look. 208 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. Turning aside they sat under a shady elm Which on the margin grew, and with its branches thick Shadowed a space wherein, sheltered from glare and heat, They could behold the wave flashing and sparkling bright. One was an agdd man-hoary his scanty hair, And his high brow was marked with furrows many and deep, Grey was his eye and clear, deep-set, flashing betimes Fiercely, but oftener lit with the mild rays of love; Lithe was his form and straight, unbent by the weight of years, And his foot struck the sward with the firm pace of youth. The others still bore the stamp of early manhood, impress'd On their full, rounded limbs and easy vigour of frame ; But on their open brows, still the bright tints of youth Edged the dark shadows there cast by deep, careful thought. Now with a smile they turn'd, and of the old man asked One of those sweet old tales linked with the turf they trod, And of which, he, 'twas said, an endless store possess'd. Willingly he complied, seated beside the stream; And as the rippling waves broke on the pebbly strand, This was the tale he told in the old Celtic tongue : 'Flowers have budded, bloom'd and wither'd, many a long and weary year; Many a time hath curved the sickle 'neath the golden drooping ear ; Oft hath winter with his white robe clothed hill and dell and plain, And the rushing, laughing streamlet with his icy breathing slain, Since there dwelt on yonder hillside one I lov'd in early youth, On whose brow shone manly daring, candour, trust and guileless truth. He was young-scarce twenty summers flash'd their beams upon his head; But the strength mature of manhood in his huge frame might be read. Tall and strongly built, with shoulders broad, and chest expanding wide, Firm and freely on the greensward press'd he with herculean stride, None could send the rushing goal-ball with a swifter, surer speed, None like him could leap the torrent, or outstrip the foaming steed ; None could cleave the rolling billows half so gracefully and strong, None could urge so swift the light skiff Lough Mahon's breast along. And the heart he bore within him fully equall'd that fair form; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. 209 Welling from it thro' his dark eyes, streams of love flow'd bright and warm, Branching into many streamlets, melting cold proud hearts of stone, And with gentle gushing cadence singing hope where there was none: Oh, how lov'd he was !-to tell it, tongue could never echo words To accompany the music of our heart's vibrating chords ! Yet he was not of our nation. Far away in sunny Spain, Where the brilliant Tagus dashes swift and rapid to the main, Where the orange-blossom's perfume scents the air with odours sweet, Near an old Moresco ruin was his infancy's retreat. There he lived a brief, bright season, lulled to slumber on each eve, By those lofty strains of chivalry the Spaniard loves to weave; Till death snatched away his parents while still in childhood's years, And his young eyes for the first time rained affliction's bitter tears. But in Erin's southern valleys, where her clearest river flows, Dwelt his father's friend, MacSwiney-oft together on their foes Had they dash'd in headlong charges : now the dying man recalls That tried friend, his Celtic bosom, and his hospitable halls : Then the tender child with peaceful trust committed to his care, And with resignation on his brow, repeated his last pray'r. Like a beam of summer sunlight came the dark-eyed Spanish boy To that Gaelic household, flinging many a brighter gleam of joy O'er the laughing ruddy faces which around his pathway gleamed, And on which repining sorrow's gloomy shadows never streamed. Swift the pleasant, happy season of his boyhood pass'd away, And the first dark down of manhood soft upon his brown cheek lay, When his fearless bosom urged him 'mid a tempest o'er the wave, And affection's burden bow'd him 'neath the billows to his grave. 'Twas a fearful night, and fiercely dash'd the clouds athwart the sky, And the sea, by Ballycotton roaring loud, ran mountains high: Slumbered fisherman and villager: the midnight's deep repose Had softly spread oblivion's peaceful mantle o'er their woes; When a fearful sound came booming clear above the roaring surge, And they woke to hear a wild cry sad as caoiner's lonely dirge; 'Twas the signal-gun of some poor barque upon the breakers toss'd, And hurried to destruction on that bleak, wild, rocky coast,- 210 2MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. 'Twas the cry of human anguish, mingled with the wild waves'roar'Twas the death-wail of a ship's crew on that foamy-border'd shore. Then half-clothed, thro' the tempest, many a hardy fisher dash'd, Till he stood upon the steep rocks by the furious breakers splash'd, And with pity and compassion in his piercing blue eye clear, Watch'd the ill-starr'd vessel heaving with convulsive throbs of fear. Sweep the rushing billows round her, ope their foamy jaws, and seem All impatient to devour her, as with rage aloud they scream ; And the frowning tempest bending o'er her with his gloomy brows, Plunges oft with fearful buffet, deep beneath the wave her bows. See! with awful speed she's sweeping on you mass of pointed rock, Ah! one moment and the mighty hull is shatter'd with a shockWith a shock so wild and hideous, that the screaming echoes fled Miles away into the darkness, and their hearers fill'd dread. with Many a form is madly tossing now upon the billowy gloom, Many a stalwart frame has struggled vain against that fearful doom ; But a mother with her infant, shrieking-" Save-oh ! save my child !" Bears her bravely on a light spar thro' that waste of chaos wild; And her cry re-echoes sadly all along the foamy beach, Now, no human pow'r can succour her, no human effort reach,Ho !but thro' the angry surges, like a giant of the deep, See the huge frame of the Spaniard to'ards the wretched mother sweep : Many a buffet gave the billows to his dark head on its path, Many a buffet in return gave his stout arms back in wrath. He has reach'd her-see ! she grasps him, as the light spar whirl'd away, Leaves him with his precious burden dash unaided thro' the spray : And right nobly does he bear him; whilst a shout along the cliff Of exulting joy replaces the late smother'd sob of grief. But at length he seems exhausted; and they hear the mother cry 'Mid the pauses of the tempest :-" Save my child, and let me dieMay God pour his blessings on thee. Leave me, generous stranger." -" Never ! " And a wild wave dash'd them down into its gloomy depths for ever.' Suddenly paused the old man; dim grew his clear grey eye; Heaved his broad breast convulsive; sorrow its dark shade cast Over his agdd brow; then, with a tremulous voice: MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. "'Ask me not now," he said, "to speak on this subject more. Still do I grieve for him after the lapse of years Freshly as when bereaved I stood, on the morn he died, Alone on the rocky cliff which shadows his wavy tomb." Honouring his deep grief, gently the youths arose, And by the sunny bank silently follow'd him. To * * * 'Tis not for thy clear grey eye, 'Tis not for thy brow of thought, 'Tis not for the roseate dye Thy cheek from the fresh breeze caught. 'Tis not for the smiles that play Thy parted lips around, Nor the joyous tones that sway In thy low laugh's silv'ry sound. 'Tis not for thy manners free As the summer wind that stirs The grass on the daisied lea Or the greenwood's waving firs. 'Tis not for thy masculine form Moulded in strength and grace, Nor e'en for thy heart's love warm That shines in thy marily face. No; 'tis not for these, tho' dear, I love thee most and best, And thine image hath wander'd here To dwell in my lonely breast. It is, that thou art a youth Of generous soul and mind, Whom Virtue, Religion and Truth Are striving e'en now to bind. And if thou wilt break that bond, And rudely turn aside From their embrace, warm and fond, And with them no longer bide, 211 212 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. 'Twill against thy genius be, And the promise of early years, And sadly I'll weep for thee With friendship's burning tears. BLACKPOOL. Oh ! an humble place and lowly Is that dear old spot Blackpool, Where with rippling noise and slowly Summer streamlets wander cool; Where the brawny tanner lingers In the evening breezes mild, And his labour-dyed brown fingers Stroke the tresses of his child. Where at twilight's dusky shadows, By the lonesome Commons road, Many a miller through the meadows Ghost-like seeks his lov'd abode ; And when six " chimes clear and loudly Thro' old Shandon's dial-plate, Many a stalwart "still-man" proudly Strides thro' Hewitt's open gate. " Oft I've stopp'd to gaze in wonder Thro' the well-known smithy door, When the sledge-struck anvil's thunder Shook the forge from roof to floor; And the red sparks, star-like scatter'd From the hissing iron bar, Smote the aprons black and tatter'd From their long defensive war. When the restive horse was graspdd By the swarthy strong arm bare, While the vice-like knees strong clasped Hoof that vainly struggled there ; And the hob-filled group were squatted Snug before the lurid blaze, As with toothless gums they chatted Over happier youthful days. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. There the roofs are quaintly mixed, Some of slate and some of thatch, And the open doors unfixed By a single bolt or latch; And the helpless babe is light-rock'd In its tiny cradle-bed By the sinewy " bagger," white-smock'd, After working time has sped. Stands the Christian Brothers' dwelling Westward on the hill above, And the " schools" like fountains welling Streams of Wisdom and of Love, Where the barefoot urchin nestles In the cheerless wintry hours, While outside the tempest whistles Thro' December's leafless bow'rs. Southward, on us fondly gazing Thro' its Gothic-window'd eyes, Is the massive tower raising Its new structure to the skies; Lofty monument, revealing Persevering strength of will In the priest, whose loud appealing Placed it standing on yon hill. But it is not tow'r or steeple That attracts the soul the most; 'Tis the noble-hearted people Which the old locale could boast : 'Tis the generous almsgiving, And the works, which make us thrill, Of the feeling poor relieving Those who aye are poorer still. Oh ! when pestilence was raging In a fierce and angry strife, Unrelenting warfare waging With the cherish'd dreams of life: Fearless, sympathising neighbours Crowded round the sick man's bed, And with love's unceasing labours To the churchyard watch'd the dead. 213 214 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. Mem'ries such as these remaining Linger round me lonely now, And with deep exquisite paining, Cast their shadows on my brow; When I think of all the places Now unfill'd by those I loved, And the kindly beaming faces To a better world removed. Lovely City ! wrapp'd in splendour When at slow departing day, Show'rs of soften'd sunlight tender Flood thy world-unrivall'd bay; Tinting Blarney's ruin'd castle With a subdued glow of fire, Lighting many a leafy tassel In the foliage of Glanmire. Many a beauteous woody bower Lies around thee fresh and green ; Many an old historic tower Stands with venerable mien : But a spot more praise-deserving Is not, Cork, beneath thy rule, For its friendship-faith unswerving, Than old tan-brown-faced Blackpool. FROM DANTE'S INFERNO (in terzetta rima), CANTO THE THIRD. Dante and Virgil arrive at the threshold of eternal sorrow, where, having read the terrible inscription over the gate, Dante is assailed by fear. Virgil incites him to proceed. They see first the souls of those who had lived without blame or merit ; next, Charon, who carries the souls of sinners across the Acheron in his boat. I AM THE GATE WHERE SUFFERING CITIES WEEP ; I AM THE PORTAL OF ETERNAL GRIEF ; I AM THE ENTRANCE TO THAT GHASTLY KEEP, FOR JUSTICE BUILT BY THE ALMIGHTY CHIEF : ME, DIVINE POWER AND HIGHEST WISDOM MADE, AND LOVE ETERNAL, IN A MOMENT BRIEF. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. ERE ME CREATION'S FIAT WAS NOT SAID ; AND I ETERNALLY SHALL AYE ABIDE : FLING HOPE AWAY WHEN HERE WITHIN YOU TREAD. These dreadful words of terror I descried In letters dark above a gloomy gate, Whence I : " 0 master, I have vainly tried To know their sense, and thy response await." Then he to me, with meaning glance did say : "Now must thy soul have courage truly great; For we are come where never gleam of day Hath peep'd; where thou, as I have said, shalt see Full soon the lost deprived of glory's ray." Then by the hand he took me smilingly, Whence I was much consoled, and me he brought Thro' that dark entrance of sad mystery. Here in the starless gloom resounded nought But sighs, and shriekings wild, and piercing moans, Which deep compassion in my bosom wrought : Strange tongues, and horrid words, and fearful groans, And anger's dreadful accents loud and hoarse, And clapping hands with hollow sound of bones, A tumult made, whose never-sinking force Resounds in this eternal gloomy place, Than desert sand dash'd by the whirlwind, worse. And I, who stood confounded for a space, At last said : "Master, what is this I hear? And who are those that weep in such disgrace?" Then he to me replied : "These sounds of fear Proceed from those who, without praise or blame, Their selfish course on earth did ever steer. And mixed with them, and punished just the same, Are all those angels who no rebels were, Nor yet did aught for God or for His name. Amid the choirs of Heaven all pure and fair, They could no longer be; nor yet might they Far deep in Hell descend, lest demons there Should glory." And then I: "Oh, Master, say What torment is it that afflicts them so ?" When he : "I'll tell thee without much delay. These, hope of death have not, nor can they know A change in their sad doom so dark and base; Thus do their hearts with envy overflow 215 216 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. At ev'ry other lot : on earth no trace They left : nor mercy heeds, nor justice too; No more demand, but look and move apace." Again I turned my gaze, and then did view A banner flutt'ring in the murky air As if repose or rest it never knew ; And crowds of such extent behind it were, That I could scarce believe Death's grim scythe stern Had ever swept from Earth such numbers there. 'When afterwards more clear I could discern That crowd, I looked, and I beheld the shade Of him whose cowardice reproach must earn When he, thro' fear, the grand refusal made. Then quick I understood that these were souls Of God and of his foes, alike afraid. Unhappy wretches ! stinging wasps in shoals Attack their sluggish bodies now all bare, And urge them madly forward : downward rolls The blood with mingled tears of dark despair, And streaming bathes them to their very feet, While loathsome worms are glutted with it there. Then further in the gloom my gaze did meet A numerous people by a river's side, Wherefore I said : "Oh, master, I entreat That I may know who these by yonder tide May be, and wherefore they so much desire To cross, as it appears, yon river wide." And he to me : "Of this, thou canst inquire When we at length our wand'ring steps shall stay Beside the gloomy wave of Acheron dire." Then silent, blushing, I did wend my way Beside him, fearing lest offence I gave, Nor till we stopp'd did I aught dare to say. Now lo ! towards us, paddling o'er the wave, An old man came, with streaming locks of snow, And crying : "Wretched souls !in anguish rave; Nor ever hope the peace of Heaven to know : I come to bear you to a strange, dark shoreRegion of frost and fire and endless woe. And thou, 0 mortal ! mingle here no more With those who now are dead, but take thee hence." Then when he saw I stay'd just as before, MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. He said : "Far different is the journey whence Thou'lt come to yonder bank : not mine the hand To ferry thee," he said with rage intense. And then my guide to him, with manner bland : " Charon, be not enraged : it is the will Of Him whose will is pow'r; nor more demand." Full quiet thereupon became, and still The bearded pilot of the livid pool, Around which circling flames appear'd to wheel. But those sad souls in nakedness and dole Who stood around changed colour, and did shake Their teeth, resounding in the silence full God they blasphemed; and curses loud they spake Against their parents, Nature, and the place And time that they did first to life awake. Then weeping altogether, they did trace Their way to that dread shore which waiteth all Who serve not God, and die without his grace. Charon, whose eyes like burning coals appal Those shrinking souls, to him with many a blow Of his dread oar on sluggards, doth recall. As when the autumn leaves to earth fall low In quick succession, by the wild winds torn Until the trees all bare their branches show; Even thus these sons of Adam, all forlorn, Approach that horrid vessel one by one, Like birds on high when sounds familiar warn. Thus they embark upon the dark wave dun; And ere they have departed more are seen Coming, and arrive here, too, full soon. "My son," then said to me with courteous mien The master, "hither come from ev'ry land All those surprised by death in mortal sin, And eagerly to cross this wave demand, Since God's fierce wrath urges their onward course, Nor it one moment short can they withstand. But never here the good may pass perforce; And so if Charon did complain of thee, Thou well canst understand his rude discourse." When he had ceased, this land all dark to see Trembled so strongly, that in deepest fear I trembled too; and cold sweat copiously 217 218 MISCELLANEOUS. POEMS AND BALLADS. Bathed my limbs : strange sounds I then did hear Of howling storms-the thunder echoed deep, And the red lightning shook his awful spear; So that with fright I fell, and lay like one asleep. BRIGHT SUNLIGHT OF FREEDOM. Bright sunlight of Freedom ! and is it thy beaming That gilds the horizon afar in the gloom ? And will the full flood of thy glory come streaming To light us to life from the shade of the tomb ? Hast thou heard the low moans of the weak, in their sadness, And bringest thou comfort to cheer them at last? Hast thou heard the fierce roar of the strong, in their madness, Which sweeps thro' the land like the hurricane's blast? Is the star of the Saxon no longer ascendant, And pales it before the red flash of the Gaul? Is that gleam in the east, growing hourly resplendent, Thy smile which announces the end of our thrall? Shall we stand once again 'mid the nations upholding The high place we held in the bright days of old, When freemen we view'd the wild breezes unfolding The Sunburst of Erin all blazon'd with gold? Oh, yes ! 'tis our fate, if unflinching and steady We watch for that hour when our tyrant shall feel The gripe of a foeman, impatient already, To tint with his blood the dark hue of his steel. Let us wait : let us watch, with a vigil unceasing, To seize on that moment so precious and rare, When the throes of the spoiler each moment increasing, We burst from his grasp, laidir, ur, agus saor.* APRIL. Month of weeping showers, Steeping sunny bowers Where the springing flowers Shed a soft perfume; * Strong, fresh, and free. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. Sprinkling roadways dusty, After March winds gusty, Break their surface crusty With each breezy bloom ! Thou art like that grieving Sprung from Faith's believing, To the pardon'd giving Freshness and delight; Dusty clouds allaying, Which despair arraying, Demon-blasts are swaying On the sinner's sight. Dear art thou unto me, April, and dost woo me From those feelings gloomy Round my bosom driven; And thy weeping glances, Where Hope's sunlight dances, Ev'ry gift enhances Sent to us from Heaven. MAY. Lovely month of May ! Fragrant sunny season, Decked with blossoms gay, Hanging green-leaved trees on; How it glads the heart To behold thy brightness, Causing it to dart With a joyous lightness ! O dear month of May ! Lovely are thy bowers, Where with pencil-ray Sunlight tints the flowers; Where the morning breeze Wakes the scented ether, Gently waves the trees, And stirs the dewy heather ! 219 220 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. Loved wert thou, dear May, In my boyhood's dreaming, When my young heart gay With rich fancies teeming, I went forth to gaze On thy verdant meadows, Lit with sunny rays Or darken'd by the shadows ! And more fair you seem Now to me than ever, When Youth's gliding stream Swells to Manhood's river ; Sprinkling flowers upon Its broad surface flashing, As it rushes on, To the ocean dashing. But tho' fair and bright, Fragrant odours breathing, With a crown of light Round thy young brows wreathing ; Tho' thy mantle fair Gemm'd with blossoms blooming Scents the breezy air With exquisite perfuming. Yet I love thee best, Not for thy green bowers Where the sunbeams rest, Nor for thy bright flowers ; But that thou art here, Lovely season, given To our Mother dear, Mary, Queen of Heaven ! REVERIES. Sitting lonely by the fireside, Dreams of home pass thro' my brain, And of golden friendship fire-tried In the furnace-depths of pain; MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. Dreams of those I love and cherish, Who from me were forced to part, But whose names will never perish From the pages of my heart. Some have cross'd the deep, blue ocean, Some are sleeping with the dead, Some with loving, deep devotion To the cloister's shade have fled Some, mine own dear valley treading, Thro' which winds the silv'ry Lee, Still behold its waters spreading Ever onward to the sea. Thick in one dear group collected All are gather'd round me now, As I sadly sit dejected With the fire-light on my brow; Mem'ry marshals each before me, Softly gleam their love-lit eyes, And some spread their white wings o'er me, Bright immortals from the skies ! But two forms are standing nearer Than the rest of that dear band, Two whose faces shine out clearer, And I clasp of each a hand; Bending softly, both are speaking, And their words in silence fall On this lone heart, almost breaking In its sorrow-captured thrall. One is dark, with manhood's bearing, Eyebrows thick, and jetty hair, And a darksome habit wearing, But with sunshine in his air; Whilst the robes around the other Shine Dominicanly white, And his softly-whisper'd "brother" Floods my bosom with delight. Sorrow's pain and lonely grieving, I no longer fear you now; For with whisper'd words relieving Aching heart and wrinkled brow, 221 222 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. Oft will come at Fancy's seeking Vision'd forms of those I love, And of grief's consoler speaking, Point to Mary's throne above. THE ADORATION OF THE SHEPHERDS. Hark ! on the midnight air, Heavenly notes are flungTones so unearthly rare Angels alone have sung, Scatter'd the hill-side round ; Many a hardy form Starts at the thrilling sound Heard in the sinking storm. See ! thro' the opening sky Showers of light Fall on the dazzled eye; Shadows of darkness flyAngels are hov'ring nigh On pinions bright. Lovingly fond, their gaze Beams on that shepherd band, As by the pale star-rays Watching their flocks they stand; Louder those notes resound, Pour'd the night-air along ; And with ecstatic sound Floats the angelic song : " Glory to God on high, Ruling in power ; And 'neath the starry sky, Peace unto those who try To do his will, and cry For strength each hour." Trembling the shepherds stood; Back to the beating heart Rush'd the red tide of blood, Hiding from terror's dart. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. " Fear not," an angel said, " Tidings of joy we bring; Under yon broken shed Is Heaven's eternal King: There, a poor infant dress'd In swathing bands; With tenderest action press'd Close to his mother's breast, Raised from his manger-rest By her sweet hands." Quickly they hear and tread The valley'd space between; Under the broken shed, Softly they enter in : Mary a welcome gives With her own matchless smile ; Joseph's broad bosom heaves With generous love the while : Jesus they see, and kneel In adoration. Deep is the joyous thrill, Swift as the lightning's wheel, With which their bosoms fill In contemplation. TO BANBA. Dark is thy night and long, Thou mournful Queen of Sorrow ! Sad is thy crooning song That wails for the coming morrow ! Pale is thy lovely cheek Thro' the deep darkness gleaming, Like a faint shadow streak Of cloud-veiled moonlight beaming ! Oh ! but not all in vain Is thy lone vigil, mother Kindleth that flame again, Tyrants for aye would smother : 223 224 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. Spring into life once more Hopes, which tho' deem'd long perish'd, Deep in their bosom's core, Fondly thy sons have cherish'd. Yet but a little while, And Freedom's portals beaming, Shall on our own dear isle Fling floods of sunlight streaming : Then shall each lofty hill, Green plain and rolling river, Drink with a joyous thrill Bright shafts from the Sunburst's quiver. Then shall thy lofty brow Wear all its former brightness, And thy fair cheek shall show No more that pallid weakness; But thou shalt seem and be, Just as in former ages, Home of bold warriors free, Island of Saints and Sages! THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. Come to me, all you that labour, and are burdened, and I will refresh you.- Matt. xi. 28 I. Eternal God of Love And mercy ever sure, Before whose face above The seraph is not pure; How great that love must beThat mercy too, how deep, Which whispers unto me : "Come hither wand'ring sheep ! II. " Come hither unto me, Thy Shepherd and thy God; Thou long hast wearily The ways of error trod. MIISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. Oh ! now no longer stray Like wind-toss'd wither'd leaf, But come to me and lay Before me all thy grief. III. " The self-same heart is here That erst upon the cross Was pierced thro' with a spear, Repairing mankind's loss. Oh ! come, and with me stay; Sweet words of love thou'lt hear Thy sins shall pass away And thou no longer fear. IV. " Ah ! see the form I take, Sweet confidence to give: It is for thy dear sakeIt is that thou may'st live : This humble altar on, Thy God appears as bread, And dwelleth here alone, Sweet grace on thee to shed. v. " Arise, poor soul ! make haste, My beautiful--my dove ! Oh ! come to me, and taste The ecstasy of love ! My grace shall make thee pure, My flesh thy food shall be, And thou shalt live secure. From sin and sorrow free." VI. O God of sweetest love, Of boundless mercy dear, Who art in Heaven above, And dwellest with us here ! Thy wand'ring child receive, Who long astray had gone : Oh ! grant that I may live Henceforth for thee alone ! P 225 226 2IISCELLANEOUS POEMS AND BALLADS. FROM THE LATIN OF ST. BERNARD. Jesu, how sweet the memory That fills my soul with thoughts of thee ! But sweeter far thou art to me, When bow'd before thee tremblingly ! Never hath poesy been found To utter word with sweeter sound Than thy dear name, sweet Jesu bound, And pierced for us with many a wound! Jesu, the hope of those who sigh, Jesu, who hear'st the mourner's cry; How good to those that to'ards thee fly, But what to those who dwell on high ! Not angel's tongue could e'er express, Nor learning long acquired possess The pow'r to tell the happiness Of Jesu seen, ecstatic bliss ! SJesu, our only thought then be: Jesu, our hope in misery : Oh ! may we soon, dissolved in thee, Thy praises sing eternally ! CORK LYRICS OR, SCRAPS FROM THE "BEAUTIFUL BY DANIEL CASEY. CITY," MAJOR MASSY, 0! Air.-" Kelvin Grove.' $\ ritten previous to the con~mencement of the election of 1830, when Major Massy addresed the electurs, in oppusitiun tu the late uembers whu were supporters uf the Reform Bill, and to the advice contained in it (a copy of which was sent to the Major on the morning of nomination) his unexpected resignation was generally attributed. It was sung in open court hy the late John Boyle on that occasion, (ld everal times loudly and rapturously encored. Is it true your're come to town, Major Massy, 0 To wage war against the crown, Major Massy, Vhilst the shouts of Freedom rn Can you discord's torch thus fling, And turn traitor to your king? Maj or Massy, 0! 0! If 'tis so, you'll rue the day, Major Massy, 0 You became the welcome prey, Major Massy, 0 Of that heartless vampire crew, Whose sole object, aim and view, Is to plunder " gulls " like you, 0! fate? Major Massy, Heard you not Nick Colthurst's Major Massy, 0! From those " props " of church and state, Major Massy, 0 ! How be scorned to be the slave, the dupe of each damned knave, Oh ! think on his early grave, Tho' 0! Major Massy, 0! Major Massy, Sir Augustus, too, could show, 230 CORK LYRICS. A paternal tale of woe, Major Massy, 0 Passing by Lord Donoughmore, Heard you not, at every pore, How your "backers " bled Coolmore ? Major Massy, 0 Heard you not of G---'s fall? Major Massy, 0 Now the scoff and scorn of all, Major Massy, 0 Tho' his fate is rather sad, Were it fifty times as bad, How I'd grieve about " de lad," Major Massy, 0 Then take warning by their fate, Major Massy, 0 ! Ere repentance comes too late, Major Massy, O Whilst one drop of blood remains, Will those vampires draw your veins, Then desert you for your pains, Major Massy, 0! Thus, robbed-plundered-fleeced, and shorn, Major Massy, ! Sad-deserted and forlorn, Major Massy, On some dreary, distant shore, Broken-hearted you'll deplore, That the "Rebel" flag you bore, Major Massy, 0 ! 0! NEW SONG. TUNE.-"Ballinafad." At the election of 1818, when the pure and incorruptible Christopher Hely Hutchinson, though defeated in 1812, was returned by a most triumphant majority. The following has been attributed to the pen of the late James Leahy, Esq., of Shanakiel, than whom a kinder or nobler spirit never ascended from earth to the mansions of the blest. Ye voters so merry Who come from Muskerry, Or crossed o'er the ferry At sweet Sunday's Well; CORK LYRICS. Stick together, for Coultis, Like crumbs in a poultice, Or else by my soul 'tis All over I tell. For our rival, Kit Hely, Increases so daily, Majorities gaily, Each hour on the poll; Not even poor Mounty With city and county, Nor bribery's bounty His votes can control. Tho' our master, Bob Hedges, So gravely alleges The numerous pledges He got of support, Will out-number Kitty, Place Nick in the city, Yet, more is the pity, We said it in sport. For sure Castlemartyr With Kingston did barter, To blood a new starter By paunching our Hare; And because we all grumbled, They wished our pride humbled, And against us have tumbled Like pigs in a fair. But courage, Dungourney, And ould Ballygourney, And boys of Magourney, Come cheer up each soul Tho' Mountjoy's militia And Hutchinson hiss you, Yet Nickey shall kiss you When head of the poll. And proudly I mention, It is his intention To get place or pension For each of us here, 231 232 CORK LYRICS. And I'll lay you a wager That Wazzy St. Leger, Is made a smart Guager Before the next year. DE PIECE O' PLATE. TUNE.-" De nite before Larry was stretched." Written on the occasion of the presentation of the piece of plate to the Tory Candidate after his defeat in January, 1882. PART I. Well, de curse of ould Cromwell (bad luck To his seed, breed, an' hole generation) May fall on de fellows dat took Sich a way for de commemoration (As dey calls it) of their late defeat, As if de poor boy won't remember, Widout havin' it rote upon plate, Dat he stud for dis town last December, -De Provincial will tell him de rest. Now all dis wouldn't do for de lads, But dey came to a grand resolution, To collect up an down a few brads 'Mongst de friends of our blest constitution, And as he was de first in de fite, Present him some mark of affection, Dat both mornin', and evenin', an' nite Would give him de glorious reflection, Dat he suffered and bled for de cause. So de pewter bein' finished camne down Th'oder day for de public inspection, An a meetin was call'd at de Crown, Of de lads dat show'd pluck at d'election, To agree on d'inscription most fit For de plate on its grand presentation, Determined dat genus an' wit Should combine for dis hope of de nation, Dis prop of the "Protestant Boys." wid applause Ould Bibleman S Was called to preside at de mineetin', Where all de true friends of de cause Deir notable champin came greetin', CORK LYRICS. 233 Peter Comerford stud next de chair, Wid R-de gunsmith so famus, " Ah ! (says I to myself) sure a pair Was never yet seen," in whose genus " De march of mind" gallops so slow. Jemmy W -opened de ball, An proposed as a proper engravin', Saint Patrick, staff-crosier an all, As he stud when his magic wand wavin', He chas'.d venomous varmints away, An pisin'd de sarpints quite civil, "' We can alter his name an just say Dat like him, J-will send to de divil All Demagogs-Papists-and priests. Next fugle-eye C-he rose An propos'd dat de hero so famus, Who beat all his dam Popish foes At de Boyne, (oh ! my curse on you Shemus !) Be plac'd on de sarvice to show Dat J-- held de same situation, An would soon lay dese Papists quite low By de help of de New Reformation, An convert den to nice purty saints. Says enlightened George K , "Dam my sowl, But King Bill shall be put on de pewter." Bull-dog M-- den threw in his growl, Dat no loyal man dere should stand newter, But folly through water and fire, Like de Sheriff, all Popish uphoulders, Who de nite dey huzzad for Maguire, Took de tar barrel off of deir shoulders, An threw it rite over de Quay. Says the grate Mister S--, "Dat's true, An I votes for de last resolution, In de hope I may get what is due, From J to de sweet ' Constitution. '" " A right awa"-says de bonny Scot lad. SAfter the famous controversy of Pope and Maguire, the Sheriff of the day was very active in checking the popular feeling which, it may be supposed, proclaimed that Pope only came off second best in the discussion. 234 CORK LYRICS. (How chang'd are de times since his riches Were his knee-buckles, philabeg, an plaid, When his shins had de wind for a breeches, An his pibroch played "Bonnie Dundee ! Den de motion was put by ould S5 , Dat dey'd car de profeel of ould glorious, To be laid at J-'s Protestant feet, Which was past with applause most uprorious: So King Bill was in triumph plac'd dere, On horseback in sich style and beauty, Dat all Castle-street look'd like a fair, Wid de crowds payin' homage an duty, To J-, an' King Bill,-an' de cause. But dis life is all sorrow an' care, Ev'ry vision of pleasure how short is, Some ruffin one day came in dere, And spilt on de plate actifortis, Which so altered de face of King Bill, Tho' perch'd on his garron so neatly, With his baton-dat say what you will By de hokey you'd swear 'twas ould WV knock'd him down. Come to life--bekeys J De pison dat stream'd down Bill's jaws Made him look at least fifty years oulder, His hair look'd like frost 'fore it t'aws, To de gaze of each frightened beholder. His eye-brows grew heavy, an white, His lips hung so-mournfully blueish, His nose lost its aquiline height, An de hero look'd skemingly Jewish, Oh Lord ! how the Brunswickers star'd. All dis happen'd de nite 'fore the day Dat was fixt for addressin' the member, (Dat would be) so dey could not stay, But hopin' he would not remember Ould times,-dey next mornin' agreed To present it-but here my narration Must stop; but next week I'll proceed Wid my tale of de grand deputation Dat presented dis fam'd PIECE O' PLATE. CORK LYRICS. 23a DE PIECE O' PLATE. PART II. DE DEPUTATION. WELL, Joe Leycester, I like you dam well, You'r a man dat's above a mean action, But " come out here " an' say, why de hell You'r de tool of a beggarly faction? Could no renegade Papist be got, No push'd broken-down Corporator, No lad dat cou'd blow cowld an' hot, Like de Grenvilles, oh ! Joe fait' your natur Is chang'd-an " de worse for de wear." But leave dis pass awhile-so de day Dat I heard de'd give Jdis fam'd platter, I tought it a pity to stay From the fun, so in spite of mud-spatterOr bisiness, I cut into town To witness de grand deputation, Conferrin' pride-fame-an renownPlate-praise (but no representation)-Oh, Saint Stephen's, I pity your loss Well, you'd tink de rain flow'd tro' a siv, It came just like Jack Hely's freehoulders, (when he had it to give) Or as JScatter'd rags 'mong his loyal uphoulders; And de Brunswickers as dey came in Look'd, poor divils ! so drenched an' so dirty, Dat I tought 'twould be no mortal sin If they first addressed sweet Jim M'Gurty* For a drop of his stiffest scalteen. I first tought de'd proceed in grate state From George E's shop to J- 's dwellin', Showin' off deir sublime "Piece o' Plate " In fine stile-but I grieve as I'm tellin How dey shabbily skulk'd one by one, * At the celebrated trial of M'Garahan v. Maguire, M'Gurty's recipe for making Scalteen was pronounced a glorious improvement on the popular manufacture of whiskey punch. 236 CORK LYRICS. As if all bound for different stations, And doe scarce twenty Jerrites were gone, You'd tink twenty-two deputations Were skeming towards Sidney House. First lame S s went waltzing along, Like " de cause " on a rotten foundation, Den George K , so before fam'd in song, Of sich genus an' fine edicationWid some dozen of Brunswickers more, From whose mug (as de gate dey surrounded), You'd swear dey escaped from de bore In de Thames,--where de people were drounded, Dey all look'd so frightened and scar'd. Well, bein' muster'd, at last, two by two, Dey march'd up to de "Sanctum Sanctorum," Wid mugs like deir livers-true blue, An sculls-tick as de mud spatter'd o'er um; --- bow'd as de gentlemen !!! came, Who most duteously scraping flock'd round him, When Joe Leycester (oh, stain on the name ! ) Read de address-how the Brunswickers crown'd him De King and de prop of deir cause. Den uncoverin' de case he took out De pledge of deir love and affection (Just as if J could feel the least doubt Of his luck since de glorious election). So cocking his eye-glass to view Ould Glencoe on horseback so stately, Oh Lord ! how his mug turned blue As his glims met the phiz of ould W-, He groan'd-and call'd out for de Priest !!! De poor boy den fell into a swoon And raved about Saints-holy waterAn' beads-but dey said 'twas de moon Was de cause-till his Lady betought her Of bringing a vial down stairs Dat was always much prized by her J , So she sprinkled his face-and deir fears Were soon quell'd-he rose up sound and merry, As if notin' had happen'd at all. CORK LYRICS. Yet, still glow'd the deep, dark flush of shame, On that cheek lately pallid from sorrow, Whilst he strove to sink deeper that fame, Tho' so fallen, false honours to borrowI mark'd each faint accent that fell From his pale lips, that quiver'd whilst speaking, And thought none but his own soul could tell " How the heart of the Papist was breaking," As he scoffed at the Faith of the Land. But I'm growin poetic I swear, Inspir'd by J-'s feeling orationYet I will not report his speech here, For 'twas all the same ould botheration, 'Bout King William-de Church, an de State, An de Papists, of course, quite benightedOf some act in the year ninety-eightAnd how Loyal men should be united, And fite for "de cause" till de'd die. When he finish'd dere rose a loud shout, The House shook from its lowest foundation, George Aopened his mouth, Wid ten questions about the oration; Says "de Gunsmith" " Dat's prime I avow, very Just like good flint and steel, striking;" , the bull-dog, "Bow-wow !" Says Big M "By de Holy," says K--,"but I'm liking Dis chap,-doe he wonst went to Mass." next hop'd that his loyal friends met (Who all pledg'd to support his next starting), Would take a "de-June la foorchet " (Dat's de Irish for snack) 'fore deir parting; So widout any clampur or noise Dey fell to work-no pressin' needin'Doe I heard a few Foundling-house Boys From de North were de divil at feedin', 0 ! dese Brunswickers beat 'um out clane. J Well, de prog being settled-ould Swete Said grace wid all proper decorum, Kden beg'd dey'd all stand on deir feet, For de toast of de hero before 'um, 237 238 CORK LYRICS. De great Bill of fame'and renown, Which being drunk wid loud cheers most uprorious, Dey parted-and skulk'd into town, Leaving Jto condole wid "Ould Glorious," PLATE. On his griefs, and his dear PIECE O' KA-TI KIEF. After the election of 1841, a poor woman named Catherine Keeffe was tried before the late Recorder for giving a blow, with an empty basket, to a Patagonian young gentleman, and to the amazement of all parties, was sentenced to be imprisoned for six months. This unparalleled severity for such a trivial affair called forth the following effusion, which was very generally pronounced to be well merited by the judicial functionary :(To the Editor of the Cork Examiner.) SIR,-In looking through the archives of the abbey, a few evenings since, I found the following translations of a short tale, by the celebrated Persian poet, Sadi. Though not being aware of the exact time in which he flourished, I have some doubts of the translator being guiltless of an anachronism in the commencement of it, as my impression is, that the "Minstrel of Persia," as he is justly call by Sir Wm. Jones, died long before the disgraceful murder of Joan of Arc, by our never-to-be-sufficiently-respected English neighbours. However, n'importe, if you think that it bears any analogy to any of the passing strange events that are occurring every day, not a thousand leagues from the "Beautiful City," it is at your service.-Yours truly, PHELIM O'NEILL. Fonthill Abbey, Sept. 28, 1841. THE MAIDEN OF BAGDAD; OR, THE IMMACULATE CADI. (Fromthe Persianof Sadi.) ORLEANS may boast its heroine, tho' murdered by an isle Whose every act speaks tyranny, deception, blood and guile. Like the fair warrior of Bagdad, she mourn'd her country's fate, Like her she spurn'd the chains of dark oppression's ruthless hate. Alas ! the Maid of Arc's bright path, tho' glorious yet how brief ; Not so the Maiden of Bagdad, the peerless Ka-ti Kief. 'Twas when old Persia's ancient race, crush'd by the Arab hordes, Thought time was come for trump and drum, to call them to their swords. The cymbal clang'd from mosque and tower, and forth the watchword ran, From the broad Caspian to the shores of mighty Ispahan; And maidens, at whose lattice breath'd the lute of many a chief, Rush'd at the call, and first of all, sped fearless Ka-ti Kief. CORK LYRICS. 239 To choose two chiefs, a fierce dispute arose in Bagdad's street, The Arabs by Ben Devil led (a title passing meet), Arm'd to the teeth, and saddle-bows, they charg'd the Persian crowd, Which not like yore, the natives bore, tho' by long slavery bow'd; Unarm'd altho' with brand or bow, they seiz'd each robber chief ; He who fell first, and bit the dust, was sarved by Ka-ti Kief. What was the deadly weapon bold, which floor'd the wounded knight ? A javelin, bow, a dagger, spear, or sword so gleaming bright? Alas ! most unpoetic word, and most unmartial sound, By an old basket, did a bottheen bravo reach the ground. The Persians won, the fray was done, the tyrant's reign was brief, And lotus flowers strew'd the path of dauntless Ka-ti Kief. But vengeance 'mongst the vanquish'd dwelt, and chafing from defeat, They summoned her where Mahomet once rul'd in princely state In the old days of Arab sway, no judge his state could win, Save one who vow'd to prop the tyrant's cause thro' thick and thin ; And well they reckon'd on their man to bring some faint relief, By victinising at the shrine of vengeance Ka-ti Kief. The Cadi was an Arab, crabbed, with cracked and broken tones, Not fit to cry thro' Bagdad's streets, " Who'll sell ould rags and bones," And on the Koran's sacred page these desert robbers swore :' That Ka-ti, with a basket old, belabour'd them full sore; That of the Amazonian bands, she led them on as chief "And pray'd that dungeon dark may be the doom of Ka-ti Kief. - Now with the Cadi were allied twelve muftis in divan, Their chief nam'd Barni, known to be a wise and learned man, And thus speak he, " Great Judge, we think the parties should change place; The Arab bandits, 'tis quite clear, were first to break the peace. When beaten by the tribe of Dan, they went to soothe their grief, By wreaking vengeance on the head of lovely Ka-ti Kief." But the old Cadi, in whose veins the Arab blood flowed thick, Pitched Barni's head and mufti's tail straight forward to old Nick, And thus decreed, "You maiden shall be punished most severe; Chained and immured, she hence must go to dungeon dark and drear ; How dare one of the tribe of Dan resist an Arab thief ? Let future ages warning take at fate of Ka-ti Kief." 240 CORK LYRICS. Now in Bagdad there dwelt an old and anti-Arab clan, Call'd staunch Repeal or Chamber Men, all of the tribe of Dan : Ben May-er and Ben Fay-gan, and some ancient Persians there, Resolved to bring fair Kati's case before the grand Vizier, And at the footstool of the throne to pray for some relief, For Persia's fairest, loveliest flower, the martyr'd Ka-ti Kief And mounting on their camels straight, o'er burning sands they ran, Nor halted till they viewed the minarets of Ispahan; And at the Vizier's golden throne, for Justice did they pray, Which the Great Allah promised all, who knelt beneath his sway. The Vizier heard their cause-he frown'd, and said in terms brief ". The bastinado to the judge-freedom to Ka-ti Kief." Leave we the Cadi to his fate-all now was joy and peaceAnd turn to her, whose deeds shall live till time itself shall cease Enfranchis'd, and in triumph borne, the warrior maiden's name, From mosque, and tower, and minaret, was heralded by Fame, And blest of all the Prophet's sons shall be the blissful chief Whose fair houri on earth shall be, the peerless Ka-ti Kief. THE GATHERING OF THE CLANS AND CONS. TUiNE. ", ,rohnny Cope." Previous to the registry of electors in Mid'eton some years since, considerable apathy having existed amongst the Conservative party, Mr. C. addressed a spirit-stirring epistle to them in the Constitution, calling on them to rally round him in defence of their liberties and rights, and for that purpose to meet him, and start for Midleton with him on the following Monday morning. CONSERVATIVES of aye degree, What gars ye noo sae quiet be, Is nane amang ye left but me. To rouse ye by my warnin'? Then Protestants, wake at the ca' Of bonnie Jem, so bold and braw, For Midleton to start awa', Wi' me o' Monday mornin'. In "bluidy Claverhou's" day, My Highland blood oft dy'd the way (My branch, 'tis true, 's a wee bit stray), Yet still a' danger scornin; CORK LYRICS. Na peace shall aye light on this shore, I swear upon my broad claymore, Till Freedom's torch I'll light once more, To blaze frae night till mornin'. Then Protestants, &c. Cumberland's chiels, frae Faulkner's-lane, Led by our marty'rd chief-Bob D-Of " glorious memory," swell our train, And rouse ye at my warnin'. Five forty lads your "Grand " avenge To Popish Viceroys, scorn to cringe, Unfurl your flag of orange tinge, To march o' Monday mornin'. Then Protestants, &c. On Andrew's day, so brawly clad, In philabeg and tartan plaid, Claymore and bonnet, I'm the lad, Your toon sae fine adornin' : 'Tis true folks ask, how gangs the moon ? An' jeer, and ca' me silly loon, An' cry-Lord-" to the Braes o' Doon " He'll lead o' Monday mornin'. Then, Protestants, &c. In " Auld langsyne " with pibroch shrill, I play'd a "lilt " o'er Highland hill, Till tired of Soger's fare an' drill, An' Kail an' bannocks scornin; But now a new and native strain, I pipe so well on Erin's plain, Where braw an' bonnie I remain In clover night an' mornin. Then Protestants, &c. Sae gang wi' me, our case to mend, Sly Johnny Martley is our friend, Like the famous Baron,' help he'll lend, The ermine pure adornin' ; By such we'll keep faul Popery down, Forge BUCKS in Cork an' Youghal town, An' then the "Lodger point" will crown Our luck o' Monday mornin'. Pennefather, whose " Bucks" gave a short triumph to his party. Q 241 242 CORK LYRICS. Then Protestants wake at the ca' Of bonnie Jem sae bold an' braw, For Midleton to start awa' Wi' me o' Monday mornin. PHIL FOGARTY'S FREEDOM. A CORPORATE TUNE.-" There MELODY. as a Jolly Miller." Messrs. Acheson Lyle and Philip Fogarty having held a corporate inquiry for several days, and some very curious and startling facts having been elicited respecting the old Corporation, it was resolved, in order to soften down the Report to be made to Parliament, to offer the Freedom of the City to Mr. Fogarty, but with what success the song will best explain. Oh ! for a forty Freeman-power to sing Thy praise, Phil Fogarty.-DON JUAN, c. x., s. 34 Dere was a jolly lawyer, An' Phil Fogarty was his name, Our Corporate lads to look after, To dis city one mornin' he came, Which frightening de lads a'most out of dere wits Wid de fear of de long-threaten'd Bill, In de hope dat he'd give 'um a lift, dey resolved A Freeman to make of Phil. Now Acheson Lyle bein' of Cromwell's black crew, An' being sartin he'd shew game, Dey pass'd him by as a chap of dere own, But for Phil-sure de sound of his name, Wid de holy water still moist on his nob, Would make any blue gizzard feel chill; So in Council 'twas voted a damn'd good job A Freeman to make of Phil. A court den was call'd-bould George Napp in de chair, He'd de scull of a dog in his slate, Doe the Flemings, and Goviss all were dere, All pass'd off widout speech or debate, And deep Julius C----'s com-mentaries Being so fraught wid lore-logic and skill, Dey appointed him spokesman, and dis was de yarn He spoke while palavering Phil. CORK LYRICS. "' Good morrow an good look, Commissioner dear, I greet you wid right good will, May your days be many an cares be few (" I wish you de same, sir," says Phil). I hopes wid a kind an' compassionate eye Our sorrowful case you'll view ; Don't tell Perrin de sort of lads we are, An' a Freeman we'll make of you. " 'Don't tell how our faders before us sowld' For a couple a pound a year, De whole of de Mall and de Grand Parade, Wid de three-corner sides of Daunt's Square; But takin' good care to keep all to demselves (Loyal men bein scarce an few), You can say sich reports are all gammon an fudge, An a Freeman we'll make of you. " But prophetic poor souls-as if dreamin' den How dere shameful sons would have been, Dey never once thought of transferrin' away Dere right to ' de Lough' or ' Green;' de So 'de rope' and 'de pool' still remains a resource, Should reform its progress purshue. Oh ! spare us our lives-and pickens-Phil, An a Freeman we'll make of you. " Don't tell how de Coort of Conscience fines We pocketed nate an clane; How de Coal-quay poor devils we makes to pay, Doe de sky is dere shed from de rain : How de convicts we plundered for many a year, Till Sir Benjamin rais'd de hillooSay 'twas in mistake dat we fobb'd dere tin, An' a Freeman we'll make of you. " Don't tell how de 'Chamber-boys' show'd us up nate; How we shrunk from Dan Meagher's blazeOr what Fagan, or sharp Doctor Lyons, expos'd, Or dat rum un of all-Joe Hayes : In short, say our acts an' ourselves are quite pure, Dat we're all honest men an' true, An your freedom in dis goold box we'll give, Phil Fogarty, dear, to you." 24 CORK LYRICS. Says Phil-says he-from his sate startin' up, While de blood of de Fogarty's rose Till it crimson'd his brow-" Is it come to dis, Dat I'd herd wid sich villians as doseWhen Sampayo,* Sir Ben, an sich like'dacent men Spurn'd proudly what yee's call bein free, How dare sich a base, self-convicted crew Dere freedom thus offer to me ! " No-ye public an' convict plunderers-no ! Ye skeming and cormorant knaves ; Too long in Cork have the good men and true Been your trampl'd and too-patient slaves. But your day is gone by-the impending sword On your long-escap'd necks shall soon fall; Take my freedom from ye?-Box, body, and bones To the devil I pitches ye all !!! " Loud and long continued acclamations (from some non-freemen who contrived to slip in unobserved) followed this proof of Phil's independence and pluck. Julius Cand Co. appeared quite thunderstruck at his unexpected denunciation; when suddenly Billy Fleming triumphantly cried out-" No matter, boys, let 'um do dere best-by de hokey all's not lost. Come what may, we have still 'de Lough, 'nd Gallows Green,' de property of de Corporation." "ULTIMUS ROMANORUM." As sung by Billy Fleming, painter, glazier, and Freeman, with most pathetic applause, at the Guild Hall, on Monday, September 30th. TUNE.-" The King ofthe CannibalIslands." Written previous to the passing of -the Corporate Reform Bill, when it was supposed that Charley Pwould be the last Mayor elected under the old "regime," which, however, did not take place for a year or two subsequent, when the first Catholic Mayor for centuries, the generous, kind, and patriotic Thomas Lyons, was invested with the gold collar of SS, and chain, by Julius Besnard, whose kind and conciliatory demeanour on the occasion, contrasted with others of his party, added an additional merit to the many already possessed by him-a social, witty companion, and hospitable friend. "The People by and by will be the stronger."-DoN JUAN. By my sowl, Charley P, good cause have you To pray for de blue coat chap dat drew Your name from de hat,-'tis you'd look damn'd blue, Next year to be a Just-ass of " Quorum," SThe late Sampayo, having left a large sum of money to endow the North Infirmary, was offered his freedom, which he indignantly rejected, stating that during his residence he and some of the best citizens were never offered the "honour." CORK LYRICS. 245 Whilst we wid our lives an' fortunes must run, From dose " vested rights " our Forefaders won, 'Tis no matter to you, Cha, your job is done, You're " ULTIMUS ROMANORUM " ! ! But, Joe Leycester, you acted damn'd unfair, Wid plenty of " blunt " in your fob to spare, To take de Chain, when dese poor devils here Have no other resource from starvation; Ochone ! ochone ! 'tis ye've cause to moan, For doe some of ye have like Aldermen grown, Ye'll soon, alas! be but skin and bone When dey open our snug Corporation. Was " de Misshun to Lunnun " that made all de noise Of no use, or did ye throw dust in our eyes, When ye promis'd dat Stanley would stand by us boys, Our tottering frames to uphoulster ? Alas ! alas ! shall it come to pass, Dat, dat " PROTESTANT CHAIN " should go to Mass, (O ! J--s preserve us, sung out Isaac BAmen, groan'd forth little Jim B--.) 'Tis a sorrowful day, Cha, you mounts de chain; My head feels like putty, so softened with pane, My sky-lights grow dampish, I scarce can remain, My heart-strings are nigh rent asunder. Mourn with me, ye young rate-collecting Gardes, Ye Bs, G-s, W s, Bs, Whilst I join you myself and sich poor Blaguards, Doe ye seldom, God knows, shared the plunder. Ochone ! for de day-long since past awayWhen we cribb'd from each Convict a " tester" a-day, Fore dey went a sailin' to Bottomy Bay; Till Sir Benjamin came on de station.* Bad-luck to yez Fogarty an' Acheson Lyle, Dat's comin' our snug, purty trade for to spile, By de mitre dat's wore on the sconce of Sam Kyle, 'Tis we'll shew you de nice Corporation. * The Sheriffs, in the good old times, were charged with appropriating a sum allowed for the outfit of Convicts, and on an investigation by Sir Benjamin Hallowell, Admiral, it was found true, and caused a great sensation amongst the members of the "Friendly Club." 246 CORK L YRICS. Johnny W - dat's come from Van Demons land, Wot shot de boy, being one night in de band; By de power of de Statue, he held in his hand, Swears your coming's a damnable pity. Whilst dat model of wig-blocks, wooden Bob D ,. An' his namesake de knight of de saw an' de plane, Vow dat if a Papist should e'er mount de chain Dat dey'll both leave de " beautiful City." George E dere, swears dat he'll cross de main, Giving up even de charms of Fishamble-Lane; An' no more than a dozen tumblers e'er drainSo forlorn will be his condition. De Saint C--s,too, of such sanctified note, (Barring Jim) gone to Lunnon, the "word to promote," Will soon, like their Chapel, be drifting afloat, On the waves of this damn'd "inquisition." See de poor Duke of Brunswick bewailing dere too (Wid de curses of all de poor dogs dat he slew), Whilst his comforter wipes from his optics de dew Dat flows from his coiing disaster. Whilst Toey S-- wid glowing face, And " Zephyr-like Taglioni ' pace, (Not a word of " de brands ") must still stick to de grease And mazourka, widout a cock'd "castor." must doff his hairy slate, Deres poor BPerchance to adorn some popish pate; Whilst W-- must from de pig-sty's retreat, As he did from St. Paddy's " Assurance." ] [addressingPeter Oh! classical Peter, dat sometimes we dubs, ('Kase you often made sich) de knave of Clubs, C-- Could any "flats " stand sich " BAR GUN" rubs, Oh !(groaned Peter) 'tis past all endurance. But 'tis you, cute Sir T--, should feel sore distrest, You, who know so damn'd well how to feather your nest Dat de style you of jobbing "de prince " you know best, To be squeamish 'bout trifles is nonsense. Sure M'Causland in Dublin is notin' to you, Doe of places he houlds just about thirty-two, Of yours (if you please) we'll just mention a fewFirst, your perch in de sweet Court of Conscience. CORK LYRIc. 247 Den your Justice of Peace of dis County at large ! Well paid, too, to take de Commercials in charge ! Next our Harbour and Streets on the Board to enlarge, Whilst de " Atlas " by coorse is no trouble ! ! 'Mid de wig-blocks in Council, too, holding debate !! ! ! At de Foundling and Lunatic Boards you've a seat ! ! ! ! ! But 'twould take a whole week half your jobbing to state, So I'll close wid de pipe-water bubble ! ! ! ! ! ! But I'm growing quite faint,-poor Bill Lucas, for you I grieve more dan for all de rest of de crew, You promis'd (if drawn) to pay all dat was due, And to give us a mansion-house Jorum. But our Job it is done-Charley P--, Ochone ! You've de devil's own luck (dat's along wid your own)In the annals of fame you'll be styled and well known As "ULTIMUS ROMANORUM " ! ! ! BILLY'S OR, LAMENTATION; THE QUEEN OF SPAIN'S RECRUITS. sung by Billy Fleming, painter, Orangeman, glazier, and Freeman, at the Guild Hall, on Monday, September 28th, on his worship, A. Spearing, taking his seat. TUNE.-" The Groves of Blarney." The late Burgess, Robert Deane, having made a very violent speech against the Catholics, stating that the loyal Protestants were "able and prepared to drive them into the sea," the Lord Lieutenant, Earl Niulgrave, and now Lord Normandby, refused to "fiat" his election to the office of Mayor, having, in reply to a Subsecommunication from the Castle, avowed himself to be an "Orangeman." quently, the office was filled by the much-respected and venerable Peter Besnard. OH! Andy jewel, isn't this too cruel, That they should ruinate Bob Deane and Co., That the curshd CHAMBER, that spot of danger, In our dying moments should lay us low ; Sure in every season 'tis the source of treason, Enough to ruin all the world beside; Oh ! bad luck to the traitors, and agitators, That thus have burk'd us afore we died. Oh! Bob so famous, for law and genus, 'Twas a sore oration you made that day, About driving the Papists and all such athists From the city, down into "the deep, deep sea." 248 CORK LYRICS. Now what a change, Bob-when 'tis we must range, Bob, And follow Cumberland across the flood ; Alas ! I fear, Bob, the day is near, Bob, That we'll be all floundering in the mud. Oh Jemmy Broughton, 'tis like ould Lawton, Your purty mug in the Exchange ought stand ; But the villians slated, and spiflicated, The boy wot often put us in the band. 'Twas cheap and strong, Jem, the whole night long, Jem, With mountain dew we "kept our powder dry;" 'Tis we gave the " glorious," with cheers uprorious, Oh ! Jem a le lumr, what made you die? Mulgrave, you croppy, could nothing stop you, From circumventing those loyal men, Spreading consternation throughout the nation, Like Pastorini, or Peter Denn ; Oh ! Murty Sullivan, or Tim O'Mulligan, Or whatever your name is, hold forth our woe; To the King report him, may-be he'd transport him To Van Diemen's land where our fair vargins go. May the devil fire ye that caus'd the inquiry, O'Connell-Hume-and that rebel crew : Our Duke who banish'd, and now who's vanish'd All the way to Kalish, to the grand review. Oh ! if he was King, boys, how our shouts would ring, boys ! 'Tis the Chamber heroes would have cause to quake, And not laughing here, boys, with scoff and sneer, boys, And we all keening at poor Bobby's wake. Oh! Bob, my darlint, that the Chamber varmintFagan-Dan Meagher-and 'bove all, Joe Hayes, Should rise in glory, on your sad story, And dim the sun of your declining days. Oh Julius C---, keen as any razor (Tho' they say you sowld us in St. Stephen's halls), With some bye-law beat them; oh ! if you defeat them, You'll surpass your namesake when he floor'd the Gauls. But in idle wailing, as there's nought availing, And among these rebels as we can't remain, Ere 'tis too late, boys, let us emigrate, boys, As Kolunteers, all to the Queen of Spain! ! ! CORK LYRICS. 249 And now farewell, Bob, no tongue can tell, Bob, My grief at seeing you so forlorn lie; One parting moan, boys,-hulla gulla goan, boys; Oh! Bob a gra gal what made you die? "DE CORPORATION WAKE." TUNE.-" The Wake of Teddy Roe." After Bob Deane being " deposed," it was generally understood that if the party whose name happened to be drawn out of the hat should be an Orangeman, that Earl Mulgrave would refuse his sanction to the appointment,-which caused great excitement amongst the " clique," and elicited the following song. However, the lothaving fallen on Peter Besnard, who, with his family, had always supported the liberal party, their fears were for some time allayed. " Oh never no more shall ve rest upon our pillow, Our glory is departed, our hoccupation's gone, All around our hats vill year a green villow, ve Bekays we're floored entirely by de bill of my Lord John." Bell's Corporation Turn-out. 'Twas from Cumberland's fanm'd rooms, on the first nite of July, Came forth a mournful chorussing, a sad and bitter cry; For de poor Consarvetors went dere, a last farewell to take, Of de defunct Body Corporate, an keene about de wake. Dere dey wor in all dere grief, disputin who'd get into de coffin to be laid out, and make de decentest looking corpse, by way of an effigy dat dey'd keene over him, and give him a decent wake (as dey used to do in de ould times wid de boys de nite 'fore dey were stretched). After a dale of aggravatin, dey fixed on Harry F , de boy " wot spiflicated de book," as bein de most naturelest for de purpose-dere bein no occasion for chalkin his face, and possessin other advantages,-Mrs. Govis, Mrs. Lotty, and several other " Ladies Corporate " havin undertaken de washing and laying him out, wid closin his glims, an other ceremonials, all was finished at twelve o'clock, by which time Deeply moanin, Hullagonin, dere last farewell to take, De Consarvetors, came croudin', to de Corporation wake. First Toey came, and long Tom R--,dat simple youth, alas ! Both movin like a brace of turkeys, waltzing in high grass; Den Aldermen by dozens came, Sir Tony deres no doubt De head but at dere sight poor Mrs. Lotty's grief broke out. Oh! welcome, welcome, gintlemen ! Arragh Harry, here's all de quality comin to see you, and wont you spake one word of comfort an consolation to 'urn. Here's Mr. R, that could perswade any rational bein (barrin one of them agitators) of a coort day, that five times eight made forty-eight. Here he is neglectin his Steam-boat company, an his Agricultural company, an his Pipe-water company, dat he takes sich wonderful trouble about-all for de public good. An here's Batt G, dat was so near bein in de Stamp Office, dat Joe and de Curnel promised him; an here's Sir A-- leaving de Coort of Conscience, an de Commercials, an de Atlas, and de Foundlin Hospital, and de Poor-house, an de Council, and de Savin Bank (where he never takes no snack of a Saturday), an de Wide-street Boord, and all de oder boords. Oh ! Alderman darlint, an isn't it he's de fine corpse, an isn't it a murtherin pity dat he couldn't lift up his hand dat was so handy at abscwatulating de testamint, and doin all de oder fine work dat gained us de election, barring dat they packed a Jury agin us at de other side of de water. Hullagone-hullagone-open de door dere, here's some more loyal gintlemen 250 CORK LYRICS. Deeply moanin, Hullagonin, dere last farewell to take, Who are comin, for to keene at de Corporation wake. Next de Burgesses, poor fellows, came-their hearts dissolved with care, Each hopin dat next Monday's farce would give some chance of May'r, Brave Johnny V---- led de van, a warrior bould we know, But Mrs. Govis at his mug thus vented forth her woe, Oh, Johnny-Johnny jewel, welcome! Dere he is-look at him, wid his heartas cowld as de boy wot you shot dat nite in Bandon Road, dere he lies wid no more pulsd dan a statue, dere he is-dat is to say, dere's de Corporation all conglomerificated in him. Oh ! who ever thought dey'd see de day when Joe Hayes, an Dan Meagher, an Bill Fagan, and de rest of dem would rise " on Corporate ruins to Fame." Ullagone, (sings) tune-" Lamentation of the Danes after the Battle of Clontarf." Oh ! my darlint Corporation, is it you that is dead and gone, Sure de end of dis world of sorrow and rebellion is comin on, The heart dat our griefs couldn't soften, must sure be as hard as a stone, And must we all go to de devil, Oh ! Harry, Hullagone, Hullagone ! Oh ! bad luck to you, Lord John Russell, and all of your levelling crew, No spark of compassion, or pity, or mercy have one of you, Untouched are your souls by a freeman's, or a burgess's sorrowful moan, Our days dey are numbered and counted, Oh! Hullagone. Harry, Hullagone, Full Chorus-Hullagone-Hullagone-Hullagone. Who's dat rappin at de door?-God be wid de time when we had de soldiers an de police to attend us, and to back us agin de Papists when we wished; but 'tis "here today and gone yesterday," as de prophet says. Here's more friends comin Sadly moanin, Hullagonin, dere last farewell to take, All comin in a crowd to de Corporation wake. Then Burgess W--, wid mug so blue, escorted by Tom D--, Yclep't a Knight of order bright, to wit of "saw and plane," Bill L-- too was of de crew, wid de Sheriffs, an sich small fry, All come to de wake, dere farewell to take, and bid ould times goodbye. Oh ! welcome, gintlemen (says Mrs. Govis) ! Sure if Harry was alive an kickin, he'd never forgive himself not bein at home to receive so much good company. Oh ! Sir Thomas, if a body's heart wasn't as dry as a shavin, sure dere eyes would weep turpentine at sich a sight. Oh ! Sheriffs dear, sure 'tis a miracle dat de villains let you come home at all, at all, to us, an dat dey did not make Pilgrims of you in Newgate,-doe fait I'm in doubt if de bars is close enough to keep yez in; oh ! Councillor Deane, if you wor dere 'tis you'd bother 'um with law and logic;-oh ! Billy Fleming, how our lights are darknin. Take a sate over dere near de fire, Mr. Common Speaker elect, an CORK LYRICS. 251 doe dey say you sowld de aren't dey goin to give us de devil's millin; oh, Julias C-, pass on us at t'other side, I pity you extremely,-I'm afear'd dey'll turn every mother's sowl of us out of de babby-house. Indeed Mr W---- 'tis a'most time for you to come to see us, shure dere is not a slip of a bonnav goin astray at dis hour of de nite. Walk in, walk in, all of yez-oh ! who tought dey'd see de day dat we'd be so dumbfoundered, obfuscated, spiflicated, flabergasted, and bedeviled. Oh ! dont yez forget dat de berrin will be at de ould Coort-house, " de sate of glory in de days gone by," next Monday at twelve o'clock. (Sings) tune-" Boyne Water." Oh ! Monday next will be de day, Of sorrowful disaster, Dat de boy from de blue school will come all de way To draw some of yez out of de Castor. But de devil a May'r, after all you'll be, Doe drawn for de sitivation, Oh ! Hullagone, Hullagone, sich a site dat we'd see For dis loyal an ould Corporation. Long-continued groans followed this lament, at the prospect of Monday's lottery where 'twill be " all blanks and no prizes ;" but attention being directed to the flickering luminaries, growing quite socketish, the visitors prepared to depart-casting many a mournful glance at the effigy, whose phisamahogany was wondrously improved by the addition of a pipe stuck in his gob, -bein, Mrs. Govis said, "fond of de weed in his life-time." At length all departed- Deeply nioanin, Hullagonin, you'd think de hearts would break, Of de broken-down Consarvetors, dat came to dere own wake. A BALLAD. At a full meeting of the Brunswick Club on the evening of the close of the glorious Clare election, some northern wag, having heard of the triumphant return of the " Immortal Liberator," went to the sexton of Shandon church, stating that a marriage of a friend had taken place that day, and promising him the usual fee if he would get up a most uproarious chime from "The Bells of Shandon," which was at once complied with. The Club having heard with most indignant feelings the joyous sounds and "melancholy news" at the same time, broke up with feelings of the deepest indignation, and vows of vengeance against the bell-puller, who was obliged to deny most solemnly, before the Council of the Corporation next day, any knowledge whatever of the result of the election which procured for Ireland the blessing of civil and religious liberty. Why droops each loyal head with woe? Why vanish mirth and gladness? Why in their place nought can we trace, Save broken-hearted sadness? Why mourns each true blue Brunswicker- Each Church and State supporter? Why the sad cries of Lottys-Frys- And such-(vide Reporter) ? Alas ! who can withhold a tear, To think the agitator, That rebel man, bold Popish Dan, Is now a Legislator ! 252 CORK LYRICS. The mournful news arrived last night, 'Mid grievous lamentation, When met, these few-still loyal, true To prop our falling nation; Our Country's hope, the Brunswiclers, Whose proudest hopes, though blighted, Yet heart and hand resolved to stand 'Gainst Popery united; George K----, Grand Duke, sat high enthron'd, His brows with sadness beaming, High o'er his head, that signal dread, The Brunswick arms hung gleaming. There hung the sightless, toothless skull, Emblem of fallen glory, Which seem'd to gaze in mockery on, Yet told Death's ruthless story : There, the bleach'd whiten'd fleshless bones Lay cross'd, a solemn token, Of hearts once throbbing, light, and gay,. Now withered, cold, and broken! And many a prayer was muttered there Of loyal execration, That in their stead, might hang Dan's head, Who thus disturbs the nation. As the Duke rose, to his dim eye Methought one big tear started, His quivering lip, and bloodless cheek Proclaim'd him broken-hearted" Brave Brothers, arm in haste," he cried, " That shout speaks revolution, On us depends it now to prop Our sacred Constitution; In spite of Priests, and Demagogues, And Popish agitation, Ascendency shall yet revive, And flourish in the nation." Then entered G-- in great haste, 'Mid many a mournful greeting. He cock'd his glass-look'd slyly round, And thus address'd the meeting,- CORK LYRICS. " 'Tis pass'd-'tis pass'd-but I've escap'd, And that's one good reflection; Curse on those noisy Demagogues Who watch'd me at th' Election; The abominable nuisance ! The vile Association, Have put in their Arch-Demagogue, To overturn the nation. " 'Tis true I've met with many woesI'm now struck down completely, Would I were in my narrow grave, Ev'n side by side with W-And when my suffering spirit sleeps, From Death calm peace to borrow, Oh !Brothers, will you pass my tomb, And feel no pang of sorrow For him-the martyr'd Loyalist?Oh ! will you not remember For you I've lost my life-my allAnd yet was not a Member? " The mourner ceas'd and bowed his head, His grey hairs strongly pleaded His grief and destitution nowLorn-hearted and unaided: Old S-- approached to comfort him With many loyal phrases, And said-" He'd inthe Bible find A cure for all diseases." Blind C--- quoted from the "Word;" The voice of consolation; Then all knelt down, pray'd for the crown, But curs'd this rebel nation. First on his paws the B-- rose, His shaggy eyebrows scowling, And tusks unbar'd, he wildly glar'd, His grief caninely howling. Jos H-- whin'd his doleful tale, And swore by all the "maulter" His father ever laid in Cork, That Dan deserved a halter. 253 CORK LYRICS. The "purple marksman" look'd just like A felt that wanted dressing, His cheeks bloom'd as a cluster of Rich grapes before the pressing. The Harbour-Master turned blue, The " Gunsmith " wax'd loquacious, Then mutter'd they should use their arms, As being most efficacious; Which Johnny W-- seconded, As he said, " viva vocis," And with the Muskerry motto of " Pro aris, et pro focis." For hares and foxes-so saith Tom Gollock, Whose wit and penetration, Also opposed those Demagogues, Who'd fain upset the nation. Next making way with a "chass6," Waltz'd famous Burgess S--, And by his side, with eyes undried, Came decent Mister Landers. Poor Isaac M--, though he had Some private griefs to wound himHugh Govis, too, and that fam'd crew All hasten'd to surround him; And all their lives and properties, With noble resolution, Vowed they would sacrifice at once To prop the Constitution. The Duke then rose, and said, "Brave men, Be ours the brilliant glory, To have each name, enrolled by fame, Extolled in future story. Come, 'one cheer more' for great King Bill, Of memory so glorious-" But here the shouts from crowds without Proclaimed Dan was victorious. The Brunswickers dispersed at once In grief and consternation, Whilst the crowd gave a cheer for Dan and Clare And the glorious Association. CORK LYRICS. 255 FANCY BALL. SONGS. AIR.--" De Groves o' de Pool." 'The three following songs were sung in character at the Masonic Balls held at the Imperial by Messrs. William Scraggs, Michael O'Hea, and D. Casey-the latter scraping an accompaniment on a cracked "Cremona." The others, as husband and wife-one singing, the other vending the melodies, which invariably realised a considerable sum for the Masonic Orphan Asylum Charity. The wars being all over in Egypt, And the Chinese Junks all blown away, Yet who cares for their foreign productions, Their opium, or coffee, or tea; No, in future, our own manufacture We'll encourage-determined and true; And foremost of all is the " vartue" That springs from the sweet "mountain dew." CHORUS, Then fill the high goblet, each brother, Thus in charity joined heart in hand, And like true-hearted masons we'll ever Stand up for our own native land. The Queen, too, faith, sips her "Black Bottle" Of worthy Frank Beamish's Stout, While Albert swears "Mein Gott, dis Whiskey Is more sweeter nor sour German Krout." And the Mayor, too, "the last of the Romans," One sad "Duchadurrus " ought try, To the ghost of "de ould Corporation," And the mem'ry of "glories gone by." Then fill the high goblet, &c. Fair ladies, so beauteous and charming, Who, alas ! still unwedded must stay, As your journey to Skellig approaches, I'd advise a small drop on the way. May you soon, like our fair sister Aldworth, Be entered apprenticestrue, And when as " Craftswomen" we hail you, We'll baptize you in pure mountain dew. Then fill the high goblet, &c. 256 CORK LYRICS. They may boast of theirforeign inventions, Martin Conway on steam throw new light, But the world we defy for such radiance As beams on our revels to-night; For our girls are all home manufacture, No mistake-for our patron Saint, When he preached in Blackpool, pledg'd his honour That their beauty would never want paint. Then fill the high goblet, &c. May our own manufactures then flourish, Till Jack Saunders and Co. mend their ways, Till Dan Meagher's a Cumberland brother, And Voules takes champagne in a blaze, Till the lov'd name of Crawford's forgotten, Till Tom Lyons no longer we prize, Till Lord Stanley's at Derrynane Abbey, And with Dan takes a walk in disguise. Then fill the high goblet, each brother, Thus in charity joined heart in hand, And like true-hearted masons we'll ever Stand up for our own native land. THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO CORKI; OR, PADDY MURPHY'S DREAM. AIm.-" The Night before Billy's Birth-Day." As the reader will perceive, this was sung some years before the actual arrival of her Majesty, and during the mayoralty of the high-minded and patriotic Francis Bernard Beamish. On her actual arrival, the honour, conferred in imagination by the writer, was received by his worthy successor, Sir Wm. Lyons, whose deportment in sustaining the dignity of the Corporation and of his fellow-citizens on that occasion, the theme of universal and well-merited approbation. was "A change came o'er the spirit of my dream."-BYRON. Oh! last week, strolling down the New Wa Near the Railroad to Passage so splendidThe Queen-Albert--young coves-and all, By Dukes, Lords, and Earls attended, I thought I saw moving along, As you'll see by my musical ditty, Whilst her Majesty cried, "Boys, push on For the famous and beautiful city Of Cork-which I'm dying to see. CORK LYRICS. 257 " With its worthy Free Masons of all," Says she, "am I truly delighted, And I'll wait for the next fancy ball, Where with charity mirth is united. For mine Uncle of Sussex I speak, Who has said of their late installation; Tho' some may conceive it a Freke, Yet by compass and square mensuration, The Arch was Lord Carbery's due." When she landed at Penrose's Quay, Cheers from millions re-echoed like thunder; While St. George, like Promethean clay, Once more split the Dragon asunder. Martin Conway descended the stairs, When the Saint had the monster done slaying, And axed her to take a few shares In the boats, that so right well were paying, Like her namesake, his own "British Queen." To the Mansion-house next, to be sure, They drove, 'mid all Cork's acclamation, Where Frank Beamish-kind, noble, and pure, Got that title well due to his station. " Rise, Sir Francis," her Majesty cried" To your lady we also are debtor, Whose ancestors fought for the pride Of old England, when dangers beset her, And vanquish'd the Champion of France."* To the banquet Sir Francis then led The Queen, which was worthy her presence, When viands the rarest were spread, And where foam'd the champagne's effervescence. Says Bob Peel, " As the tin was so slack The last quarter at home-faith I'll tarry In Cork just to learn the knack From the famous sword-bearer, bould Larry, Of raising the wind by lynch law." A Court of Request she then nam'd To redress any grievances standing-When Nick Vincent most urgently claim'd Poor King Bill, whom she pass'd on the landing. The prowess of De Courcey, Lord Kinsale, is too well known to require comment. 258 CORK LYRICS. Dick Foot hop'd she wouldn't resist His petition without due reflection" That Parliament may be dismissed, And we'd have a new General Election "That's if the attorneys agreed. Next to good Father Mathew they went, When, in accents of congratulation, The Queen said : " She felt he was sent For the welfare and bliss of the nation; " And while standing respectfully there, Was the Queen in her power and glory, Most carefully guarding his chair Stood George Edwards and bould Captain Story, Both keeping their pledge like " true blues !" The Workhouse she next went to view, When with feelings indignant she ponder'd, To think that on Voules and his crew Nine-tenths of the Rate should be squander'd : At the Board-room she heard with surprise Nought but politics, law, and defianceWhile Jack Roberts pitch'd into Tom Wise, Jack M'Donnell was bould in reliance, And all for the good of the poor. The Cork Library next she went through, Where Bill Keleher spun an oration, Which made her almost turn blue, Of the fam'd British Ass-ociation. " Ha !" says Albert, "mine Gott, dis chap's joke Surpass Kant in de philosophising, Or Klopstock "-but here faith I woke, And found myself somnambulising In the mud-in Dan Meager's New Park. THE CHRISTENING OF THE PRINCE OF WALES. AIR-" One bumper at parting." I SUPPOSE you all heard of the christening We had of the young Prince of Wales; Where diamonds and jewels were glistening, And Pacha's were sporting their tails; CORK LYRICS. Where, next to the great King of Prooshia, Right forenent th' Archbishop of York, Cheek by jowl with the Emp'ror of Rooshia, Was myself-Paddy Murphy from Cork. CHORUS, For Sussex, our Royal Grand Master, Sent me an invite for the scene, Well knowing each true Irish Brother Would die for his Country and Queen. Her Majesty look'd most divinely, And thriving again, faith, by rule; On her neck a green shawl shew'd off finely, That was wove in the groves of Blackpool. And she said for no spot in the nation Did she feel an affection so true, All for love of the bowld sporting tanners, And likewise the boilers of glue. For Sussex, &c. Frank Murphy was there in his glory, As usual brilliant and bright ; While his sparkles of wit, jest, and story, Shed round him a circle of light. The Old Duke, too, was there, with Sir Bobby, And more of the staunch Tory crew ; While poor Melbourne stood in the LobbyHis prospects of "place" rather blue. For Sussex, &c. To her Majesty Frank introduc'd me, When, kneeling, I kiss'd her fair hand ; But she bother'd, and nearly confus'd me, With questions about Paddy's land. When she axed was the "new" Corporation Entirely as "shuck" as the ould; Faith, I told her, for jollification The new coves were damnably cowld. For Sussex, &c. I told her that one was a "Doctor," Another put " spokes in their wheel," That they had a couple of Drapers To fit them from shoulder to heel; 259 260 CORK LYRICS. That they had no want of a Baker, Or one to sarve mocha or " ty, While their " Broker "-if they felt aquaticCould steam them to Botany Bay. For Sussex, &c. Says the Queen, that they're " shuck" is no wonder, When honours they thus have bestow'd; Can't they draw where they catch all the salmon, Near the pump on the Lower Glanmire Road. They may then bid their foes bould defiance, And proudly their station maintain, When my true hearted friend, William Lyons, Shall wear the grand civic gold chain.* For Sussex, &c. Here, the nurse with the young "navigator," And the fam'd Jordan water, came in, Which I quietly exchang'd by replacing Some pure native stuff from the " Glen," Which, when on his forehead they sprinkled, Oh ! his smile was delightful to view, While his two little eyes brightly twinkled At the smell of the sweet mountain dew. For Sussex, &c. Then the Queen took a twist of the bottle, And tipp'd over Albert a drain, Who cried out, "Ha, mein Gott ! but mein trottle Feels mush love for dis Irish champagne." Here, Kings, Princes, and Lords, had a scrimmage For the stuff-'twas so genial and strong ; Whilst I cut for my perch in St. Giles'sAnd so there's an end to my song. For Sussex, our Royal Grand Master, Sent me an invite for the scene, Well knowing each true Irish Brother Would die for his Country and Queen. Written previous to the Mayoralty of Sir William, and rather prophetic of coming events "casting their shadows before." CORK LYRICS. THE LOCAL 261 BILL. During the years 1841, 1842, and 1843, the subject of a newLocal Bill was so generally discussed and commented on by the newspapers of all shades of complexion, that any person looking for a light page in their columns invariably drew a blank. The following lines, with reference to the tiresomeness of the subject, were hastily written by the editor. AIR-" Those Evening Bells." THIs Local Bill-this Local Bill, The sounds my brain with horror fill, Sooner I'd gulp a nauseous pill, Than hear those words " The Local Bill." Heaven knows our country had its dose Of Legislation's deadliest woes; But next the Union's damning ill, Is the everlasting " Local Bill." Where'er you turn, where'er you go, At home-abroad-above-belowOn mountain-valley-plain or hill, The talk is all " The Bill-The Bill." Whatever Broadsheet you take up, Where'er you breakfast, dine, or sup; Ev'n 'mid a galop or quadrille, Your partner lisps " How fares the Bill." Such varying notions hold each quack, Of taxing coal, both round and slack ; That each shuck manufacturer's till Must be clean'd out by this sweet "Bill." 'Twill give us Fountains, too, of course, From Lee's pellucid, limpid source; As if poor Devils cannot swill Cowld water, barrin by a "Bill." The Wide Street Board with horror say They can't get coffee for their tay ; But hope to sip Castalia's rill With Mocha, when they get "The Bill." The gas lamps, too, are burning blue, They can't flare up till half-past two; Ev'n the gasometer won't fill, Unless inflated by "The Bill." B62 CORK LYRICS. Tax-gatherers, too, must lower their tones, From " knock him down " to " rags and bones; ' How sad !-our claret they can't spill, Until they're licens'd by " The Bill." St. George's Boats, we also know, With all their steam are just "no go," But shares would soon ascend the hill By one small section of "The Bill." Statesmen of England, hear our case, And don't oppose this " act of grace," Great Duke, oh !join Sir Rhubarb Pill, And quickly pass " The Local Bill." Whigs-Tories-Radicals, and all, Repealers-Chartists-great and small, Ev'n Locofocos-clamour shrill" The Bill," and nothing but "The Bill." Many have struggled hard with fateBeen cross'd in love, lost their estate; But their hearts were never broke until They were fairly kilt by this d-d " Bill." JENNY LOONEY. Long previous to the appearance of the celebrated Jenny Lind on the stage, one of the most sparkling spirits of the Groves of de Pool, my excellent friend, Alderman C K--,stated his conviction that she and a young person named Jenny Looney, who had emigrated from the Groves in her infancy, were one and the same person. On this assurance the following was sent for insertion. TO THE EDITOR OF "THE SOUTHERN REPORTER." "The curse of Swift was on them; they were Irish-men." Sin,-It is well known that the celebrated Commissioner Lin, of Chinese notoriety, was born in Blackpool, where he rejoiced in the euphonious name of Looney, and that he and his sister, Jenny, under the depression which followed the accursed Union, and which pressed heavily on that locality, where the weaving trade once flourished, left this ill-fated land to seek their fortunes in a foreign clime. The Commissioner's fame needs no remark; but a few days since my attention was directed to an old ballad which was very popular in the " Groves" about a dozen years ago, and by which my informant confidently assured me, that the heroine of it and the celebrated Jenny Lind, miscalled " The Swedish Nightingale," are one and the same person. Be that as it may, the coincidence of this rising and talented family being rather curious, if you think the enclosed ballad worthy a niche in your journal, it is at your service. srv - .. ,r.your..... _ .... n , onenmen I am, Sir, your obedien servan Fonthill Abbey, May 7th. PHELIM O'NEILL. CORK LYRICS. JENNY AIR--' LOONEY. Kafty Mooney." OH, sweetest warbler of the vale ! Where Blackpool's streams are flowingOur own Cork City's "Nightingale " Of notes so grand and glowing. Oft have I listened, whilst thy tones, Re-echoed from Rathcooney, Would thrill the hearts of sticks and stonesEntrancing Jenny Looney. Oh, sweet Jenny, Peerless Jenny, No one but a spooney Could e'er compare, In this world's sphere, A nymph to Jenny Looney. They say you're going far away, To some place hard-by Sweden; Oh ! when you're sailing on the say We'll pray for thee, fair maiden. And whilst fond memory tells how sweet You warbled " Katty Mooney," We'll count each moment till we meet Our glorious Jenny Looney. Oh, sweet Jenny, &c. Some say you're going on the stage, In some great foreign nation; If so, 'tis you'll be soon the rage Of every rank and station; And oh! should kings and lords adoreForget not Paddy Rooney, Whose thoughts shall dwell for evermore On beauteous Jenny Looney. Oh, sweet Jenny, Lovely Jenny, Tuneful Jenny Looney. What syren fair Could e'er compare With Ireland's Jenny Looney. 263 264 CORK LYRICS. ERECTION OF A CLOCK IN SHANDON CHURCH. The inconvenience long felt by the residents in the North district of the City, from the want of a public Clock in that extensive and densely populated neighbourhood, has been much complained of, and many ineffectual efforts have been made to remedy the evil by obtaining the funds necessary for the erection of a large Clock in the lofty and remarkable Tower of the Church of St. Anne, Shandon. Hitherto the exertions of those persons who have interested themselves in this matter-foremost among whom is Mr. Michael Delay-have proved ineffectual. A memorial most numerously and respectably signed having been forwarded to the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, requesting that they would erect such a Clock, has been returned, with a brief reply, stating that they had not the power of complying with its prayer. A final effort will, however, be made on Thursday next, at the Town Council, to obtain the proposed object; and a rhyming friend of ours, who feels particularly anxious to prevent "Father Time" from stealing a march on the Northerns, has sent us the following: THE CLOCK OF SHANDON. HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THEIR CHONOURS " THE NEW TOWN COUNCIL. AIR-" The Bells of Shandon." A BARD of Erin Green laurels wearin', In strains which breathed, Bright fancy's spells. In verse revealing Their glorious pealing, Has made immortal " Those Shandon Bells." Tho' fine his rhyming On their magic chiming And sounds re-echoing From tower and rock, Oh ! not less sweeter, Less dear, or meeter, Would chime the music Of "The Shandon Clock." When darkness fading, And sunbeams wreathing In rosy garlands The morning's light; Whilst dreams of pleasure, Of Love, or treasure, Floats o'er our senses In visions bright. From slumber waking At morn's breaking, We hail the beaming Of Sol's young ray. CORK LYRICS. Oh ! then how grand on The Church of Shandon Its " Clock " when pealing " The time of day." If our Corporation Respect their station, And not like the ould chaps " " Pervert their power. Without Delay-ing, Or longer staying, They'd wake the Northerns To each passing hour. To bless Reform, But in calm or storm Pray they'd cease turning Like a " WEATHERCOCK." And make euphonious With sounds harmonious The dulcet chiming Of " The Shandon Clock." It was very satisfactory to the Writer to find that his rhyming was most efficacious, and that the Clock was erected, which is now the most ornamental in the kingdom. Its situation is most eligible, being adjacent to the Butter Exchange, recently enlarged and improved, within whose walls are engaged in mercantile transactions as highminded and philanthropic a body of Gentlemen as ever existed. O'CONNELL. One of the happiest reminiscences of the Editor, is the sincere friendship felt towards him by the lamented O'Connell. Now that the grave has closed over the mortal remains of the great Dictator-the modern Rienzi, amidst the contentions and differences which unfortunately exist in this distracted and divided land-all parties, in their estimate of the Irish Tribune, confess him to have been " A man-take him for all in all; We shall not look upon his like again." The following are a few of the effusions poured forth occasionally on the subject of the Great Liberator. THE "GREAT LIBERATOR," GOD BLESS HIM. As sung by Mr. C. Carver, at the People's Hall, at the Banquet given to F. B. Beamish, Esq., on the 10th November, 1838, with the most distinguished applause.-O'Connell in the Chair. AIR-" A Bumper of Burgundy." Come, fill high the wine-cup-fill, fill to the brim, For the Champion of Freedom and Right ; Shall the bowl be unquaffed, when the toast is to him Who presides o'er our banquet to-night? 266 CORK LYRICS. Oh ! heartless and cold must that Irishman be, Who can bear the vile bonds that oppress him; Whilst our hope to see Ireland, " great, glorious, and free," Is our Great Liberator-God bless him. CHORUS-God bless him, &e. When the shadows of slavery darken'd the land, And the last Star of Freedom had set, He formed, he led, and he won with the band Whose glories illumine us yet. And shall we the proud trophies he gained, now resign, Should his foes once again dare oppress him? No-with energy tenfold, the standard we'll join Of our Leader O'Connell, God bless him. God bless him, &c. Then the proud, haughty Duke in dismay fled the field, And smooth Surface wheeled round in dismayAnd shall Lyndhurst (tho' aliens) oblige us to yield, Shall that Sword-fish from Bandon bear sway? No-as boldly our champion stemmed perjury's tide, When shrunk back the base crew who'd fain press him, Three cheers for the men who stood fast by his side Of the Great Liberator, God bless him. God bless him, &c. Long and oft may our pure, noble guest, too, preside, Whilst our banners shall wave from each wall, And long shall we cherish, with honour and pride, His festival held in our "Hall." And memory oft, with a glanbe of delight, Whilst our hearts still unchanging caress him, Shall dwell on the deeds of our champion to-night, The Great Liberator, God bless him. God bless him, &c. CORK LYRICS. 267 HAIL TO IRELAND'S LIBERATOR ! The following was sung at a grand banquet given to O'Connell and his fellowpatriots after the decision of the House of Lords, which, in the never-to-be-forgotten words of Lord Denman, characterised the proceedings against them as calculated to make trial by jury a "mockery, a delusion, and a snare." AIr-" My Boat is on the Shore." HAIL to the Liberator ! Old Ireland's noblest son, May laurels long bedeck his brow Which nobly he has wonIn freedom's glorious battle, No fear or dread felt heWhilst Erin rose as Heaven ordained, Unfettered-great and free. Then hail the Liberator, Triumphant shall he be, Whose power and might chased slavery's night, And made old Ireland free ! Despite the false twin-renegades, Graham and Stanley's power, And recreant Brougham changing still With every passing hour; Despite the Jeffries of our day, And bullying T. B. C., Truth has prevailed-base knavery failedAnd Erin's chief is free ! Then hail thee, Liberator ! Triumphant shalt thou be, Whose power and might chased slavery's night, And made old Ireland free ! May honours ever greet himMay shame pursue his foesMay millions still obey his will, And cheer him as he goes; And next his name here's with acclaim Smith O'Brien-firm and true, And that glorious band of Fatherland, The Club of Eighty-Two. 268 CORK LYRICS. Then hail thee, Liberator ! Triumphant shalt thou be, Whose power and might chased slavery's night, And made old Ireland free ! ON SEEING THE " LATEST " ATTACK ON THE LIBERATOR, BY SIR FRANCIS BURDETT. [FOR " THE SOUTHERN REPORTER." Sir Francis Burdett, once styled "England's Pride and Westminster's Glory," the man who braved the terrors of the Tower in defence of popular rights, previous to his death presented a lamentable spectacle of human weakness and inconsistency. One of his last appearances as an abettor of his former Tory persecutors, when he attacked the motives and conduct of O'Connell, called forth the following lines. gloria n'undi-thus Sic transit Translation. has " Old Glory" gone to the devil entirely.-Fre AYE-still is corruption's base pack loudly sending The impotent yelp, which so oft they renew : Still defeat and disgrace on their footsteps attending, No sound, save of scorn, echoes back their "hilloo." How extended their howl from the last poor old Spaniel Who hails from Westminster's proud towers, until The breeze-borne sound, crossing mountain and channel, Dies away 'mid our own classic groves of " The Hill." How many their colours, from Whiggish " Old Glory," Tho' toothless, chameleon-like, changing his hue, Sniffing up the same gale, with the staunch blood-hound " Tory," Whilst the base Orange Papist is leash'd with the Jew. How varied their notes, too, from Raphael's low whining And " lament" for his shabby two thousand or so; From the " Knight "poor old " turnspit " his lost wheel repining, To the hoarse undergrowl of our own S--- O. Oh ! 'tis thus, even thus, may be seen in all ages, That spirits the noblest, the purest, the best, That have shed a bright lustre on history's pages, Who warr'd with the despot-who freed the oppress'd. Tho' fame points them out as her cherish'd in story, Tho' the tyrants of earth to their mastery bow, Yet reptiles there are who would fain dim their glory, And sully the wreath on the patriot's brow. CORK LYRICS. 269 Shall He, to whose might the " chance victor" has yielded, Who smooth Surface's sophistries flung to the breeze; Shall that heart, by the true men of three nations shielded, Now quail at a combat with creatures like these. Oh !no-when dark bigotry's gloom hovered o'er us, At his magical word did its murkiness flee; And the name of the chief who to victory bore us Shall be ever enshrined in the hearts of the free. Till time be no more, as a spell 'twill be breathed, And through earth as the watch-word of freedom be rung, Whilst the beings who fain would its lustre have shaded, Shall rejoin the vile dust, whence the reptiles have sprung. FATHER MATHEW. During the mission of the Great Apostle of Temperance, several songs were contributed by the Editor to the many entertainments given to honour him, which, though unworthy to praise his superhuman efforts to reclaim and regenerate all classes of the human race, as well as his own countrymen, were most kindly received and invariably encored. It was at one of those festivals of " The cup that cheers, but not inebriates," that the late deeply-lamented Councillor Frank Walsh (as he was always familiarly called)-peace to his manes -conferred on the writer the high-sounding title of the " Bard of Munster." HAIL TO OUR GLORIOUS APOSTLE. As sung at the Grand Tea Festival to Father Mathew, at the Corn Exchange, Cork, on Thursday Evening, February 16th, 1843. Air-"One bumper at parting." How blest was the day when our Nation Was freed from that dark, galling chain, Which had sunk her in deep degradation, Bringing sorrow and crime in its train ; When the voice of our Patron so glorious, Bid the reign of the Demon to cease ; And the Temperance flag waving o'er us Brought Happiness, Plenty, and Peace. CHORUS, Then hail to our Glorious Apostle, Whose presence this evening we prize, Who shed blessings unnumbered on Erin, And made her Sons temp'rate and wise. 270 CORK LYRICS. When the voice of St. Patrick had banished Idolatry's gloom from our shore; And each venomous reptile had vanished From Erin's green Isle evermore; Still the serpent, Intemperance, enfolding Its victims in meshes of flame, Remained-which loved Mathew beholding, Soon crush'd by his sanctified name. Then hail, &c. See around us-what glad, smiling faces, Assemble to greet him to-night; Whilst beauty and youth lend their graces Our Temperance pathway to light. No dissension or strife hovers round us, But all are light-hearted and gay; For the poisonous spell that long bound us For ever we've flung far away. Then hail, &c. May the lessons of virtue he taught us Sink deep in the core of each heart; May our love for "the Cause" which has brought us Such happiness, never depart. And when monarchs, and deeds of past ages, Are from memory's tablet effaced, Illumin'd on History's pages Shall the bright name of Mathew be traced. Then hail to our Glorious Apostle, Whose presence this evening we prize, Who shed blessings unnumbered on Erin, And made her Sons temp'rate and wise. FATHER MATHEW'S BIRTH NIGHT. AmI-" Hail to our GloriousApostle With pleasure and pride we assemble, Once more our Apostle to greet; And oft on an eve so auspicious May millions of Irishmen meet; CORK LYRICS. 271 May their hearts with deep gratitude bounding, And freed from the bowl's poison'd blight, Whilst rapturous music is sounding, Oft hail his immortal birth-night. CHORUS, Thus with hearts with deep gratitude bounding, And freed from the bowl's poison'd blight, Whilst rapturous music is sounding, We hail our Apostle's birth-night. As our Sovereign Pontiff so glorious, The modern Vandals shall brave, And the standard of Peter victorious, O'er Ferrara's high ramparts shall wave,So, before our Apostle triumphant, Our own spotless banner shall be, Till each heart, from the thraldom of passion, Shall throb-pure, enfranchis'd and free. Thus with hearts, &c. And oh !should he cross the wide ocean, To that land for whose weal we should pray,May kind Providence guard ev'ry motion, And mild zephyrs of heaven fan his way. And, ere long, with deep gratitude burning, And with prayers from Columbia blest, May we hail him in triumph returning To his own belov'd Land of the West. Then with hearts with deep gratitude bounding, And freed from the bowl's poison'd blight, And the loud cheers of "welcome " high sounding, We'll hail our Apostle's birth night. FATHER MATHEW'S WELCOME HOME. On Father Mathew's return from America, the following song was sung with loud applause at one of the many festive gatherings held on the occasion. AIR-" The King, God bless him." How blest is this hour, when we welcome once more, With feelings of raptured delight, Lov'd Mathew, the pride of our Emerald shore, Of name so resplendently bright, 272 CORK LYRICS. Now when happily returned to his own grateful land, Her millions rush forth to caress him, And joyfully cheer as they join hand in hand, For our glorious Apostle, God bless him. CHORUS, God bless him. God bless him. For our glorious Apostle, God bless him. Whilst absent, what pangs in each bosom were felt, For his welfare, so long far away ; How fondly we prayed, as devoutly we knelt, That we'd live to see this happy day! When the pure stainless Temperance banner unfurl'd, Beneath its broad folds we should press him With gratitude's grasp, whilst Columbia's far world Re-echoed the prayer, " May God bless him." God bless him. God bless him. Re-echoed the prayer, May God bless him. Oh ! long may he flourish to bless his loved isle; May his progress triumphant still be; May Heaven on his efforts benignantly smile, Whilst his flag floats bold, fearless, and free. May no semblance of sorrow, no shadow of care, For one moment through life e'er oppress him; Whilst millions shall fervently join in the prayer For our glorious Apostle, "God bless him." God bless him. God bless him. For our glorious Apostle, God bless him. TO MARGUERITE OF KILCOLTA. [Written on returning from the London Exhibition.] Closed at length is the Crystalline PalaceIts visitors bound for sweet home ; Its "dandies" from Lyons and Paris; Its "artists " from Florence and Rome; CORK LYRICS. Its "savants " so learned and witty, Whence the Rhine flows so darkly and fleet; And I've come to the "Beautiful City," And back to my fair Marguerite. I've looked on that mocking delusion, They've nick-named the great Koh-i-Noor; But its rays shed no dazzling illusion To startle the noble or boor : 'Twas dull as Lough Mahon's low water, 'Twas jeered at in park, square, and street; How unlike the blue orb of that daughter Of Erin-the gay Marguerite. Proud " Godfrey," * the valiant crusader, Whilst waving his banner on high; The sad " Slave " of the Moslem invader, Who drew from each bosom a sigh ; Our own "Gladiator," as shielded, He aimed for the foe at his feetNot such bliss to my soul could have yielded As one glance from the fair Marguerite. The " Amazon " mcnfidly reining Her steed at the tiger's fell spring; The "Faun," lov'd Pere Mathew disdaining; And Alfred, the patriot King; The "Archangel" o'er Satan victorious; Strong " Samson," his bonds at his feetWere grand.-But to me far more glorious, One smile of "ma chere Marguerite." The organ's loud tones deeply swelling, Shed feelings of awe on my soul; Whilst the gong and the bell slowly knelling, Peal'd forth like far thunder's hoarse roll; And near to the proud "Andromeda," The harp swell'd melodiously sweetBut far dearer I'd prize "Cush na breida," As warbled by "belle " Marguerite. * A luding to the statues at the Exhibition. S 273 274 CORK LYRICS. This world and I've long been jangling, As Pierre of Venice used say; But henceforth we'd ever cease wrangling, And sunbeams would brighten my wayIf one magical word would be spoken Life's cup would as nectar be sweet; Then accept this rude verse as a token To thee-lovely, fair Marguerite. FIFTY-TWO AND FIFTY-THREE. " Tempus edax rerum."-HORACE. INSCRIBED TO KATE, OF B--- The old year-its joys and its pleasuresIts sky, whether azure or blue, Like our Palace of National treasures, Have faded with past Fifty-two. And to whom could a scribbler's dull rhyming Be more happily inscribed than to thee, Each grace and perfection combining, To adorn and glad Fifty-three. The " Mummery " lordling, who vented, His bile, like a Bandon true blue, I think, by this time, has repented His sneers in the year Fifty-two. Oh ! how fallen that name which in story Once shone, like the moon on the LeeHow dim, and how murky, the glory Of Russell, before Fifty-three. The great "Derby Dilly " is foundered, With famed Ben D'Israeli the Jew; In the mud its "shuck" leaders have floundered, At close of cold, wet, Fifty-two. Will our glorious "Brigade" be united, And a new "Fontenoy" shall we see, Will poor Erin be sold or be rightedWill she hallow, or curse Fifty-three ? Alas ! long hath each heartless task-master Crush'd the peasant, tho' poor, kind and true, Till revenge followed faster and faster, To darken and dim Fifty-two. CORK LYRICS. 275 May justice and right, the cause guiding, From each tyrant our peasantry free, May the "League," in calm triumph presiding, Successfully bless Fifty-three. Will Kossuth, with his sparkling orations, Crush the Hapsburg and Austrian crew? Will he rally his valiant Hungarians, As he promised in past Fifty-two ? Some think his bright shield changed to " pewter" Since he sail'd for Columbia the free, And unfurled the black banner of Luther, To cloud and obscure Fifty-three. " La Belle France " had some new revolutions, Since the Bourbons cried out " sauve qui peut," " Tout change," the last constitutions, They swore should outlast Fifty-two. Will the Emperor, in haste to be wedded, From proud Wasa receive his "cong," Be married, shot, crown'd, or beheaded ? We'll know in the year Fifty-three. Whilst our National Grand Exhibition, With a pleasing remembrance we view, Far nobler than proud recognition, Of Principle marked Fifty-two. When our pure Civic Chief so victorious, As head of our City we see, May the life be long, happy, and glorious, Of our Mayor for the year Fifty-three." * FAREWELL TO THE MINSTREL OF ERIN'S GREEN ISLE. Addressed to Miss Catherine Hayes on her departurefor Rome in 1850. Sweet Daughter of Erin-Enchantress divine, Shedding radiance and splendour on Melody's shrine; On whose dulcimer tones, like a magical spell Fond memory long shall entrancingly dwell. * J. F. Maguire, Esq., M.P. 276 CORK LYRICS. Thou art leaving thine own cherished Isle of the West, For the bright favoured South where the sun loves to rest, But tho' thousands should hail thee with rapturous smile, Oh ! forget not the hearts of the Emerald Isle. On the banks of the Tiber, when haply you roam, When you gaze on the fanes, once the Cesars' proud home, When the fam'd Colosseum's dark ruins you see, Oh ! forget not your own native Shannon, or Lee. And oh ! may thy voice, with its pure dulcet sound, Breathe its seraph-like thrill o'er the hush'd spirits round, And ere long may we welcome once more, with a smile ,Of proud triumph, the Minstrel of Erin's green Isle. " CEAD MILLE FAILTHE TO MISS CATHERINE HAYES, On her return to Cork, Wednesday, Dec. 10, 1856. Bright star of green ErinEnchantress-whose spells Enchain ev'ry feeling Where melody dwells; From the sphere of Columbia, And ocean's white foamWith a " CEAD MILLE FAILTHE" We welcome thee home. 'Mid Italia's grand columns Of genius and art, Thy tones shed deep rapture And bliss o'er each heartIn the land where Rossini And Pasta held sway, Thou hast call'd back bright visions Of scenes passed away. Long-long may the halo Of glory endure Thou hast shed o'er the lyre Of our own cherish'd Moore; CORK LYRICS. 277 And Bellini's outpourings Of music divine May be laid at thy feet As their worthiest shrine. May the laurels be fadeless With which thou art crown'd, And peace, joy, and gladness Encircle thee round- And tho' cheers from the SHANNON Will soon swell for thee, Not less warm is the " FAILTHE " That hails from the LEE ! SAMUEL LOVER. Lines addressed to Samuel Lover, Esq., on opening his " Portfolio" at the Imperial, on Monday Evening, February 4th, 1850. (From the Cork Examiner.) " Risum, teneatis, amici ? "-HORACE. The Editor attaches a degree of importance to the following lines, hastily scribbled off after witnessing the highly intellectual and varied entertainment of the Author of " Rory O'Moore," " The Angel's Whisper," and of many other delightful productions -inasmuch as, quite unexpected by him, Mr. Lover has deemed them worthy of his kind praises. He hopes he will be excused, if in his vanity he quotes the following extract from a letter sent to Mr. Alexander D. Roche."42 Rathmines Mall, Dublin, Feb. 16th, 1850. "MY DEAR RocHE,-I thank you for the 'Examiner.' There is an originality in the treatment of the complimentary lines, which gives them a freshness in which mere pieces of laudation are so generally deficient. It is difficult to avoid making such things mawkish, and to be praised in such superior fashion is the more gratifying. "Is Phelim O'Neill a real personage? and is Fonthill Abbey an abbey, or only a castle in the air? Whoever the poet may be, I should like to meet him." The introduction, thus kindly desired, took place (rather appropriately at the Theatre, during the inimitable performance of Gerald Pepper, by the late George K. Feath, with which the Author was highly delighted), when he expressed himself in terms of the highest praise of the following effusion. Sam Lover, at close of the year forty-nine, What prospects on earth were less brilliant than mine ; Tho' I felt for poor Erin-her bright days long flownI'd a few trifling "personal " rubs of my own. My estates dipp'd too hopelessly ever to rise; My crops swept away-just before my two eyes; And far worse-what, alas ! I would fain have conceal'd, My "Lola" levanted, like fam'd Mrs. Heald. 278 CORK LYRICS. In fine, whether gazing on land, sea, or air, All around was one waste of unchequer'd despair. 'Twas no wonder I then thought " this world's not for me; Nor this world's law," and so from it I'll flee. And I calmly discuss'd whether "prussic," or " lead," Or the " cold water cure," would be best for my head To repose-after sorrows so deadly and deep, Which alone could find rest in oblivion's long sleep. In this mood, dropping in at th' Imperial to-night, What magical spell bound mine ears with delight, Ev'ry feeling of grief faded distant and far, Whilst sweet Peggy I press'd on her own "low-back'd car." I thought the loud tinkling of bells I could hear, As I skimm'd the white snow-flake in " sleighing the deer." On Mississip's waters I gaz'd-whilst above Softly flutter'd Hope's emblem, the branch-bearing "dove." And when " Pa and Mamma" seem'd too anxious for pelf, I thought I was asking some " creature herself." At the tea-party-oh, how I listen'd, as oft I heard the young maiden, in accents so soft, Try her "tactics," in tones which no heart could resist, And how willing the " bounty she'd take, and enlist." With the Indian, through forests untrack'd, did I go, Whilst he fervidly pray'd for his "arrow and bow." To the " Nymph of Niagara " low did I bow, As I felt the chill spray coldly sprinkle my brow. And for love-lorn wights, what so sure to befall As to find that you weren't "yourself sure at all." For poor Donoghue's case, a sad sigh must escape, Who should lose either "Kate or the juice of the grape." And how lost, and how motherless, look'd that poor boy Who sail'd from the " Beautiful City," Jem Hoy. Then enraptur'd-I scarce could my senses recall, As I thought that this world wasn't so bad at all, Where one magical spirit in fetters could bind, In fancy's gay regions, my dark, hopeless mind; And I therefore resolv'd, 'spite some "bagatelles" gone, As Sam Lover was living, that I'd too hold on. Ye exflunctified nobles-ye shaky J.P.'sWhose acres are swamp'd by 'curs'd Chanc'ry decrees; In allusion to the several pieces so inimitably sung and recited by Mr. Lover. CORK LYRICS. 279 Tho' your " dodge " of " Protection" no longer c-n stand, Tho' Sir Walter's damn'd esculent fade from the landIf you want a quick cure for your ills to discover, Go listen one evening to glorious Sam Lover. The following songs were sung by Mr. John Besnard, jun., and received with loud applause, at the Grand Banquet held to commemorate the Improvement made in the Butter Exchange, June, 1850. WHEN THE TEMPEST HATH CEASED. AIR-" And doth not a meeting." When the tempest hath ceas'd, and the storm passed away, And the barque calmly floats o'er its pathway of foam; When glad sunshine once more sheds its mellowing ray, Ahd the mariner speeds to his own cherished home. What feeling on earth can his rapture excel, Thus in safety returning again to that sphere Where affection's sweet smile sheds a magical spell, That chases all thoughts of past danger and fear. On the life-stream of ocean thus often, alas ! Are we borne to the sands of dissension's bleak shore, Then how gaily and gladly the goblet should pass, Where true friendship and mirth fills each heart to its core. May we oft meet a bright sunny moment like this, Where no purple, nor blue, on our glass we shall trace; But each feeling be blent in a streamlet of bliss, Like Avoca's pure waters, to mingle in peace. KEEPING UP THE STEAM. Ami-" Derry Down." In this age of invention and wonders so grand, When steamers and railways rule ocean and land; When estates and proud castles dissolve like a dream, Who on earth like ourselves can now keep up the steam. Never down-down-down derry down. With rent-rolls and hearts unencumbered and free, And spirits as light as a barque on the LeeDull care and grave thinking as nonsense we deem, While from sparkling champagne effervesces the steam, And goes down, &c. 280 CORK LYRICS. Who can talk of our parting till morning's pale light, When we'll hail the bright sun tho' we're ruled by a KNIGHT : Whose title tho' high-yet far prouder we deem For his skill at the engine to keep up the steam. And not down, &c. What souls more elated-what spirits more gay, Ever met at sweet " Prospect, "t or glorious "Raleigh;" Where a " lad " but a fool and a blockhead would seem, If in full flowing bowls he'd not keep up the steam. And not down, &c. Then here's may our " train " glide in safety along, And our journey enlivened by music and songAnd this evening on memory's desert we'll deem, A bright sunny spot while we keep up the steam. Never down, &c. TIPPERARY. Lines addressed to a friend in Clogheen, with the music and words of " Tipperary." (From the Nation). Accept this offering of a page, Whose characters no time shall vary, Of that proud land--mark of our ageGreat, glorious, matchless Tipperary. I've wander'd Erin o'er and o'er, From Galway Bay to fam'd Dunleary; And every footstep taught me more To love thy soil, sweet Tipperary. Tho' Albion's beauty blazons high, Its tinsel glare grows dull and weary, At thought of one bright flashing eye That merrily laughs in Tipperary. I've gazed on many a Scottish maid, From Edinburgh to Inverary : But snood and plaid like visions fade Before the scarf of Tipperary. * Sir William Lyons, Chairman. t The hospitable seats of JohnR. Burke, Esq., J.P., and James Minhear, Esq., J.P 281 CORK LYRICS. I've seen the dames of " la belle France," To gravity " tous si contrairie;" But lovelier far one sunny glance That sparkles bright in Tipperary. I've roam'd through proud Venetian halls, And heard " la chanson gondoleri ;" But each dull note my senses palls, At thoughts of song in Tipperary. I've climb'd the vine-clad hills of Spain, Where barcarolles sound sweet and cheery ; But donnas there have sighed in vain To lure my heart from Tipperary. And if there be one spot more green, Of which fond memory ne'er shall weary,'Tis hospitable, kind Clogheen, Where dwell true friends in Tipperary. There, sylph-like forms and smiles I've knownPeerless Rosanna, Sall, and Mary ; Each fit to grace a monarch's throneBright sparkling gems of Tipperary. True freedom's love her sons pervades, Which tyrant laws can never vary; Whilst Rices, Murrays, Powers, and Wades, Have arms to wield for Tipperary. Where'er my devious footsteps trod, And when of earth my soul is weary, Content I'd lie beneath the sod That clothes with verdure Tipperary. THE BEAUTIFUL GIRLS OF TIPPERARY, 0! Am-" The Young May Moon." Improvised and sung at a grand "dejeuner," given to the Editor at Lord Kingston's delightful seat, "The Mountain Lodge," on May-day, 1844. Through many lands, 'twas my lot to roam, And I've swept o'er many an ocean foam, But I never yet In my wanderings met Such girls as dwell in my own dear home. 282 CORK LYRICS. Tho' I've gaz'd on many a Peri, 0 ! With footsteps light as a fairy, 0 ! In bower or hall, Far surpassing them all, Are the beautiful girls of Tipperary, 0 ! With mien and air so entrancing, 0 ! And love from each bright eye glancing, 0 ! As they move through yon dell, Each heart feels a spell, As if angels of light were advancing, 0 ! Though on beauty I've gaz'd till quite weary, 0 ! Its joys were like gifts of the fairy, 0 ! And my heart ne'er before Felt true bliss to its core, Till I met the sweet girls of Tipperary, 0 ! Tho' Mitchelstown's Castle is grand and fine, And the Mountain Lodge seems a spot divine; How dim-dull-and drear Do their beauties appear Compar'd to the smiles that around us shine. Whilst the " Boys " of Tipperary are brave and true, No danger or fear can their souls subdue; Here's " The Rices and Wades" From Clogheen's mountain shades, In full flowing bumpers of Mountain Dew. Also fill to our own dear native Isle, May she flourish despite the oppressor's wile ; May her Chieftain so great His foes still defeat, Till we bask in pure Liberty's radiant smile. May each son of the Isle meet a Peri, 0 ! Like Sally-Rose-Kate, or sweet Mary, 0 ! For loveliness-youthJoin'd to beauty and truth, Are all met in the girls of Tipperary, 0 ! WHEN THE SUN-BEAMS OF PEACE. Ai-" The Star-Spangled Banner." Addressed to the Hon. Abbott Lawrence, United States Ambassador, on his arrival in Cork, and most warmly received by him and his amiable lady and daughter. (From the Cork Examiner.) While the sunbeams of Peace are illuming our sphere, And the genius of science rules proudly victorious, CORK LYRICS. 283 With a " Cead mille failte " and Erin's loud cheer, We welcome our guest, from Columbia the glorious. While the nations of earth from fell warfare repose, And the bright lamp of friendship resplendently glows, May our banners unfurled long wave side by side, And Columbia to Albion be ever allied. May our banners, &c. When adversity's blast shed its gloom on our Isle, Columbia's kind bounty brought joy to each dwelling, Her gifts we received with pure gratitude's smile, Each heart with emotions of thankfulness swelling, Bear back to your land, of the mountain and wave, To her sons so munificent, noble, and brave, Our hope, whether evil or good may betide, That her flag may with Albion's be ever allied. Our hope, &c. May the star-spangled banner float stainless and free, May commerce and trade waft its folds o'er the ocean, And once more from the banks of our own sheltered Lee We welcome thee here with true-hearted devotion; And when haply returned to their own native shore, 'Mid St. Lawrence's wave, or Niagara's roar, Bear back to Columbia, our hope and our pride, That her flag may with Albion's be ever allied. Bear back to Columbia, &c. TO FREDERICK DOUGLAS, THE CELEBRATED FUGITIVE SLAVE. Sung at the Soiree given to him, at St. Patrick's Hall, Monday, Oct. 25th, 1845. AIR-" Old Dan Tucker." The following song, which the celebrated Frederick Douglas stated was sufficient to compensate for years of slavery, may be deemed appropriate, as the recent struggles for Negro Emancipation have attracted such deep attention. Stranger, from a distant nation, We welcome thee with acclamation, And, as a brother, warmly greet theeRejoic'd in Erin's Isle to meet thee. CHORUS, Then "Cead mille failte" to the stranger, Free from bondage, chains, and danger. " Cead mille failte" to the stranger, Free from bondage, chains, and danger. 284 CORK LYRICS. Who could have heard thy hapless story Of tyrants-canting, base, and gory; Whose heart throbb'd not with deep pulsation For the trampled slaves' emancipation. Then " Cead mille failte," &c. Oh ! why should different hue or feature Pervert the sacred laws of Nature, And every tie of feeling sever ?The voice of Nature thunders "Never !" Then " Cead mille failte," &c. Then, borne o'er th' Atlantic waters, The cry of Erin's sons and daughters For freedom, shall henceforth be blended, Till Slavery's hellish reign be ended. Then " Cead mille failte" to the stranger, Free from bondage, chains, and danger. " Cead mille failte " to the stranger, Free from bondage, chains, and danger. THE POWER OF STEAM. INSCRIBED TO WILLIAM DARGAN, THE PATRON AND FRIEND OF GENIUS AND ENTERPRISE. (From the Corik Chronicle and Munster Advertiser.) Whilst the genius of Commerce exulted with pride At the birth of the fam'd Genoese, Whose compass unerring, the seaman could guide To a world unknown, o'er the seas. Yet though proudly the mariner pointed the way To realms unnumber'd and vast, The sails oft flapp'd idly-or back through the spray Dash'd the vessel, impell'd by the blast. Then away to the genius of Science she sped, And told how imperfect and vain Were the gifts navigation on mankind had shed, Whilst rude Boreas held sway o'er the main; When her deep voice responded, "A gift is at hand, Which shall conquer the billow and gale; And the ' Power of Steam' shall in triumph command O'er the ocean, the mountain, and vale." CORK LYRICS. 285 Then forget not Columbus, nor Worcester, nor those Who the banners of Science unfurled; From the blaze of whose minds those inventions arose, Which shed radiance and light o'er the world. The true Patron of Science, why should we forget To hail with true hearty acclaimIn the man in whom virtues unnumbered are met,Hail to Dargan's unsullied, pure name. THE COLUMBINE. Written on seeing the Columbine, the beautiful yacht of the late John Smith Barry, of Foaty, on the morning of her winning the grand regatta cup. Fill high the wine-cup-fill to her bo nding o'er yon dark spray, Whose dwelling is the ocean wide, whose heritage the sea; Who that e'er gaz'd on that light barque now scudding through the brine, Could check a hip-hurra for thee, sweet, graceful Columbine ? How swan-like does she move along, majestically fair, Like some young Peri, floating in her native watery sphere. And proudly as an ocean queen, 'thron'd on her billowy shrine, Over her subject waves, so glides the stately Columbine. And gazing on her path, as through the deep she seems to fly, I think on Egypt's hapless Queen, and how in days gone by, She may in all her gorgeous pomp, in such a barque recline, Fann'd by her slaves-whilst Cydnus's waves dash'd round the Columbine. The breeze is up-she's off once more, flying before the wind, Her sharp prow cleaves-her light keel leaves a foaming track behind; Her bright sails woo the breezy gale, and o'er the surfy brine No sea-bird wings its flight more swift, than the fleet Columbine. A generous, kindly heart is his, who guides thee o'er the main, Right well old Erin's hospitable style does he sustain : The festive board is his on shore-and who on sea can shine, More gloriously than him, who steers his spanking Columbine. Then here's the gay Vice-Admiral-may cloudless pleasure be His lot-of heart so kind and warm-frank-generous and free, And may propitious breezes, each succeeding year combine, Again to crown with victory's wreath, his matchless Columbine. 286 CORK LYRICS. EMMETT. Tho' the minstrel of Erin who chaunted his fame, Hath said of her martyr-" Oh !breathe not his name;" Yet, what bard of Ierne, the wild harp could wake, And forget the young hero who died for her sake? Tho' the page of her history holds to our view Many names of the valiant-the fearless-the trueYet sad memory turns away to recall The brightest-the noblest-the purest of all. Oh !his was the heart that to fear was unknown, When the loud trump of Freedom through Erin was blown; How far calmer his fettrless sleep in the grave, Than the clank of the chain on the limbs of a slave. Tho' Columbia's chieftain-tho' Brutus, and Tell, Are names to awaken bright Liberty's spell; Yet undimm'd by their lustre, shall cloudless be seen The patriot chief, of the Standard of Green. And when the proud sun-burst of Erin unfurl'd, Proclaiming her free, shall illumine the world ; Emblazon'd shall be, on its folds waving wide, The name of her hero-her martyr-her pride. MYTHOLOGICAL MEANDERINGS. The following lines were hastily scribbled, on seeing Madame Warton's classical "Tableaux Vivants." A GRECIAN HARVEST HOME. "Harvest Home, Harvest Home, We merrily sing the Harvest Home." Greek Chorus from EscaYLUS. Sol resplendently was beaming On the sun-lit plains of Greece, Ere Jason sailed from Colchis With his golden-tinted fleece; Lute and lyre were sweetly blending, From valley, hill, and dome; And loud " Paans" high ascending, To hail the Harvest Home! 287 CORK LYRICS. From Scio's Isle, where Homer On Troy's battle-plain shed light; To Missolonghi's fortress, Whence great Byron's soul took flight : From Parnassus, where Apollo And his Nine were wont to roam; From Morea's Hill to Corinth,Did they hail the Harvest Home! On high, the Cornucopia With yellow sheaves was crowned; And purple grapes in clusters Were trailing on the ground; And heroes, bards, and warriors, From the seven-hill'd fanes of Rome, Joined the maids and men of Athens, In the joyous Harvest Home ! What remembrance of past ages, These glorious scenes renew ! When men of thousand years' renown Are mirror'd to our view ! High praise to thee-great Artist ! And bliss where'er you roam,Who bless'd our glad and happy eyes With the Grecian Harvest Home ! ACIS AND GALATEA. TO PROFESSOR WARTON, ON SEEING HIS " TABLEAUX Classic Artist !-breathless wonder Stills our hearts, as we behold The huge Cyclop, Polyphemus, As he smote in days of old The bless'd-yet hapless Acis, From his rocky throne above; Whilst the beauteous Galatea Fondly gazed with smiles of love. All was sunshine in the valley Where the lovers haply dwelt; Dark and shadowy was the mountain Where the giant Titian knelt. VIVANTS. X88 CORK LYRICS. One moment, thrill'd in rapture, Imparadis'd were theyThe next-the fated shepherd Was crushed and pulseless clay. The poet's rapt creations Oft wither at a glance; The memory of the tales of yore Fade as a wild Romance;But thou bring'st back the stories In Greece and Rome oft toldOf the victories and glories Of the by-gone days of old. THE BIRTH OF VENUS. The wavelets gently crisping Were chill'd by morning's breeze, Whilst young sunbeams softly glancing, Illum'd Cytheria's trees. All nature lull'd reposingly In calm and placid sleep, When from her coral temple Fair Venus left the deep. Freed from the gems and jewels That dim true beauty's blaze, Her gauzy veil repelling Rude mortal's vulgar gaze. Her graceful limbs so peerlessHer smile so sweet-so blest, As to Paris on Mount Ida, Her graces stood confess'd. See around her gently floating Her attendant sea-nymphs wait, Whilst the Nereids and Tritons Hail their Queen with shouts elate. Great Jove from high Olympus, And Phoebus' glittering sheen, Hailed the priceless child of ocean, Fair Beauty's peerless Queen. 289 CORK LYRICS. THE SHANDON BELLES. AIR-" The Bells of Shandon," ---AND S --. Long time a rover This wide world over, I've gazed on beauty in many a clime, Where witching glances The heart entrances With blissful fancies that chase dull time. INSCRIBED TO THE MISSES When on Como's waters, Where Italia's daughters Enchain the soul with entrancing spells, My sad heart mourned Till, to home returned, I gazed once more on the sweet Shandon Belles. Designed by nature, In form and feature, To illumine each soul with the radiant smile ; Each charm combining, Like flowers entwiningAs roseate summer they gild our Isle. No care or sadness, Nor aught but gladness, Lights up their pathway with magic spells : And joy excelling Glads each blest dwelling And beauteous bower of the sweet Shandon Belles. Fond memory lingers, As with fairy fingers, They waken'd melodies, delicious sound; Where tones so feeling, O'er the senses stealing, Shed thrilling rapture o'er all around. Tho' fate must sever Our hearts-yet never Shall I forget where one spirit dwells. May love's pure treasurePeace, joy, and pleasureBe the blissful lot of the sweet Shandon Belles. T 290 CORK JIM LYRICS. CROW'S BUDGET; OR, A TRIP TO COVE. AIR-" Jim Crow." By the late Miah Murphy, Esq., Solicitor, " a fellow of infinite wit and humour," but, alas ! like other men of genius, called from amongst us and consigned to an early gravy e. " To be gay and to dance is an excellent thing, Of what value is life if we haven't our fling." PART I. The boat is starting off for Cove, so gentle folks step in, A wager with the wind is laid, and we are sure to win; In less than forty minutes, ma'am, we undertake to go, And you can either stand, or sit on deck, or down below-Or turn about, or wheel about, Or dance Jim Crow. We've all things useful here, on board, all ready and no rout, The heavy wet of every kind, from brandy to brown stoutCigars, and pig-tail baccay, ma'am-tho' pardon me the joke, A lady, once her steam is up, need never ask to smoke, But turn about, &c. I'll tell you, madam, what I know of every one on board, The gentleman that fell in love--the lady that's ador'd ; The names of all the passengers-and other things, I trow, So stand upon the paddle-box, and listen while we go. And wheel about, &c. That lady with the widow's cap, without the widow's dress, Who, like a vessel water-logg'd, shows signals of distress, Is bucksome Mrs. -- , ma'am, who, tho' she looks so shy, Has got a second husband in the corner of her eye, To wheel about, &c. There's Alderman Vagary there, on his fantastic toe, A married man-a bachelor-an antiquated beau; There's nothing that he cannot do, according to the whim, From pitch and toss to sentiment-'tis all the same to him, And to wheel about, &c. That lady with her suinshade up, so handsome and so smart, so fully rigged, and ready for a start; S--, Is Miss J-Should any one sail with her, ma'am, in matrimony's bay, He'll have a squall, I'm pretty sure, in nine months to a day ! And wheel about, &c. CORK LYRICS. 291 That's Jenny F--r there behind, a lassie I'll engage Who'd pay a fihe of twenty pounds before she'd tell her age; She did not cheat the census tho',. for all the wags admit That, true or false, her " paper " was a specimen of wit, So wheel about, &c. That gentleman right there abaft, and sitting on a spar, Is Mister Loftus B----y, ma'amn, a-smoking a cigar; 'Tis he that cleans the " great unwash'd " (that's no offence, I hope, For there's not one in all the town "wot's better off for soap.") Or to wheel about, &c. D--n C--n, the "member," ma'am, is standing near the pump; You'll know him by his figure, that's so portly and so plump; They say that he can't " raise the wind," but what can that avail, If Dan O'C--11 " flies a kite," and hangs him by the tail, And wheels about, &c. That sallow-looking sobersides, with sentimental phiz, Is cunning Master J---- M--s,-why, lawks ma'am, so it is; Your eyes are dull, so look again, and mind what you're about, For if he is not near the pump, he's surely up the spout, To wheel about, &c. That's great Councillor S----11, ma'am, with flannel to his jaw, Who saws the air so vehemently, laying down the law; He's got into some knotty point, and seems as if in doubt, So put him in, and ask him, " Does his mother know he's out?" To turn about, &c. The next that I must notice now, is M--1 F--y M--k, Who's off, some "cogniac" to take, but not behind his back; He has a handsome boat, they say-" a clinker fore and aft ;" You never knew a lawyer, ma'am, who hadn't got his " craft," To sail about, &c. There's N-- n, the clergyman, the chaplain to the jail, Who took so strange a fancy, ma'am, to D-n O'C-'s "tail," That when great Dan was last in town he wouldn't let it go Until he put it round his neck, and jumped "Jim Crow." And wheeled about, &c. That's Mister P--1 0'C--1 there, just pulling out his watch, As slippery and as "canny," ma'am, as any of the Scotch Don't ask him what o'clock it is, for fear you'd have to pay The sum of six-and-eightpence, ma'am, for that's the "time o' day." To wheel about, &c. 292 ~CORK LYRICS. See, there's the great O'Connell, ma'am, the " topmost man " of all, Who twists all Ireland in his hand, as one would twist a ball; I'm pretty sure it must be hini, for since we left the town, I heard it said, by more than one, that he was going "down" To turn about, &c. That's Sheriff D--e near the wheel, just looking after Dan, He's "werry wexed," and by my soul, he'll "grind him" if he can; If he got Dan's " old bones," he says, for rubbing off the rust, He'd have a slap-up stock in trade, all Ireland in the dust To turn about, &c. That's little Dan M'D--1, ma'am, the painter, near the mast, Just taking down a running sketch of all that we have pass'd ; Why does he look penurious, ma'am, d'ye give it up, do you? Because a man what's " drawing Cork," is werry like a screwTo turn about, &c. JIM CROW'S BUDGET. PART II. I've paused awhile to gather way, and here we're on the run, Ship-shape and steady, trim and light, and steaming it like fun; The Maid han't got her canvass, or a "rag " upon her back, For, dang it ! these Repealers, ma'am, don't like the Union Jack. So turn about, &c. We're slipping through our hawses, just as any ship should do, Without a patent lever, or the Archimedes * screw ; Our boat is like a gossamer, and I should like to know, If she han't jump'd as gaily as Jim D-- or Jim Crow? So turn about, &c. If you han't "jump'd J-D--," ma'am, 'tis time to do it now, The way is very easy, sure, and I shall show you how; Get Weber's band to play a light fandango, or a gleeTie two half hundreds to your heels, and dance a reel of three. So turn about, &c. } Dear Con, I write this frolic for the Ladies T' instruct them, in pronouncing Archimedes; For though they're all intelligent and wise, Yet you and I may take them by surprise. CORK LYRICS. 293 That's Jim himself, an honest " man," there snuffing up the gale, And tossing, ma'am, and blowing like a porpoise, or a whale; The people call him Samson, and 'tis right to have it known, That he has bothered thousands, with his maxillary bone. So turn about, &c. You didn't see J-B--, you say ?-well, there he is at last, As plain as any pike staff, and as sturdy as the mast; A thorough paced repealer, with the "charter round his hat," A cross 'twixt Dan and Fergus, ma'am-now, what d'ye say to that? So turn about, &c. The world is a whirligig, the people all go round, And every day, in every place, examples may be found; A man must bend a little ma'am, before he counts his gains, Though he who stoops too low, you see, gets nothing for his pains. So turn about, &c. Dan doesn't like the breeze, on which JH-- seems so intentHe han't a taste for any gale, except a gale of "rent; " And so as you, and every one, may very plainly see, He's hawling off the wind, and leaving J-upon the " Lee." So turn about, &c. That's F--- B-B--, ma'am, the dandy, or the don, Who " cut his stick," and got into a clipstick with the Con. ; He's very like Lord Byron, so poetic and so trueAt least he wears his collar, just as any knight would do. So turn about, &c. That's Father Tom from Passage, too, a sample of the sod, As burly, and as pleasant, as an alderman in quod; He is a right good fellow, ma'am, and so the "bucks" allege, That though he doesn't drink, he sets his face against the "pledge." So turn about, &c. That's "smooth face," the Attorney, there, a pious sort of man, Who puzzles all the Parsons, ma'am, and gammons all he can; If he's a shining light, you see, I take it, by the mass, That what we call religion is articulated gas. So turn about, &c. That gemman near the gangway, holding tack, and giving jaw, Is famous at elections, ma'am, and skilful in the law; In hot or heavy, thick or thin, he never lost his luckDick F-won't stand on trifles when he wants to " run a bu." So turn about, &c. 294 CORK LYRICS. That's Mister John B--, it is, the agent for the ships, Who launched so many vessels by so many patent slips; 'Tis he that sends the emigrants and other folks to "say," And never stints them when they want salt water for their "tay. So turn about, &c. That's Mister W---- K-- there, or Solomon sedate, So skilled in hocus-pocus, and so measured in debate; He's got the tree of knowledge, ma'am, both root and branch,'tissaid-For if he han't the fruit, he has the timber in his head. So turn about, &c. That flashy-looking, dressy, kind of dashing sort of man, Is Mister T-- T----, ma'am, so very "spick and span;" I think it is as odd a case as any case has been, That such a sprightly spark would keep a powder magazine. So turn about, &c. That's Mister H---s, from Patrick-street,-a glaizie looking call, Who's got so many customers, he can't supply them all; He gives 'em six months' credit, ma'am, and charges like a brickFor that's the way, I've heard him say, to make 'em pay for "tick." So turn about, &c. That's Mister John M'D--,ma'am, and take him as he stands, There han't been such a wizard with the mallet in his hands; For though 'tis quite a paradox, I'll venture half-a-crown, Our Tories would stand high if old Placebo knocked 'enm down. So turn about, &c. That's Pat M'Can, an absent man, of whom I've heard it said, That putting down his kettle once, he put himself instead; And what you'll think a very odd, a very curious thing, He didn't know that he was there, till he began to sing. So turn about, &c. How curious all you women are !-you'd like to know, egad, When Paddy sat upon the bars how many bars he had, What song he sang, or tune he played-but I don't know the name Unless it was, "I've left my heart behind me in a flame! " So turn about, &c. CORK LYRICS. 295 The men are in a merry mess-all running to and fro, But what the row or rumpus is, perphaps you'd like to knowA lady lost her bodice-law ! your cheeks are in a blaze; You needn't blush, 'tis only, ma'am, "the Maid thatmissed her stays!" So turn about, &c. SAWNEY SWIPES, otherwise Captain ARCHY. On board the Maid of Erin. A TRIP TO COVE. Ai--"Jump Jim Crow." The previous lines, which appeared in the Constitution, having been very much and deservedly admired, induced the Editor to send the following for insertion in the Examiner. The steam is up-the wheels revolve-we leave the crowded quaySo here's a peep at those on board, to while the wat'ry way; Conservatives, Whigs, Radicals, Repealers, high and low, All in their turn must wheel about, and jump "Jim Crow." Wheel about, &c. That little man's N-k V-n-c-t, and beside him a fair prize, Who only wanted a Frank swain, to make her far more Wise. The Friendly Club, N-k tells us all, is going fast to pot, And like his house, a short time since, just sinking from dry rot.* So wheel about, &c. ,Next is D--k F - , a man of sharp electioneering fame, Well known by lads who fain would tack an M.P. to their name; 'Tis he could thin plantations well, tho' quickly planted o'erBut not a word of Ardrum's woods, Knocklofty, or Coohnore, But wheel about, &c. There's C-1-1 Cabaft, with mug as black as soot, lie looks a drumm'd-out soldier quite, so broken horse and foot. His last campaign, he frankly owns, has left him sick and sore, And swears in Cork they ne'er shall shave or Barber-ize him more, Or wheel about, &c. a great agent, and what not, See braw Jamie C--, A canny chiel, to match the deil-aye, "every inch a Scot." On Andrew's festival he sports plaid, kilt, and claymore wide, To greet the day he sped awa' frae auld Ben Lomond's side, And wheeled about, &c. The foundations of his, and of several other houses on the South Mall, having recently given way in a most alarming manner. 296 CORK LYRICS. That's polished Sh-r-ff D--- there, who writes in such high tones, You'd think he would not leave a " rag" on Dan O'Connell's "bones." But that one line the lad could pen, seems very much in doubt, For the only day he went to school the schoolmaster was out, So he wheeled about, &c. That chap in the white Mackintosh, who wants to "knock a hoss," Or " post " on the next coursing day, is no less than Ph-1 C--; For hand-cuffing none-tithe payers, Jack Martley thought it fair To send him up the Western road, to smooth Jack Murphy's care, To wheel about, &c. That starch'd-up, dry old bachelor, the apple girls leering, Was poor Bill Waggett's conscience-keeper, dapper A-y S--; The Corporation Rothschild he's-the Friendly Club well ken, For tho' the lads have brass enough, faith A-y has the " tin." Wheel about, &c. See on the beach G-e Edw-r-s stands, along with R-r St-ry, Who oft have quaffed a foaming cup to th' memory of " Old Glory; But they both lately took the pledge, and got their medals fine, From Father Mathew (with myself) at ould Carrigaline. Wheel about, &c. There's Ned Burke Roche, the Member, there, an Irishman as true As ever trod his own green sod, or sipp'd the mountain dew; Long may he brave old Ireland's foes, bold, fearless, firm, and free, For "Sparta hath no nobler, firmer, worthier son than he." Wheel about, &c. THE DONKEY OF DONGOURNEY: A TRAGICAL STAVE AIR-" FOR THE MILLIONS. Thady O'Brady." "After the lapse of several weeks, during which time no service was performed, the doors of Dongourney churchyard were opened by the sextoness (who comprised in her own proper person the entire congregation of the parish, whence the parson derives £600 per annum for the cure of souls), and an unfortunate donkey was discovered starved to death."-Anecdotes of Tithes and Ministers' Money, by Denis. O'Flyn, T.C. Sure, you've listened of late to a donkey's sad fate, Near the banks of the Lee and the Shoorney ; If not, then come hear what will cause a softtear For Jack Barry's poor ass of Dongourney. CORK LYRICS. 297 One morning in June, Jack, like a sad loon, Left poor Neddy, spontaneously grazing, To wander at will over valley or hill, Or wherever the pasture was plazing. Dark evening sat in-Jack gave a sour grinThe black, wat'ry Murphies being ready; The nine childer were there, with Peg, stout and fairBut the devil a tidings of Neddy. They searched high and low-to the Gap of Dunloe " Oh ! " cried Jack, "what mishap the Lord sent us Whilst Peg in despair, tore her bright golden hair,-But Edmond was still " non inventus." From the Lee to the Boyne, from the Causeway to Cloyne, Where the fine ancient " clogtheach " is rising; But the sorra a trace of the lad's time or place Could be found-which looked mighty surprising. They searched the railway, for fear some fine day He was nabb'd wide awake on the sleepers; But no clue could they find, to ease Jack's troubled mind, Or the other disconsolate weepers. Weeks and months pass'd away-moons rose and waxed grey, Whilst doubts of his fate dimly hovered; Till one morn, from the hill, rose a cry, " In the Cill, A corpse quite defunct is discovered !" All rushed in affright,-when straight to the sight, Near the church-door's untrodden green mazes, Lay poor Ned, with his nose and the "tips of his toes" Turned forenent the roots of the daisies. Now wasn't it quare,-with six hundred a-year To the parson, for curing souls straying,The church-door should be closed, where poor Neddy reposed, Being the only poor "soul" that went praying ? Says the people, says they-This must soon pass away, Or donkeys we'll all be in story; Church exaction must cease, ere this land can have peace,So we'll leave Ned "alone in his glory." 298 CORK LYRICS. THE NATIONAL EXHIBITION OF THE LAND OF THE WEST. Printed in the National Exhibition Buildings, at a Cork press, on Dublin satin, trimmed with Limerick lace, and most respectfully presented to Her Excellency the Countess of Eglinton. Whilst shrouded in sadness, Ierne still weeps O'er the grave where her own cherish'd Minstrel now sleeps;* Tho' the blast of Adversity, cheerless and chill Has swept over castle, and cottage, and hill; Yet despite each dark shadow, each sorrow untold, Her spirit, proud-buoyant, and brave as of old, Hails this National Union of Science and Art, Where Genius and Industry, join'd hand and heart, Have harmoniously blended-by unity blestTo gladden, and brighten the " Land of the West." Fair Island-translucent amid thy deep gloom, What spirits were thine, earth's broad space to illume ? From our own cherished spot in the South, see around, What gems of pure genius and grandeur abound,Thy Barry-thy Grogan-thy Forde, glorious youth ! Thy Maclise-every line breathing nature and truthThy Hogan-returned to his own sea-girt home, Bearing back fadeless laurels, from seven-hill d RomePainters-sculptors-and artisans, nobly have press'd, To shed radiance once more on the "Land of the West." What aspirants are here-to emblazon a name Which shall'yet brightly shine in the Temple of FameThy Brennan, whose " Octogenarian" is all That the scholar-and sage-to the mind can recallThy Barter, a rival to Gibbons, in skillThy Ambrose, fast climbing distinction's steep hillThy Fisher-thy Lester-so brilliant we viewWhilst Drummond-and Caseyst-young names, it is true, But who yet shall be rank'd with the brightest and best Who illum'd the dark page of the " Land of the 'West." *Written shortly after the death of Moore. J The Carver of Fletcher's Shamrock Table, &c., and his brother, the painter of the admired picture of the " Lascar," &c., at the late Exhibition. CORK LYRICS. 299 Our Viceroy we welcome, with Erin's loud cheer, To our tournament meeting of chivalry here, Where no lance shall be shiver'd-no banner smote downNo knight lose his stirrup-no lady-love frown; His fair Countess we hail, with sincerity's smile, As the daughter and pride of the Emerald Isle, And proclaiming her Beauty's fair Queen, we shall wield Lance and sword, as true knights, on this national field. Then hurrah ! for this field, of our noblest and best, May Heav'n smile once more on the " Land of the West." ON SEEING HOGAN'S STATUE OF WILLIAM CRAWFORD. Yes, it is well-'tis fitting that a genius in whose mind The classic lore of ancient days with modern art's combined, Should, by his gifted, varied powers, hand down to lasting fame The glory and the radiance that encircle Crawford's name. But, mournfully and sadly as the marble we may view Of him who, amidst Erin's sons, stood manfully and true, We feel no chisel could impart that grand ennobling grace Which marked those features-now, alas! clasp'd in cold death's embrace ! His was no mind of varying hue, to change each passing hour; Unblenchingly he ever met the glance of tyrant power, And when oppression crushed the land, ere despotism's fall, Fearless to free old Erin's sons, he rushed at Freedom's call ! With eloquence of dazzling light and pure as sunshine's ray, His voice shed hope 'mid slavery's gloom, and chased despair away ; And when the blaze of liberty illumined Erin's shore, How felt that pure, unsullied heart-alas ! to throb no more! And when his patient ear oft heard the widow's sorrowing tale, Or listened with a pitying glance to the sad orphan's wail, Then did the bounteous heart and hand, munificently kind, Shed solace o'er the cheerlessness, and soothe the youthful mind. But it is past : that spirit pure hath winged its glorious flight From the dull mist of this dim world, to dwell in mansions bright, Amid the peace of heav'nly joys, with kindred souls to soar, Where fadeless happiness shall reign, and joy be evermore ! 300 CORK LYRICS. ADDRESS Delivered on the re-opening of the Theatre Royal, George Street, having been acci dentally burned down several years previously. Long years have passed, of sad and silent gloom, Whilst sorrowing o'er this classic Temple's doom; How many a heart, to Nature's beauty true, Had throbb'd to see her mirror'd to the view As gazing on this hallowed, cherished spot, Emotions glowed of feelings ne'er forgot. Whilst musing on the dark and ruined fane Where once the Drama held its gorgeous reign, They thought, whilst pensive, heav'd the mournful sigh, Of its bright glories in the days gone by. Yes, 'twas a memory sad, 'tis true-yet proud To think of those who on these boards have bow'd To a discerning audience-ever famed To pay to Genius what it justly claimed; To cheer the young aspirant's timid gaze When shrinking from the crowded, glittering blaze, With laurel wreaths the happy brow to crown; To smooth the way to honour and renown; To light the genial torch, whose lambent flame Illum'd the path to dignity and fame. Here Siddons, in majestic pride, held sway, As Queenly Katherine, in the by-gone day; Here stood the fair O'Neill, who held to view All that great Shakespeare's magic pencil drew. Here peerless Fawcit brought Athenian lore From the Acropolis, to Erin's shore; Here Romer, Waylett, Shirreff-all combin'd With melody, each raptured soul to bind; While Catalani in the olden time Recalled the storms of bright Italia's clime. Here stood immortal Kean, sublimely grand, O'er the hushed senses holding high command; Here, while brave Tell lit up our glowing souls, Sped the sure shaft of our c wn cherished Knowles; Here matchless Power called up the merry smile (Long his sad fate shall cloud our sorrowing isle) ; CORK LYRICS. 301 Here Paganini in bright lustre shone, That wondrous wizard of the baritone." But 'twere an endless theme to tell of all The forms sad memory fondly would recall; The gifted spirits flitted to that " bourne From which no traveller shall e'er return;" The souls of mirth, and song, and wit so keen, Who shed a halo round each festal scene. But it is past-the reign of gloom is o'er; Your townsman, Burke, has raised the fane once more; This temple from the dust has proudly sprung ; Our mourning garbs to the wild waves we've flung. The trump again shall sound within these walls ; Again the strain shall wake the "marble halls; " Brave Richard shall once more refuse to yield, And Richmond conquer on red Bosworth's field. Again the " witches," spite of storm and rain, Shall tell the fortunes of the valiant Thane; And Lear, despite ingratitude's fell sting, Proclaim himself, " aye, every inch a King." Fair daughters of this city-first to you The actors' meed of gratitude is due. If cheered by your approving genial smiles And those bright glances, famed through many isles, We know the men of Cork will not refuse To rally round the Histrionic Muse; For old associations lo6k around Where graces and where loveliness abound; Whilst our best efforts in the Drama's cause Shall be produced to merit your applause, And fill each mind with thoughts of joy and bliss, And wish you many a happy night like this. " PROLOGUE. Spoken by Frederick Callaghan, Esq., at the Theatre Royal, George Street, Cork, on the night of the Amateur Performances of "Charles XII." and " Used Up," in aid of the funds of the North Infirmary, Feb. 9th, 1854. " The world's a stage !"-So wrote the bard of yore, Whose fame shall live till time will be no more; Actors, the men and women-some whose light On Fame's proud temple shines with radiance bright ; 302 CORK LYRICS. And standing on this classic hallowed spot, Fond memories rise, which ne'er can be forgot, At recollections of the by-gone day : When " Siddons " in majestic pride held sway; And peerless fair " O'Neill," who held to view All that the histrionic pencil drew. Here " Kemble," " Kean," "Macready," all combined To hold "life's mirror " to each raptured mind; Here, whilst brave " Tell " lit up your glowing souls, Sped the sure shaft of our own glorious "Knowles." And here was lately seen the varying hue That shadowed the weak steps of " Richelieu ;" And "Brooke," to whom be honour and renown, From you received the priceless Thespian crown. This night, before you as we boldly stand, We seek not to eclipse that Starry band, But come recruiting for the noblest cause That ever from an audience gained applause-To dash the gushing tear from misery's eye, To chase from pain the sad and mournful sigh. Who on this earth more generous can be found Than those kind friends I gladly see around ? We come, then, fearless as the Royal Swede Who feared not shell, nor sword, nor ambuscade ; Even I myself-when on the stage you see, I hope you'll not be " Used up" by "ennui," If so, and you should feel inclined to dose, The new Town Council may then interpose; And if all others then, alas ! should fail, C-- W-- may send you by the Passage Rail, Where you may witness the grand embarkation Of these my colleagues ere they quit the nation. Perchance ere long, some of our "corps " afar, Shall measure sword-blades with the haughty Czar. Whether triumphant on the battle-plain, Or fated never to return again,* Whate'er the fortune of the war may be, Their thoughts on this night's kindness ne'er shall flee : And 'midst the battle's smoke and cannon's blaze, Dwell on "faire" Cork, and "Light of other days." * It is a melancholy coincidence that nearly all the officers who performed on these occasions were "fated never to return again," having shortly after died of disease in the Crimea, or fallen in the fatal battle-field: CORK LYRICS. 303, EPILOGUE. Spoken by Frederick Callaghan, Esq., at the Theatre Royal, George Street, Cork, on the night of the Amateur Performances of "12 o'Clock at Night" and " Used Up" in aid of the funds of the Cork Fever Bospital, Feb. 25th, 1854. Though near the calm and witching hour of night, I hope the audience are not " Used up" quite; Some hours remain ere midnight's solemn chime Proclaims the progress of Old Father Time; But were I Hamlet waiting for the GhostOr Napier, thundering on a hostile coastI'd pause-and gazing round this brilliant scene, Where all is radiant, joyous, and serene, My heart with gratitude beyond conception, And throbbing deeply for my kind reception, Would pray that all may be supremely blest With dreams of pleasure and "a good night's rest. Some few days since I heard a tasteless clown, Repeat " your Amateurs will tire the town," The people are " Used up " like jaded hacks, Each purse " cleaned out " by the dear Income Tax, They'll vote your dull Theatricals a bore, And crowd to see yourself and corps no more. I answered, " Silly critic hold your peace. I'll tell you when our audience shall decrease, Whose generous hearts have never yet withstood, The call of misery caused by 'field or flood,' Who've ever ministered, as you do now, To cool the parching lip, and burning brow, And as once more you've warmly welcomed me, I'll tell you also when that time shall be." Soon as the ocean wave with billows swell, Shall drown the chimes of the sweet " Shandon Bells," When Captain Archy in a friendly vein, Flings out a rope to tow the Passage Train,* When our brave garrison shall tamely yield, Or Fifth Dragoons in panic fly the field; Soon as the Mayor t becomes a sordid Jew* Written when the railway and steamers were not on such affectionate terms as at present. t John N. Murray, Esq. Z04 CORK LYRICS. A Shylock, as the Bard of Avon drew; When young Medical Students grow too quiet (Tho' lately they had awful cause for riot, When the oblivious Band forget to play Our glorious and immortal " Patrick's Day") When Albert from our Gracious Queen shall fly, And quitting Windsor turn a Russian spy ! When I feel not in my heart's inmost core, Rejoiced to meet your gladsome smiles once more, When " Turban'd Turk " and "Russian Bear" embrace,Then shall your bounteousness forever cease, Then-not till then-munificence shall flee, " The pleasant waters of the River Lee." FILL TO THE TRUE AND BRAVE. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. Written for the Crimean Banquet in Dublin. Fill to the true and brave, The valiant and the glorious, Who fought by Alma's wave, Triumphantly victorious. O'er Balaklava's heights who swept, Tho' Cossack hordes surrounded, And "Death or Glory" were the words That from their lines resounded. And whilst proudly the Banner of France waved on high, And nobly her sons rush'd to conquer or die, Not less fearless the cheer shed dismay through their foes From the lines where were blent Shamrock, Thistle, and Rose. Then fill to the true and brave, The valiant and the glorious, Who fought by Alma's wave, Triumphantly victorious. Peace to the brave who fell, The noble lion-hearted, A nation's wail shall be the knell O'er the graves of her heroes departed. CORK LYRICS. 305 Tho' spectral Death with pallid face Frown'd dark, and grimly o'er them, They shrank not back from his chill embrace, But fought as their sires before them. And they breath'd their last sigh in the Temple of Fame, Long shall memory cherish each warrior's name, And laurels unfading shall bloom o'er the brave Who lie shrouded in glory by Alma's dark wave. Peace to the brave and true, The immortal and the glorious, Who fought by Alma's ensanguined wave, O'er the Russian host victorious. SON SEEING THE PICTURE OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS: " THE MORNING OF HER EXECUTION." 'Tis morn-but for thee, hapless Mary, The last that shall rise o'er thy woes, Soon from life's journey ,tedious and weary, In death wilt thou meet calm repose; Tears are shed for the humble and lowly, When from earth's fettered bondage set free, And the thron'd 'mid the blissful and holy, Fair Martyr we mourn still for thee. Where has flown thine eyes radiance-once glancing So brightly?-how lustreless now ! Where that gaze once so deeply entrancingWhere the pride of thy beautiful brow? Where the tinge of that cheek, whose warm glowing The sun-flash of loveliness shed? Where those locks in luxuriance once flowing?All withered-all faded-all fled. Alas! dimm'd are thine orbs' beamy brightnessChill-cheerless the light of thy smile, Care has furrowed thy brow's snowy whiteness, And silvered each dark tress the while: But fearlessly calm-Hope is flinging Her rays thy dark path to illume; To the faith of thy forefathers clinging, Unshrinking thou meetest thy doom. 306 CORK LYRICS. 'Tis eve-thy pure, angelic spirit Hath joyously flitted away, Its martyrdom's crown to inherit, Where no false-hearted Tigress holds sway; Long may earth's darkest-worst execration Thy Murd'ress's epitaph beWhilst each heart's deepest-saddest pulsation, Shall throb, hapless Mary, for thee. THE LAMENT ON FLETCHER'S "SHAMROCK ON ITS DEPARTURE FOR THE TABLE," NEW YORK EXHIBITION. " Long had been thy sleep, my Harp."-Inscriptionon the Shamrock Table. Who can wonder the Harp of old Erin should sleep? That the wail of her dirge should resound o'er the deep, That trampled, and slighted, her children should be, That to earth's farthest chimes they despairingly flee. When we witness, with sorrow, a gem of the Isle, On which national spirit should lavishly smile, Which all of true feelings should proudly have prized, Neglected-dishonoured-unpurchased-despised. Oh !no wonder the harp, that so sweetly once thrill'd In the " dark chain of silence " should sadly be chill'd, That the land should be swept by adversity's gale And faded the glories of old Innisfail; When the Shamrock itself from our Island must flee To Columbia, the home of the fearless and free. Yet tho' sad its past fate-will its verdure be seen Where the hearts are as pure as our emerald green, In that land whose kind bounteousness brightened our shore When the clouds of affliction had shadowed us o'er; That spell-word of Freedom, of Washington's birth, From which Franklin, like " lightning," illumined the earth, Where, in Pierce grand and eloquent, noble and true, The President-orator statesman we view; In fine-where our Shamrock neglected at home, O'er the foaming Atlantic is driven to roam, 'Twill be cherished and blest in a far distant sphere, Its leaves once more blooming, fresh, verdant, and fair, And prized, as Immortal Green Shamrocks should be, In Columbia, the land of the fearless and free. CORK LYRICS. 307 ON SEEING MR. GALLAHER THE VENTRILOQUIST, ON MONDAY, SEP. 5TH, 1836. Written immediately after his performance. If the spirit of Momus and Proteus yet In the frame of one mortal were happily met, And for mirth-loving souls, by dame nature designed, 'Tis in thee, wondrous Gallaher, all are combined. O ! who that could see thee, as I have, to-night, But must think on thee long with enraptured delight, The poor, half-starved Richard lamenting his wrongs, And curing the toothache, by virtue of tongs. Thy plethoric Alderman-gouty and gruffImbibing his bottles, his pills, and such stuff. Whilst his sweet " cara sposa," behind and before, Tottering in with the gossamer step of four score. Then the bold dashing Captain--so fond of the fair, So feathered, and booted, " la militaire;" In the skirmish of gallantry, who so sublime, A love-speech to lisp, or, a chimney to climb; Whilst sweet Deborah, Venus-like, spring from the wave, Thinks the fair should be ever the prize of the brave: To be sure these were fine folks,-but Paul, oh ! 'twas Paul, Oh ! glorious Paul Doherty you surpassed all. They may talk of Jack Johnson, and some now in vogue, But for musical richness-for beautiful brogueFor the smack of the buttermilk, who'd not have hung Enraptured for years, on each note from his tongue. And whilst harmony's magic your souls would enthrall, You'd allow, even Leonard, is rivall'd by Paul; How delicious the tone of sweet melody drawn When touching the fiddle with drone like strouncane; And then-Oh ! his lectures on music so fine, But 'tis folly to think a description like mine Could paint half his humours. If any there be Afflicted with tic-doloreux-gout--ennui, Or such sweet companions, I'll give them a cure That their quick convalescence will promptly ensure, And shed o'er their spirits a flood of delight, Let them go and see Gallaher every night. 308 CORK LYRICS. LOLA MONTEZ. TO A LADY, WITH A PORTRAIT OF OUR CELEBRATED TOWNSWOMAN.* Oh ! far-fam'd Lola Montez, What varied scenes were thine, Since from Cork's beauteous city You sail'd along the Rhine; But ruling in Bavaria, With Orange bigot sway, Rome's ancient flock upset your throne And chas'd you far away. Next in the circus dazzling All Paris with your glare, When as an agile Columbine You floated high in air; Surpassing Taglioni In gracefulness and whirl, The world was lost in wonder At our famous Irish Girl. In London next entrancing The verdant Captain Heald, How sad I felt at hearing That your star had dimly pal'd, And Europe grown too hot for you ; Again you stemm'd the tide, And sail'd free Columbia, for With your Bull-dog by your side. Oh, Lola ! tho' you've wander'd From the flock of ancient Rome And tho' you sport your horse-whip, Will you come to my "sweet home ;" And go "no more a roving," But we'll live in love and peace, And your life glide as a streamlet, When the wintry breezes cease. SIt may not be generally known that the far-famed ex-Empress of Bavaria was born on the Grand-Parade, and left her native home as the fascinating Miss T-- some years since. Her reign during the "protectorate" of King Ludwig ; her bull-dog companion; her sinecureless horse-whip; her expulsion from Munich; the destruction of her splendid palace; the profanation of her magnificent apartments, glittering with gems of bijouterie and vertu ; and her subsequent adventures in Paris, London, and America, stamp her as worthy a passing notice, as one of the notorieties of "the Beautiful City.' CORK LYRICS. THE COLONEL'S AIr-" LAST KICK. De nite before Larry was stretched." " The third and'last time-going, going-gone."-JACK M'DONNEL r. Oh ! the night the poor Colonel came back, After being quite sea-sick at Dover; The five-forty.lads looking black, And fearing the game was all over, Assembled in Cumberland Hall, A match to procure for their Hero, For they knew that his powder and ball Was all spent-and his purse down to Zero, That for pipe-clay itself, he was shook. Long W(the chairman) : "Hoped soon He'should have the proud satisfaction To name a Man, with their Dragoon, Who, this third and last time, came to action; To be sure they've refused by the score, Joe Lhimself turned uncivil, But when he appealed to Coolmore, He pitched us and our cause to the devil, And swore he'd be plundered no more. ' Tho' Baron's sweet Bucks are all dead (To their manes, one sad tear of pity), And some of our best men have bled, Yet 'twas all for the pride of the City. Shall two Papists, against us arrayed, For one moment, with fear have dismayed us ?No ! methinks the immortal great shade Of King William starts up to upbraid us, And remind us of glories gone by. " A few thousands will be near enough To buy up the Papist freeholders, Whilst Jeffreys can scribble more stuff To Convart to our cause, all beholders. Our Freemen are all pure as snow, And will ne'er sell their votes for base mammon," "By my soul," cried Bill F----, "no go,Peter Govis a'nt that purty gammon." (Here silence was called from the chair.) 309 310 CORK LYRICS. Then there's D-- so black to the core, " Will name Deputies, willing and able, Whilst the agents can do as before, The Testaments steal off the table :" Here the lean sorry Sergeant said-" See How the ' word' still was sinners reclaiming," (For like Gregg, and M'Neile, and M'Ghee, Your true saint beats the devil at scheming, To answer his own pious end.) Said the Sword-fish, " If not quite amiss, I've a friend of great note, who last session (You all heard of Lying Bob T--,") Exposed to the House Dan's oppression; For you know that an oath or a lie Ought not stop a true Cumberland Brother, Like myself, too, his whitewash is dry," " Phoo !" they all cried, "look out for another," Some lad with the blunt-no mistake. " Next they call'd on "de Knight o' de plane," But T-- shook his mug uncomplying, Then Phil C-- was applied to, in vain (Tho' prime handcuffs he promised supplying). Poor Jack Flood said " his tide was too low," And fear'd it would be a " walk over; " 'tis all " hop and go, Says Jack S--, We're like turkey-cocks waltzing in clover, And our gills faith are fast growing pale." Then Sheepface-the larned, and brightIn style so terse, classic, and clever, Said "he'd name One their battle to fight, And had thousands to back the.endeavour;" He meant the bould Colonel Kennah, Who had blunt for, at least, one election; cried, starting up, " Bah ! Here Dick E-By my oath, ye shan't fleece my Kin-nexion, No ! no ! boys, I know ye too well." On Jamie they next made a draw, Who to Midleton led them to action; But Sawney sung out, " Hoot awa', What's about me of Irish extraction ? ! CORK LYRICS. 311 To gie up beef, and mutton sae fine, And wi' kail barley-meal to be chawin', To gang back to the days o' langsyne When the pibroch sae shrill I was blawin' (As the Sang said)-de wind for my breeks. "But stop," said the lad, " wait a wee I ken if ye want ane o' metal, I hae a braw bairn in my e'e, The daft, swiping chiel frae Dunkettle; I've sma' haud on his acres afore, Sin' the County boys gied him a lesson, An' if we can coax him ance mair, By my saul, I ken who'll be possessin' The broad lan' not far frae Northesk." But the youth, faith, refused to come out, Tho' the great Lady M besought him, And threw in a few rounds of Stout And some Cats-but experience had taught him, Tho' Dick F-pledged his word 'twould be seen That the Rads were all split into sections, Whilst N-- showed how Coolmoreen Was improved by a few small elections, And so would Dunkettle, of course. Thus refused in all quarters-and shook, To the Colonel they took the sad storyThat he'd have the singular luck To stand all "alone in his glory; " But ere many days pass away, Fleec'd-badgered-bedevilled-forsakenHe'll be seen skulking down to the quay, Like a dog (his deck passage scarce taken), W\ith a Canister tied to his tail. THE BURIAL OF THE COLONEL. Being the sorrowful lamentation of the Mournful Conservatives on the melancholy fate of their forlorn, despised, and rejected Petition, as sung in full chorus at his wake, in Faulkner's Lane, on Wednesday night last, of "glorious and immortal memory." AI-" Not a Drum was Heard." Sad and dismal appeared the Conservative camp, Where each heart was with sorrow breaking, And only one sputtering dying lamp Flickered dim, where our Colonel was waking. 312 CORK LYRICS. Deserted by all, save a faithful few, Like the corpse of a Turk or a Pagan, They curs'd, whilst the glim burn'd luridly blue, The sad triumph of Murphy and Fagan. " They curs'd all the clargy" so wicked and " bould," To their Hero such enmity bearing, But of all the foes to their champion so "cowld," They denounc'd " The fair Daughter's of Erin." They spoke of the day, when in martial array, As long as the road to Kildinan, And waving green boughs (as they say in the play), "Birnam wood march'd along to Dunsinan." Morning dawn'd-and they blew out the sorrowful glim, Hardly fit to wake " Papist " or " Kerne," Whilst they stow'd in a Norwegian jacket each limb Of their Chief, and prepar'd for the " berrin." First march'd the agents, who said want of "brads Occasion'd their cause to miscarry ; And where could be found more immaculate lads, Than long D-- and his partner, sweet H-- Sure all was quite true what the poor boy swore, Bloody murder and intimidationHow thousands of villains, big bludgeons all bore, And the paving-stones "laid for th' occasion." As chief mourner, stalk'd " de lad " from Ducloyne. (Oh ! how dimm'd is that name once so glorious, Who ! despite Coward James, had he charg'd at the Boyne, Would make Erin unchang'd and victorious !) Oh ! to think that in Harpur's Lane, one should go vot. (Where " de shavers " pursue their vocation), Whose ancestor bore the curs'd standard of yore, When King Harry invaded the nation. Next crowds of poor Freeman stalk'd mournfully on (As vultures round prey love to linger), Deploring that bribery's reign should be gone, And the " tin" they no longer could finger. 011 CORK LYRICS. To Monkstown they went, where the Giant Stairs Frown over the deep waves flowing, And after a few " Doxological " pray'rs, Says Phil C---, "Boys, 'tis time to be going." And in the dark billows they then pitch'd him down, Whilst they sigh'd o'er his pitiful story; Then eachf," lad " took his " third class " ticket for to-vn "And left him alone in his glory." THE YOUNG "PRINCE OF RAILS," THE LAST FORLORN DODGE OF THE COUNTY "CONS." Hudson, jun., the heir-apparent of the well-known Railway King, having threatened to contest the county of Cork in 1852, quietly and unexpectedly resigned on the day of nomination; having, as his friends stated, great fears of a repetition of such scenes as had taken place in Cork the previous week, when a few assemblages of the " fair daughters of Erin," armed with " green boughs," occasioned such terror in the minds of the Conservative party that the rejection of Colonel Chatterton was the melancholy consequence. AIRx-" De Nite before Larry was stretch'd." Well, of all spots in Europe-so shuckSo craving of foreigners' bountySo lost to one spark of true pluck,Who can vie with the Cons of our County ? Who cajoled, but last March, with false tales (Whilst plucking) poor gullible Frewen ; They've now caught the young "Prince of Rails" Speeding fast on the " Railroad of Ruin; " But soon, faith, his Steam will be slack. Tho' his Pa-the famed King once so highIs deposed, from strong rumours of scheming, The Shareholders' fobs running dry, But himself glorious "dividends " claiming ; Thus, in England whilst scoffed and despised, To Ireland his Cub is invited, For his ill-gotten plunder he's prized; Shame-shame that so ill was requited, Tom S-- and all your own boys. Si f CORK LYRICS. For poor Shouldham, being one of our own, I feel, for the boy's being swindled, As soon will he feel with a groan, When Dunmanway's bare acres have dwindled ; And when George, like his Pa, is dethroned, And the " Golden Calf's " bleat becomes weaker, How sad will his fate be bemoaned By Joe F--, the sly Youghal Quaker, The primest lad out of them all ! ! ! Your " backers," we know by their hue, Every National tie have long sundered; The people well know the base crew That for ages have pillaged and plundered. They cannot forget how they swept Young and old from the homes they so cherished, Perhaps silently you may have wept O'er the graves of the millions who perished, Most potent and soft " Prince of Rails ! ! !" I'd advise you, if much at a loss, To " spancel " a voter uncivil, To hire honest, worthy Phil C-Who'll handcuff the lad like a devil. You may vote, then, our clergy to slay, And for ransacking convents quite manly, Then take a box seat in the "shay" Now driven by scorpion-tongued Stanly, The famed "Darby Dilly " of " o(ld." The "Old Chip" is come, too, from York, His ill-gotten rhino to squander, And throw out our proud Members for Cork, With C--'s great power-" the Highlander." But, my ex-Railway King, soon your Crown Shall be sullied and floored like your scheming, When you dare to cry, "Papists, lie down," And our Mayor and pure Sheriff defaming; Shame on those who could hear your base lies ! !! But the game is all up-when the lads Who drained Ardrum-Coolmore-Castle-MaryHave lightened your fobs of "de brads," They'll leave you forlorn, shuck, and weary ; CORK LYRICS. 315 When sent back to Dunmanway and York, Amid groans from Kinsale to KilcullyLoud cheers shall re-echo through Cork, For pure, high-minded Roche, and brave Scully, M.P.'s for Cork County so great. SON G, Written for the Dejeuner to the Earl of Carlisle, in Queenstown, 1856. AI--" Patrick'sDay." Oh ! Erin tho' gloomy and sad is the story The page of thy History holds to our view, In the days when oppression o'er-clouded thy glory, When thy foemen were many, thy friends were fewOh then was the hour, When despite bigot power, One voice ever rose against tyranny's rule, And Morpeth's high name Flung dishonour and shame On the foes of our land.-Then with loud acclamation We hail the true champion of Erin's green isle : Whilst our " Cead mille failte " resounds thro' the nation, To welcome the noble-the pure Carlisle. In our land of the South amid beauties abounding, Where Nature has lavished her gifts "rich and rare," See the waves of the mighty Atlantic resounding To waft the proud barque from Columbia's sphereTo what port with such pride, O'er the ocean so wide, Could the star-spangled banner so gloriously glide ! Then think how we'll shout, when fair Queenstown's a station To hail the American flag with a smileWhilst cheer upon cheer swells the loud acclamation, For Erin's old friend-noble, true Carlisle. The following local effusions, by several hands, are appended at the request of some friends-" The Bells of Shandon," and "The Groves of Blarney," of world-wide celebrity, are too well known to require insertion, with the exception of the additional verse to Millikin's lubrication, from the pen of the renowned and learned " Father Prout :"There is a stone there That whoever kisses, Oh ! he never misses To grow eloquent; 316 CORK LYRICS. 'Tis he may clamber To a lady's chamber, Or become a mimber 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, For he's a pilgrim From the Blarney stone. THE SHANDON'BELLS. BY FATHER PROUT. "The Groves of Blarney." With deep affection And recollection I often think. of Those Shandon Bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, 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. TUNE.- I've heard bells chiming Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine, While at a glib rate Brass tongues would vibrate, But all their music Spoke nought like thine; CORK LYRICS. For memory dwelling On each proud swelling Of thy belfry knelling Its hold notes free, Made the Bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling Old "Adrian's Mole" in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, 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. 0 ! 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 0 In St. 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. 317 318 CORK LYRICS. O! BLARNEY CASTLE, MY DARLING. APPEARED IN THE "CORK REPORTER " SOME YEARS SINCE. Oh ! Blarney Castle, my darling, you're nothing at all but a stone, With a small little taste of ould ivy, that up on your side has grown; Och ! it's you that was once strong and ancient, and you kept all the Sassenachs down, And you sheltered the Lord of Clancarty, who then lived in Dublin town. Bad cess to that robber, ould Cromwell, and to all his long battering train, Who rowl'd over here like a porpoise, in two or three hookers, from Spain; And because that he was a Freemason, he mounted a Battering Ram, And he loaded it up with dumb powder, which in at its mouth he did cram. It was now the poor boys of the Castle looked over the battlement wall, And they saw that ruffian, ould Cromwell, a-feeding on powder and ball; And the fellow that married his daughter, with a big grape shot in his jaw, 'Twas the bould I-er-ton they called him, and he was his brother-in-law. So they fired off the bullet like thunder, and it flew through the air like a snake, And they hit the high walls of the Castle, which like a young curlew did shake, While the Irish had nothing to fire but their bows an' their arrows"the sowls," Poor tools for shooting the Sassenachs, tho' mighty good for wild fowls. Now, one of the boys of the Castle he took up a Sassenach's shot, And he covered it up in turf ashes, and he watched it till it was red hot, Then he carried it up in his fingers, and he threw it right over the wall, He'd have burnt their tents all to tinder if on them it happened to fall. The ould Castle it trimbled all over, as you'd see a horse do in July When, just near the tail, in his crupper, he's teased by a pesterin' fly; Black Cromwell he made a dark signal-for in the black art he was deepSo, tho' the eyes of the people stood open, they found themselves all fast asleep. 319 CORK LYRICS. With his jack-boots he stepped on the water, and he march'd right over the lake, And his soldiers they all followed after as dry as a duck or a drake; And he gave Squire Jeffreys the castle, and the loch, and the rock-close they say, Who both died there, and lived there in quiet, as his ancestors do to this day.* DE GROVES OV DE POOL. Though generally attributed to honest Dick Millikin, some doubts exist as to its paternity; but as my learned and erudite antiquarian friend, John Windele, has been able to trace it to his pen, his decision on the subject is final. Whoever was the author, it is not inferior to Dean Burrowes' celebrated "Nite before Larry was stretch'd." Now de war, dearest Nancy, is ended, And the peace is come over from France, So our gallant Cork city militia Back again to headquarters advance. No longer a beatin' dose rebels, We'll now be a beatin' de bull, And all oder genteel recreations Dat are found in de Groves ov de Pool. CHORUS. Ri fol de rol didder ol loddy, &c. Wisha sweat off last tuck you may battle ov ! ould Blackpool, 'tis I was longin to see you, says Jerry Brophy, wipin the ov his forehead wid de tail ov his wig-'tis many a long march I had since I a look up Dublin Hill. Oh, mudder! says Jerry to poor ould Mrs. Brophy, thank Curnel Dawly over dere, for ever seein me alive; bekeys, you see at the Waxford, when de pike men charged us, he ran away fust and we folly'd him. Wid our ri fol didder rol, &c. Den out came our lovin' relations To see wor we livin' or no, Besides all de jolly ould neighbours All around us who flock'd in a row. Father Prout, besides several other improved variations, concludes thus :Then the gates he burnt down to a cinder, And the roof he demolish'd likewise ; ! the rafters they flam'd out like tinder, And the building flared up to the skies. And he gave the estate to the Jeffers, With the dairy, the cows, and the hay, And they lived there in clover, like heifers, As their ancestors do to this day. O 120 CORK LYRICS. De noggins of sweet Tommy Walker We lifted accordin' to rule, And wetted our necks wid de native Dats brewed in de Groves ov de Pool. Ri fol de rol, &c. Arrah ! be de hokey, de girls ov Cork bates out all Ireland entirely for blood, bone, an beauty, says Corporal O'Mullighan. See how dey're pullin de ribbons out ov dere bonnets wid joy to see us safe an sound. Search de world all over, an who can hould a farden candle to um, fat an lean, long or short? Wid dere ri fol didder rol, &c. . When de reg'ment marched into de Commons, 'Twould do your heart good for to see, You'd tink not a man nor a woman Was left in Cork's famous city ; De boys dey came flockin' around us, Not a hat or wig stuck to a skull, All to compliment dose Irish heroes Dat sprung from " de Groves ov de Pool." Ri fol de rol, &c. Arrah! poor ould New Bridge, does I see you once more? says Paddy Kinnealy, blowin his nose. Yea, den, Bill, don't you remimber when dis bridge was a ferry, an all de ships would be walkin up an down by dereselves, your sowl to glory? Wid your fol didder rol, &c. Wid our band out before us in order We played comin' in to de town, We up'd wid de ould "Boyne Water," Not forgettin' "de Croppies lie down; " Bekase you may read in the newses Dat 'twas we made dose rebels so cool, Who all tought, like Turks, or like Jewses, To murder "de Boys ov de Pool." Ri fol de rol, &c. Arrah ! Bill, an warn't we de boys to keep up de glory ov de Pool! Sure whin de rebels came forenent us, didn't we shoot dem all, an make de rest run away. Stop, says I to one fellow. No, I won't, says he. Den here's at you, says I; so I up wid my gun an shot him rite true de body, and blew his brains out-and who de devil should he be all de time but a womman-an den, Jack Kidney, says I, isn't it a pitty he didn't tell us he was a womman, for you know a Pool Boy never yet offended one ov de fair sex. Wid dere fol didder rol, &c. 0 ! sure dere's no nation in Munster Wid de Groves ov de Pool can compare, Where dose heroes were all edicated, An de nymphs are so comely an' fair, CORK LYRICS. 321 Wid de gardens around entertainin' Wid sweet purty posies so full, Dat is worn by dose comely young creatures Dat walks in " de Groves ov de Pool." Ri fol de rol, &c. Arrah ! where would you find sich a spot in de universal world for nature in all its beauty? Don't be botherin me about Greeshun an Roman heroes of ould, wid dere Romulus an Remus, an Pluto an Hector, an de rest of um. Don't be telling me about Venus, an Juno, an Homer, and de likes in ould times. Show me among um all sich a daisy-cutter as Nelly Molloy over dere; or sich an ankel as Peg Deloohery can sport ov a fair day. Wid her fol der didder rol, &c. Oh ! many's de time, late an early, Dat I wished I was landed again Where I'd see de sweet Watercourse flowin', Where de tanners dere glory maintain; Likewise dat divine habitation* Where dose babbies are all sent to school, Dat never had fader nor moder, But were found in " de Groves ov de Pool." Ri fol de rol, &c. Arrah ! yer sowls to blazes, says Teddy Cassidy; where would you see sich a bit ov land for the edificating ov babbies dat were found high and dry meanderin in de groves. Haven't dey de best ov aitin and drinkin, not to say a word about de larnin, an aint dey brought up to all sorts ov vartue in regard to deyre poor sowls, for you know when wanst dey gets inside de gate, dey may turn, as my cuzzen Bill Bradshaw of Bandon saysTurk, Jew, or Atheist, Or any thing at all, barin' a Papist. Wid deyre fol didder, rol, &c. Come all ye young youths ov dis nation, Come fill up a bumper all round, Drink success to Blackpool navigation, And may it wid plenty be crown'd. * Alias the Foundling Hospital, established in 1735, for the purpose of fostering the growth of juvenile props of the Established Church; but, alas! in 1857 its occupation's gone, being now "converted into the magnificent Lady's Well Brewery of Messrs. Murphy." " To what base use, Horatio, may we come," 'Tis sure enough to strike a person dumb To see that spot, where once so bould and true, Young "freemen" were brought up, of staunch true blue. But all is chang'd, alas! they've got the route, And in their place flows Murphy's ale and stout. x 322 CORK LYRICS. Here's success to de jolly hoop-coilers, Likewise to de shuttle an spool; To de skinners, an worthy glue-boilers Dat lives in "de Groves ov de Pool." Ri fol de rol, &c. Well, well, says Larry Doolan, dey may talk ov "de music ov de speres," but to my taste, dere's notin to aiquil de hummin ov de shuttel an loom, dat's barrin only whin on Sunday evenin de boys and girls would be all in dere best bibs and tuckers dancin at " de Glory ov de World's," and listenin to Thady M'Kewin strikin up a strounkaun on de pipes, ov de ould ancient tune, describin de praises an recreashuns ov de beautiful " Groves." THE TOWN OF PASSAGE, There are no less than three versions of the Town of Passage, all of which being rather amusing are inserted, though all evident imitations of the immortal "Groves of Blarney." PART I. THE town of Passage is neat and spacious, All situated upon the sea, The ships a-floating, and the youths a-boating With their cotton coats, on each summer's day. 'Tis there you'd see, both night and morning, The men-of-war with fresh, flowing sails, The bould lieutenants, and the tars so jolly, All steering for Cork in a hackney chaise. 'Tis there's a statue, drawn by nature, Leaping from the mud to the dry land, A lion, or leopard, or some fierce "crature" With a reading-made-easy in his hand." There's a "rendy-vou house" for each bould hero To take on, whose heart beats high, The colours a-dropping, and the childer's rockets All pinned across it, hanging out to dry. 'Tis there's the strand, too, that's deck'd with oar-weeds, And tender gob-stones, and mussel shells; And there's skeehories, and what still more, is Some comely, fresh flowing, water rills. 'Tis there the ladies, when break of day is, Their tender loviers do often pelt, While some are airing, and some are bathing, Quite unadorned, to enjoy their health. SThe figure.head of an old ship, for many years stationary at the water's edge. CORK LYRICS. 323 And there's a ferry-boat that's quite convenient, For man and horse for to take a ride, And 'tis there in clover, you may cross over To Carrigaloe, at the other side. There may be seen, 0 ! the sweet Marino With its trees so green, 0 ! and fruit so red, And lovely White Point, and right forenent it The Giant's Stairs, and ould Horse Head. There's a house for lodgers, at one Molly Bowen's Where often goes in one Simon Quin,* Where without a coat on, you'd hear him grope'on The door to open, and let him in ; Then straight up stairs,-one pair of windys, With the slates alone 'twixt him and the sky, Oh ! 'tis there till morning, the fleas all swarming Do keep him warm where he does lie. PART II. Oh !Passage town is of great renown, For we go down in our buggies there On a Sunday morning, all danger scorning, To get an airing at sweet Passage fair. Oh !'tis there you'd see the steam-boats sporting Upon Lough Mahon, all so fair to view, Bould Captain O'Brien with his colours flying, And he a vieing with the Waterloo. There's a patent slip in, and a dock for shipping, And whale-boats skipping upon the tide; There ships galore is, and Cove before us, With Carrigaloe at the other side. 'Tis there's the hulk that's well stor'd with convicts Who were never on deck till they went to "say," Who'll ne'er touch dry land, nor Rocky Island, Until they spy land at Botany Bay. Then here's success to this foreign station, Where American ships without horses ride, And "Portugeeses " from every nation Comes in rotation upon the tide. The writer himself. This song was sung with great effect, in London, by poor Charley Connor. 324 CORK LYRICS. But not forgetting Haulbowline Island, That was constructed by Mrs. Deane, 'Tis herself's the lady that has stowed the Water To supply the vessels upon the main. Those brave sons of Neptune-I mean the boat-menWill ferry you over from Cove to Spike, And outside the harbour are fishers sporting, Watching a nibble from a sprat or pike; While their wives and daughters from no danger shrinking, All night and morning they roam about The mud and the sandbanks, for the periwinkles, And shrimps, and cockles, when the tide is out. PART III Is nearly a repetition of the others, with the exception of the following:- Mud cabins swarm in This place so charming, With sailors' garments Hanging out to dry ; And each abode is Long and commodious, With pigs melodious In their straw-built sty. 'Tis there the turf is And lots of "murphys," Dead sprats and herrings, And oyster shells; Nor any lack, oh ! Of good tobacco, Tho' what is smuggled By far excels. THE PARSON. The following appeared in a Cork paper in the heat of the tithe agitation. It was generally attributed to a parish priest in the neighbourhood of Bantry, and was very popular at the time of its publication:- There was a parson Who loved divarshun And ne'er was harsh on His flock so few; CORK LYRICS. 'Twas he dress'd sleekly, And look'd so meekly While preaching weekly To one or two. They saw him one day, And that was Sunday, For early Monday He was off for fun, To a steeple chaseA hunt-or race, Or else a blaze With his double-gun. He hated Papists And separatists, And call'd them "Atheists" And idolaters; With anger swelling He would be telling Of Oliver Cromwell And the civil wars. He'd hang the Pope With a cable rope, And destroy all hope In his partisans; It was his notion The salt-sea ocean Should be the portion Of the Irish clans. The tithe was heavy That he did levy, And he kept a "bevy" Of tithing men,Each hell-fire villain, For one white shilling, To swear was willing, Through thick and thin. Each quarter session They got their lesson, The poor to press on With all their might ; 326 CORK LYRICS. Full fifteen hundred, And never under it, Were yearly plundered, Both wrong and right. He had a lodger, A knowing "codger," Whose name was Roger, His parish "clark," And with Hodge's daughter, Whatever brought her, Liv'd in hot water From dawn till dark. A woman bolder, A greater "scolder," Youthful, or older, No house could boast, Her eye was evil, Her tongue uncivil, And like a "devil" She rul'd the "roast." This reverend TorySo runs the storyLiv'd in his glory Till twenty-nine, When "emancipation " Impair'd his reason, Which he swore 'twas treason For the King to sign. The Bill "reforming" Next set him stormingTo him 'twas warning That he should flee; Then the " Bishop's " docking Was very shocking, With Captain Rock in His memory. His glebe he quitted, But had it fitted, As all admitted, In a gallant style- CORK LYRICS. A police station, Its designation, With accommodation For rank and file; 'Twas stored with halters For tithe defaulters, And church assaulters, Both far and near ; But I grieve to state itHe was defeated By those he hated, As you shall hear. His bould campaigners, And tithe distrainers, Were little gainers For all their toil; Without resistance, At civil distance, Was found assistance To house the spoil. The warfare ended With his visions splendid And his cash expendedWhile spend he couldHis grand resources And famous forces, Had run their courses, And done no good. His mind got troubled, His loss was doubled, He had been bubbled By bad advice; He would take none Of the Million Loan, Tho' all must own It was payment nice. Then it was said He took to his bed When the Bill was read That but gave him part; 327 328 CORK LYRICS. He groan'd and sigh'd, Every cure was tried, And he shortly died Of a broken heart. Ullagone-ul lagone--ullagone, That he should die Of a broken heart. FROM THE " FREEHOLDER," 1830. Looking over some loose papers the other day, we put our hand on Harry Bennett's Opera, " The Election," written immediately previous to contest for this city. Although at the period it was familiar to the public, yet lapse of time must have rendered it more or less forgotten hy them; this, and the consideration that there are many now-a-days who never read it, and its heing outof print induce us to give the following selection from the songs G 's first rERSONIE. Old Contract.. ........ DANIEL CALLAGIIAN Sen. Young Contract........... Mr. GERARD CALLAGHAN. FatherJohn............ FATHER ENGLAND. Kidskin............. DENIS MULLINS. Kit Hely............ .. Mr. HUveINSON. Sir Nick Ardrnm.......... Sir NIcHoLAS COLTHLRST. Col. Dnblin............... Colonel VESEY. Dick Spindle........... RICHARD FOOT. DUET. TUNE-" Hope, thou nurse of onng desire." OLD CONTRACT.. England, Gerard's chief desire ; Holy promiser of joy; Patriot Pastor !Reverend Friar ! Aid, Oh ! aid my darling boy ! England ! earnest of success! Soother of the culprit's mind ! With thy smile my Gerard bless, And my purse you'll open find ! FATHER JOHN. Kind deceiver ! flatter still ! Deal out bribes to those distress'd With your cash their pockets fill, But by me you'll ne'er be bless'd. CORK LYRICS. OLD CONTRACT. TUNE-" Oh, say not Woman s love is bought." Oh, say not Gerard's friends are bought With vain and empty treasure, Oh, say not freeman's votes are sought By brib'ry beyond measure! When first within his bosom rose A scheme he deem'd so clever, He form'd the plan to soothe his foes, But not to bribe them ever. Oh, think not Gerard's vow sincere, Tho' from the faith he ranges : Oh, let me whisper in thine ear, [aside] 'Tis for the seat he changes ! Ah, no, the faith that first did warm, Will leave his bosom never ; No second worship e'er can charm, He'll cross himself for ever ! YOUNG TUNE-" CONTRACT. Pray, Goocldy, please to moderate." Dear England, please to moderate the rancour of your tongue, Why flash those sparks of fury from your eyes? Remember, tho' my judgment's weak, I am still very young, When older I shall grow more wise ! Try me, ply me, Prove ere you deny me: If you cast me Off, you blast me Never more to riseThen England, please to moderate, &c. TRIO. TUNE-" Wilt thou say farewell, love?" Young Cont. Wilt thou say farewell, Jack, And from Gerard part? Old Cont. Gerard's sighs will tell, Jack, The anguish of his heart. Old Cont. H'll Still be thine. Young Cont. I'll 329 *330 CORK '330 LYRICS. Father John. No! no! not mine. Old( Youeng Cont. We'll love thee tho' we sever, Tho' you deny Your votes, yet by-and-by You'll be our friendFather John. No ! never. & KID SKIN--SOLO. AIR. Heigh diddle diddle, De cake's on de grildle, De cow has jump'd over de moon; Foot and Terry bote laugh, For to dem 'tis fine sport, And to Swiney, dat nate purty spoon. GLEE. TUNE-" Oh! Lady Fair," &c. roaming? FEtherJohn. Oh ! Hely dear ! where art thou You must work hard, the day is coining! Kit HelyJ. Dear Jack, I've been my plumpers counting, And every hour my foes surmounting. Kidskin. Who is de man wid zeal more glowing! Oh ! Fader J ohn ! where are you FatherJohn. I must go canvas every Salter ! All. going? Then vespers say at Cross-street altar ! Go ! then, Oh ! go, let all he steady, And for St. Patrick's day be ready. SIR NICK--SOLO. TUNE- "Oh, lead I been by Fate decreed." Oh, had I been some grocer's boy, And born in Mallow-lane! No cares would then my peace destroy, Nor votes distract my brain ! What pleasures. then I'd surely taste, What cash-for which I sigh ! Ye cruel stars, why have you plac'd My rank in life so high ! CORK LYRICS. 331 COL. DUBLIN. TUNE- "Man May escape Sword, Pistol, or Gun." Man may escape from a noisy Dun, [Looking at Dick] Nay, some have outlived an Attorney's bill. To pluck a young pigeon is thought fine fun, When each will with feathers his pockets fill; But the man who must pay ev'ry wretch whom he greets At contested Elections, ruin meets. SPINDLE. TUNE-" A master I have. and I am his man." A merchant there is, his name is Big Dan, Galloping wealthy Dan, A merchant there is, his name is Big Dan, And his son must set up for a Parliament man, With Hely, gaily, gambo raily, Higgling, niggling, young Gerard Callaghan, Third son of wealthy Dan. He purchas'd at first a seat at Dundalk, Galloping wealthy Dan ! He purchas'd at first a seat at Dundalk, And now he thinks proper to set up for " Cawk," With Nicky and Hely, and backed by Sir Davy, Sam Perry, the Shanonites, Papists, and Williamites, Galloping after Dan. He met Father England, and asked him to say How he and his friends could be won; He met Father England, and asked him the way, Says the Friar, from Colthurst you'll ne'er win the day, Nor from Hely, gaily, in spite of Jim Daly, Harding, Jones Harrison, Knapp, and Jack Galloway. Galloping after Dan ! He purchases Freeholders like flocks of sheep, Galloping wealthy Dan ! He purchases Freeholders like flocks of sheep, And the Coopers their votes for him will all keep, And for Hely, gaily, with mouth so mealy, Slippery, frippery, Gerardine, Callaghan, Third son of wealthy Dan. 332 CORK LYRICS. PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY OF "THE POOR SOLDIER." Performed by lady and gentlemen amateurs, at the residence of John Shea, Esq., South Terrace, Cork, on Tuesday, February 21st, 1854. WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY M. J. BARRY, ESQ. (Speaker enters abruptly, and begins.) Why--what the deuce ? I'm in profound amaze. I really thought that this was Mrs. Shea's,She wrote-though half a secret, you may know itOff to my friend Apollo, for a poet. Her letter, in due course, reached Mount Parnassus, As we sat chatting with those lovely lasses The dear Greek muses-whose chief recreation, Like that of all their sisters, is-flirtation; And, o'er a cup of coffee-mixed with chicoryThe god sat, tete-d-tdte, with Miss Terpsichore, " Barry," said he-he always calls me Barry" Be off instanter-don'ta moment tarry.There's a dear creature ;--hold, now--here's her cardCork-36, South Terrace-wants a bard. You're just the fellow-what she'd like is fun, 'Twould never do to send her a great gunA serious, tragic-visaged chap, whose rhyme Could only tune itself to themes sublime ; She is, herself, the soul of all that's brightA charming woman, as you'll see here to-night. And there, moreover, is another reason Why sending a grave bard to her were treason: No sombre star should move in the same orbit Where gaily yet, as ever, shines Dan Corbett. My old friend Dan, who, in the famed ' Apollo,'Named after me-beat every rival hollow; I'm sure you'll find him jovial still, and hale, So give him my best greeting, without fail; Present my humble homage to Madame, And make her, on my part, your best salaam." CORK LYRICS. 333 Such was my friend Apollo's language.--Straight I started off, resolved not to be late; And here I am-I've surely made no blunder About the street or house, and yet, I wonderAs well I may-what all I see can mean, And why I stand before this mimic scene, [Looking round at the drop scene.] 'Tis quite a Thespian Temple.-I'll retire, With your most kind permission, to inquire For Mrs. Shea. [A knock at the side door.] But some one knocks. Excuse me[Goes to the door and is handed a note.] What's this? a note for me. [Reads.] " You'll not refuse me To speak a Prologue to our little play Of the ' Poor Soldier '-something just to sayTo say, in short, whatever you think best, As you're a poet, you can guess the rest." " Can guess the rest," by Jove, that's somewhat hard, An off-hand Prologue, from a fifth-rate bard. Yet what true bard would shun a harder task, When lovely woman condescends to ask ? 'Tis clear I'm in for it. And I suppose There's no use in delaying-so here goes. [Advances.] Ladies and Gentlemen-ahem-The fact isPardon me, pray-I'm so much out of practice, I scarce know what to say. But we've one fact, That there are actors here who mean to act. [Aside.] ' Oh ! sweet Polhymnia, I feel sore perplexedDo, darling ! tell me what shall I say next ?" [Pauses.] " Thanks, dearest muse, for that inspiring whisper, As ever stole from lip of pretty lisper, I'm all right now." [Coming forward.] "Kind friends, you shall behold A play, to-night, of which the theme is old, The actors new-and acting not for fame, Applause, or profit, but with kindlier aim, 334 CORK LYRICS. If humbler-seeking this success, That, for an hour, you feel a care the less, And even smiling at their blunders, find Something to leave a pleasant trace behind. The honest motive of attempts like these You surely will approve-the wish to please. If others on such things would be severe, Let them do better ere again they sneer. So much of this---allow me now to speak. A word or two of our corps dramatique. We've two fond lovers-sheepish both, of course, As is the rule-for love, which gives full force To girls, and puts their heart-strings all in tuneThe fact can't be denied-makes man a spoon. And our brave soldier, though from distant wars He comes back, wearing honourable scars, Is no exception here. The girls you'll find Both charming, but of somewhat different kind; Fair Norah, soft as any cooing dove, While lively Kathleen, though brimful of love, Is pert as pretty, and they treat their swains As women always treat a man in chains. We've got a gallant Captain, brave and gracious, Of generous heart, and whiskers most capacious. We have a native genius-crossed in love, As oysters sometimes are, and gods above ; A lively Frenchman; with a genuine zest For war, love, cookery, glory and the rest ; And last, a priest, that's worthy to be Pope, Not used through dull theology to grope, But ever ready, with a guileless mirth, To chase at least blue devils from the earth. Though time may steal some trifle, year by year, It matters little while our youth is here, [Laying his hand on his heart.] And Father Luke-whate'er he's seen departStill verdant keeps the freshness of his heart, Which blooms-when transient storms have spent their rage, And makes a golden summer of his age. Long may it do so. Of our corps the best, Let him absolve the failings of the rest. 335 CORK LYRICS. Daughters of Beauty, now I turn to you, To whom alone the Poet deigns to sue, Your charms are still the dearest theme he sings, And wake the music of his sweetest strings; When man does aught that's worthy of his lyre, 'Tis only in the deeds that you inspire. To you-to whom 'tis happiness to kneelAllow me, then, to make one warm appeal; Look kindly--their endeavours to requiteOn our " Poor Soldier" and his friends to-night, Forgive our actors their untutored parts, And let their harshest critics be your heartsHearts, whose good nature will, we know, accord To efforts meant to please, that bright reward That most the Soldier and the Poet luresThe favouring radiance of such smiles as yours ! Exit. PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY "THE POOR OF SOLDIER," On its second performance, by lady and gentlemen amateurs, at the residence of John Shea, Esq., South Terrace, Cork, on Monday, Feb. 27th, 1854. WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY M. J. BARRY, ESQ. HA !-once again the same kind faces present,And smiling all-upon my life, that's pleasant. On Tuesday last they gave me such a greeting As makes me quite enraptured in thus meeting Their looks again.-But can even looks like these The anguish of a sorrowing heart appease? Alas !they cannot do so-no-no-noWoe, woe, is mine-unutterable woe. Sweet creatures, with my sorrow sympathise, Apply the cambric to your humid eyes, " If you have tears, prepare to shed them now," For mine is a sad case, you must allow. Not, one week since, here in this spot, I smiled, The happy parent of a joyous child. 336 CORK LYRICS. My muse, a creature full of harmless mirth, Had to a lively Prologue just given birth; And with a father's pride, which so beguiles, Here I produced it, 'mid your favouring smiles; Kindly, indeed, the little thing you greeted, And, from your presence, happy I retreated. Now hear, and oh ! condole with my distress, Some monsters placed the bantling in a press, And squeezed its little life out.-Think of that, And grieve for me.-The little thing's so flat, Crushed so completely.-Ask not more to hear, But gently to its memory drop a tear. Your smiles upon its brief existence shed A passing radiance-weep that now 'tis dead. But pray forgive me-really, after all, The loss of that poor Prologue's very small, Because at any hour, the muse its mother, Will graciously replace it by another. And far be it from me, in lovely eyes, To bid regretful tears for aught arise; I'd rather be the warm and cheering ray, To kiss the dew-drops from such flowers away. And so-that theme dismissed-I make my bow, And shall state briefly why I came here now. Good Father Luke--whose heart grows daily lighter-Is on the list for the next vacant mitre, And piously, upon the eve of Lent, When all good Christians "marry and repent," He wishes all of you, both beaux and beauties, To get some sound instruction in your duties, And, as example gives to precept force, He and some friends will shew you your right course. Just do like them-all such of you as canAnd eight weeks hence you'll bless the worthy man. More I shan't say on this-I like surprisesYou'll learn the rest when the curtain rises. But on another point I would desire To say a few brief words ere I retire. No actor in the scenes which will engage Your pleased attention, on this little stage, 337 CORK LYRiCS. But, like yourselves, one who comes here to-night To know a few short hours of true delight-Those hours in life, alas ! too short and rareWhen genuine kindness plucks the sting from care, And heartfelt welcome makes us feel awhile That truth, as well as art, can wear a smileShould I forget to whom we owe the bliss Of such a sunbeam on our path as thisOur hostess and our host, whom long we've known And prized, in their best characters-their own? No, surely not ; to pass their potent claim Unnoticed would, indeed, the Poet shame. Of many a gladsome hour the kindly cause, We owe to both our thanks and our applause : The gentle Norah of this little play We like, but like her best as Mrs. Shea. And in our gallant Captain's generous part, We see the actor's nature, not his artA nature which, did ranks from merit spring, Would make him not a Captain but a King. To-night a theatre, this cheerful room Will soon its quiet, homely air resume, And a few hours will, once again, restore The friendly chairs and tables as of yore. Long may the old familiar faces there The looks that tell of happy bosoms wear ; And long may "troops of friends," with hearts as true, Rejoice in their rejoicing, as we do. PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY OF "THE AGREEABLE SURPRISE." Performed by lady and gentlemen amateurs, at the residence of John Shea, Esq., South Terrace, Cork, on Friday, 29th April, 1855. WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY M. J. BARRY, ESQ. IThe speaker enters by stage door on the left, before the curtain, dressed in a travelling coat, shawl, and cap, and carrying in one hand a carpet bag. He crosses the stage hurriedly, without looking towards the audience, and abruptly enters the right hand door, opposite that by which he comes on, repeating the first line of the prologue.) John, I say, John--here, take these traps away. Y 338 CORK LYRICS. [Goes in and continues, in a voice loud enough to be heard by the audience, while throwing off his travelling suit, and substituting a hat for the cap.] I've got to speak the Prologue to the play; If I were late our manager would rage ; I'll just step out a moment on the stage Before they come to[Appears in ordinary street costume, looking confused at perceiving the spectators.] Why-why-bless my eyes ! Ladies [bowing], I really must apologise; I'd no idea I should find you herePardon me, pray. It always makes me queer About this region [laying his hand on his heart], even one dazzling pair Of beauteous eyes to meet thus unaware ! And truly I might feel bewildered quite, To stand the blaze of all those glances bright-Flashing from orbs, blue hazel, black, and grey, Which deal out havoc in their every ray ; Besieged by such a battery of charms, What garrison would not lay down its arms ? Yield at discretion-or with none at allAnd, at a single silent volley, fall ? But I'm digressing-you have made me quite Forget the business I have here to night. [pauses.] I know 'twas something about-[some one knocks]-ha !-who's there ? Permit me just a moment-[goes to the door and is handed some papers]-I declare Election hand-bills-" Vote for Deasy," " Poll* For Ennismore "-well really this is droll. " Stand by M'Carthy and the tenant-right "Oh ! we have other candidates to-night Who claim your suffrages, and all expect That, coldly, you will none of them reject. I'm here to canvas-'gad I'd like to do A little business on my own part too. But there's a proper time for all affairs,Perhaps I'd talk to some of you up-stairs, Or down at supper, whispering, with a sigh, " A little Charlotte ?" or " Some oyster-pie ?" SAn election for the county was going on at the time, the candidates being R. Deasy, Esq., Q.C., Lord Ennismore, and Alex. M'Carthy, Esq. CORK LYRICS. With something softer for your private ear, There's no necessity to speak of here. Again I'm wandering-as I said before, I'm here your favouring suffrage to implore, Not on my own part, but for several folk More bashful than myself-and 'tis no joke For persons of such shyness to engage In the intricate business of the stage, Before an audience, skilled, like you, to test The actor's parts, and criticise the best. Yet, though elsewhere your judgments be severe, I know they can't be aught but kindly here; Here, where the very soul of kindness dwells, And draws arounds your hearts her potent spells; Here, where her beaming smile and sparkling eye So oft have welcomed you in hours gone by, And once again will, eloquent and bright, Upon our boards, the heroine of the night.For her, and her attendant sister train, To sue were humbling, and to praise were vain ; But on the male department of our corps Allow me just a word or two, no more. A manly baronet-a staunch old tarA brave young sailor-wherefore should I mar Their claims upon you, which their acts will prove? No, they themselves your sympathies must move. As for the fellows in the servants' hall, Lingo has tongue enough to speak for all. Chicane, the attorney, begged my intercession, What can I say-think on the man's profession, In the long run, too, knavery rarely wins, And Mrs. Cheshire will avenge his sins. I think that's all-oh, no, I have forgot To tell you anything about our plot. Nor shall I do so-you can use your eyes, I hope for an " AGREEABLE SURPRISE !" 339 340 CORK LYRICS. LOOEY PHILIP AND HER GRAYSHUS MAJESTY. THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. CORRESPONDENCE OF THE BOY "JONES." [This precious mnorceaux, from the prolific pen of our talented townsman, M. J. Barry, Esq., is given as an appropriate wind-up to our local collection, and its excellence may serve as a redeeming clause for the many imperfections of this unpretending volume.] (From the Reporter.) MISTHUR EDITHUR,--My mother bein' a Blackpool woman, I wish to give you the first news of what happened between Looey Phillippe an' her Grayshus Majesty. I was behin a curtin listenin' to this dialog on Friday evenin':-MY dear Vic., ses he, I'm mighty sick, ses he, For I've cut my stick, ses he, Tarnation quick, ses he, From the devil's breeze, ses he, At the Tooleyrees, ses he, For the blackguards made, ses he, A barricade, ses heThey're up to the trade, ses he, An' I was afraid, ses he, I'd lose my head, ses he, An' if I lost that, ses he, I'd have no place for my hat, ses he. Stop a while, ses she, Take off your tile, ses she, You've come a peg down, ses she, By losin' your crown, ses she. Mille pardon, ses he, For lavin' it on, ses he, But my head isn't right, ses he, Since I took to flight, ses hlie, For the way was long, ses he, An' I'm not over sthrong, ses he. Indeed my ould buck, ses she, You look mighty shuck, ses she. You may say I am, ses he, I'm not worth a d-n, ses he, CORK LYRICS. 341 Till I've got a dhram, ses he, An a cut o' mate, ses he, For I'm dead bate, ses he, I'm as could as ice, ses he. Oh ! never say it twice, ses she, I'll get you a slice, ses she, Of sumthin' nice, ses she, An' will make up a bed, ses she, In the room overhead, ses she. I like a matthrass, ses he, Or a pallyass, ses he, But in my present pass, ses he, Anythin' o' the kind, ses he, I shouldn't much mind, ses he. Here a grand waythur, dressed in goold, brought in the aytables, an' laid them on the table. Her Majesty helped Looey to some cowld ham, which he tucked in as if he hadn't tasted a bit sinse he left the Tooleyrees. By degrees he lost his appeytite an' found his tongue, but he didn't like talkin' while the waythur was there, so he touched her Majesty, and ses he in an undhertone- Bid that flunkey go, ses he, And I'll let you know, ses he, About my overthrow, ses he. So the Queen made a sign with her hand, an' the flunkey tuk himself off with very bad grace-as if he'd have liked to belistenin'. When the doore was shut, Looey went on- 'Twas that Geezo, ses he, That chap you knew, ses he, When you were at Eu, ses he, At our interview, ses he. Is that thrue ? ses she, I thought he and you, ses she, Were always as thick, ses she, Don't say "pickpockets," Vic., ses he. Indeed we were friends, ses he, An' had the same inds, ses he, At all times in view, ses he, But we little knew, ses he, That that Paris mob, ses he, Would spoil our job, ses he, 342 CORK L YRICS. They're the devil's lads, ses he, What you call "Rads," ses he, But your " Rads" sing small, ses he, Before powther an' ball, ses he, While they don't care a jot, ses he, For round grape or shot, ses he. Well, them chaps of mine, ses he, They wanted to dine, ses he, An' to raise up a storm, ses he, About gettin' Reform, ses he, Which isn't the thing, ses he, For a citizen king, ses he, Or a well ordhered state, ses he, To tolerate, ses he. So ses I to Geezo, ses he, We must sthrike a blow, ses he. Ses Geezo, you're right, ses he, For they'll never fight, ses he, They're shure to be kilt, ses he, By thim forts you built, ses he, For the throops are thrue, ses he, An' they'll stand by you, ses he. Then ses I to Geezo, ses he, Proclaim the Banquo, ses he, An' let the chaps know, ses he, That Reform's no go, ses he, But bad luck to our haste, ses he, For stoppin' the faste, ses he, For the people riz, ses he, An' that's how it is, ses he, That you find me here, ses he, At this time o' the year, ses he, Hard up for a bed, ses he, To rest my head, ses he. Did you save your tin? ses she, Did I? (with a grin), ses he, Faix 'tis I that did, ses he, For I had it hid, ses he, Lest the storm should burst, ses he, To be fit for the worst, ses he. CORK LYRICS. 343 Here Looey stopped, and little Lord Johnny, who had been peepin' in at the doore, walked into the roome just as the Queen, who had caught sight of him, put up her finger for him to come in. Looey rose up to meet himAh ! are you here, ses he, My little Premier, ses he, 'Gad you're looking ill, ses he. Troth I am, King Phil, ses he, I've no tin in the till, ses he, Would you cash a bill, ses he, For a couple of mil? ses he. Good night, ses Phil, ses he, I've a cowld in my head, ses he, An' I'll go to bed, ses he. An' he walked out of the room in a grate 'hurry, leavin' Lord Johnny in a grate foosthur, an', indeed, her Majesty didn't look over well pleased, but there the matter inded. P.S.-You'll hear that Looey wasn't in London at all, but you may thrust to the thruth of the above from your's to command, THE BOY JONES. LEGENDS, BALLADS, AND SONGS THE OF LEE. BY JOHN FITZGERALD. ,$onlp of THE EXILE'S AI-" tljt iLtt RETURN. Ellen Loraine." I have wander'd an exile, 'mid cold-hearted strangers, Far, far, from my home and the beautiful Lee; I have struggled alone through all sorrows and dangers, And brav'd ev'ry fate on the land and the sea. Through Columbia's wild forests, or Ind's spicy bowers, On the great foreign rivers, whose sands are of gold, I have sigh'd for thee still, 'mid the birds and the flowers; I have lov'd thee, and will, till this heart shall grow cold. I have rov'd with fair maidens with dark flowing tresses. And beautiful eyes have look'd kindly on me, But I thought with regret of the smiles and caresses Of a fair-hair'd young maiden that dwelt by the Lee. I have come back again, but she's not in her bower, Where the river flows past, with its calm, tiny wave; I have eall'd her in vain, for the ivy-crown'd tower Of sweet Inniscarra o'ershadows her grave. The home of my childhood to ruin is fallingThe lov'd ones that bless'd it shall greet me no more; Yet I gaze on it still, joyous visions recalling, Though the long grass has grown on the step of the door. I shall rest with them soon, with the shamrock above me ; From my dear native Cork never more shall I roam, Till I'm laid in the grave with the dear ones that lov'd me, As in death they shall welcome their wanderer home. 348 SONGS OF THE LEE. " CORK IS THE EDEN FOR YOU, LOVE, AND ME." AI - " The Gauger'sSlip." They may talk about London, and Paris, and Milan, And Constantinople, the pride o' the Turk, But away in the south of our own little island Is a place that excels them-its name it is Cork ; With its whiskey, drisheens, and fine girls in plenty, Jackeens and fat pork, and the sweet River Lee, And the " Dyke " where all lovers, from fifteen to twenty, Whisper " Cork is the Eden for you, love, and me." Just walk down the New Wall-there's a beautiful prospect Of Glanmire, Blackrock Castle, and Victoria Park, With a fine crop o' praties in southern aspectSure a stranger might think that its name was a lark; With a row of fine trees on the wall, cool and shadyNot for us, but the play-boys of posterity, Who will walk there bimeby, when we're under the daisy. Whistlin' " Cork is the Eden for you, love, and me." Walk back now again by the quays and the river, And the Bridges-gondout-nobly spannin' the strame, With the new one* (St. Patrick's), the finest that ever Was built; but as yet we have only the name, Till the Council decides whether wood, stone, or iron, Or brick the material for buildin' shall be ; When that will be, mavrone !-we've no bisness inquirin'Och, "Cork is the Eden for you, love, and me." Trot round by Daunt's Square-like the Park, a misnomer, Where the Gutter-Club stands on each day in the week, And all subjects discuss, from the say-boys to Homer ; 'Tis all one to the Club-Irish, Hay-broo, or Greek. In the distance a buildin', both airy an' splendid, Where each chap that's determin'd to go on a spree Rusticates, till his manners a little he's mended, Singin' "Cork is the Eden for you, love, and me." * Written before the present bridge was built. SONGS OF THE LEE. 349 If you want to behold the sublime and the foolish, Fix your toes in your brogues an' walk down the Parade, Where the " ould Roosian guns " make a fellow look coolish, Though for shootin' they're worse than a rusty ould spade. And the famous "King George," on his ould yalla charger, With his rump patch'd with tin, guards the Bum-battery, And the boys, as they pelt him with small stones or larger, Whistle "Cork is the Eden for you, George, and me." We have Fishamble Lane for crubeens and a dinner, Or a supper at night, when you've cash of your ownWe've a Paradise,* too, for the saint and the sinner, Where the wicked give trouble, and rest is unknown. We've a Fire Escape, when our houses are lightin', But where to look for it would puzzle the D, And the Polis to keep us from drinkin' and fitin'Oh, "Cork is the Eden for you, love, and me." Then, long life to you, Cork, with your bull-dogs and blarney, Your sweet Shandon Bells, your Bazaar, and the Quay, Your hills, and your views of the Lakes o' Killarney, Blackpool and Sinbarry's, your cruds and sweet-whay. May the names of our Council and Mayor shine resplendent In the Portable Gas of the new company, And ourselves ever sing, like true boys independent, Arrah, " Cork is the Eden for you, love, and me." THE PRETTY GIRLS OF CORK. AIR-" Norah Creina." Oh, some may praise the sunny eyes And olive cheeks of foreign maidens, And sing their beauty to the skies, No matter if they're Jews or heathens; But yet give me my native town, Its pretty girls so fresh and bloomingAnd faith I'll knock the fellow down Who says I'm wrong or too presuming. Ah, yes, my darling girls of Cork, While I've a fist to write a ditty, Or break a head from here to York, There's none shall snub our native City. Paradise Place. 350 SONGS OF THE LEE. Talk not to me of Spanish dames, Or hint about the fair Circassian, And all their odd jaw-breaking names, Or faith you'll put me in a passion; But see our ladies as they walk, And look upon their pretty faces, And listen to their charming talk, Reminding you of nymphs and graces. Ah, yes, the darlings, one and all, Are just like beds of perfum'd flowers; And if you have a heart at all, You'll lose it in a brace of hours. In sweet Blackpool, fam'd for " de Groves " (Though, troth, I never yet could find them), You'll meet with handsome girls in droves, That leave all other girls behind 'em; And sure the land of fat drisheensMay nothing ever take them from us--Has lasses that are fit for queens, The bouncing girls of Ballythomas. Aye, there you're sure to take your choice, And don't let trifles love diminish, If there's a roughness in their voice, They're gems that only want the finish. There's beauties living on the Marsh (Where you might vainly look for rushes), That's neither cold, nor proud, nor harsh, And dance like fays, and sing like thrushes; And if they wear the largest "hoops," 'Tis not for want of shape and form-To see them meet in pretty groups, The cockles of your heart would warm. Indeed, 'twould break your heart with sighs To see such girls, and not caress them, And look upon such lips and eyes, And not do something to possess them. If you are blest with any taste, You'll show a stranger, while he tarries, Those darlings with the slender waistThe roaring girls of "sweet Sinbarry's; " SONGS OF THE LEE. And if he strolls through Evergreen, Among potatoes, leeks, and cabbage, And say that fairer girls he's seen, Dear knows, he's only just a savage. They talk a deal about the girls They meet upon a foreign shore, But, faith, 'tis treating swine to pearls To tell them there's as good next door. Then, hey for Cork, its streets and quays, Its " Shandon Bells" and meadows green, Its girls and their coaxing ways, Its boys that sip the sweet potheen, Its ever-sparkling River Lee And world-fam'd "Ould Blarney Stone," Its poets (not forgetting me) To make its varied beauties known. Aye, faith, my darling girls of Cork, While I've a fist to write a ditty, Or break a head from here to York, There's none shall snub our native city. THE FINE BOYS OF CORK. AIx,-" Garryowen." You may sing, if you will, of the bright beaming eyes, And of beauty that makes a man stare with surprise, In that comical mixture of truth and big lies 'Bout the sweet "pretty girls of Cork," boys. But yet give me the jovial crew That sip their punch till all is blue, And all that's good and bad can do, Those roaring, sporting Cork boys. If you like a man handsome, they're famous for that, And if clever, they're first in the green land of Pat; And if coaxing, the Blarney's the beautiful chat That can wile you from here to New York, boys. For fighting, drinking, Science, Art, Or breaking a purty colleen's heart, The divil a one has got the start, Or ever will, of Cork boys. 351 352 SONGS OF THE LEE. If for pleasure you take to our island a run, And are fond of a joke or a sly bit of fun, We've the "queerest odd fishes" that's under the sun, In this " beautiful city " of Cork, boys. There's one that calls to see the Queen, And by the Cockneys oft is seen, I need not mention Barney SheenThe champion ov de Cork boys. There's no other spot in the world around, Where such divilment, fun, and diversion is found ; And for whiskey, there's none ever made above ground Like the nectar distilled by the Cork boys. And if you'd give dull fools a rub That would such jolly fellows snub, Why there's our famous Irish Club, Composed of witty Cork boys. Then come to our town, through the wind and rain, And believe me your journey will not be in vain; Though you come in a wheelbarrow, steamer, or train, You are welcome the same to the Cork boys. Then let us have a jovial spree, And like good fellows, all agree, And drink in bumpers, three times three, Success attend the Cork boys. THE LOST MAIDEN. AIR-" I'm Sitting o a Stile, Mary." I've waited many a weary night, Or come at dewy dawnEre morning's sun had tipp'd with light The tow'rs of Carrigrohan; I've listen'd for thy loved voice When winds blew sharp and cool, While sitting on the beetling crag Above the Demon's Pool. And many lonely years have flown Since, in our youthful pride, We rested on yon moss-clad stone, And gazed upon the tide, SONGS OF THE LEE. Where fairies came with magic song, And soothed me to sleep ; They took thee with their merry throng, And left me there to weep. The dragon guards their treasure cave, Full many a fathom down, And watches, 'neath the rippling wave, O'er sceptre, sword, and crown; And wealth untold, of gems and gold, And peals of silver bells, Are kept within the fairy halls Where my lost maiden dwells. Tho' Time has streak'd my hair with grey, I love thee still as well, And watch for thee by night and day Till Time shall break the spellWhen fairies shall the Irish wealth And Irish maids restore, And I shall see thy darling face And hear thy voice once more. They say the time is coming nowAs centuries of pain, Have lifted from the Irish brow The long enduring stain; Those silver bells shall yet be rung 'Mid sounds of joy and mirth, When Erin takes her place among The Nations of the Earth. THE PATRIOT'S GRAVE. AiR-" Aileen Aroon." Dark frown'd the storm sky o'er rock and plain, Hoarsely the river by rushed to the mainYet in the evening tide, By a lone grave beside, Sadly a fair young bride Knelt in the rain. z 353 354 SONGS OF THE LEE. Fondly she lov'd him that sleeps in the dell, And he returned it truly and well ; Leading a gallant band, Loving this Irish land, Waving his broken brand, Fighting he fell. Soon was their happiness nipp'd in the bloomSwiftly their sunny days turned to glqom; Morn saw him, young and dear, Greeted by maidens fairEve, on a bloody bier, Laid in the tomb. Those of his band that escap'd from the fray, Sadly and silently came there to pray, Pressing her lovely head, Close to the grassy bed Of the beloved dead, Calmly she lay. Fiercely the sere leaves are whirling pastWildly her ringlets are toss'd by the blast; But the loud tempest's breath Fails to disturb her yet, In the long sleep of death Resting at last. Shamrocks are springing above where they lie, Wild birds are singing up in the blue sky; And the Lee calmly flows Where the tall fern grows, Hymning for their repose Sweet lullaby. THE PLIGHTED WORD. AIR-" The Coolin." Oh, remember the fond words you breathdd to me, When we rov'd, hand in hand, by the "sweet silver Lee;" And forget not the vow and the token you gave, As you left me to roam on the far distant wave. SONGS OF THE LEE. You said, though you stray'd to the bounds of the earth, You would still love and cherish the land of your birth; And come back again, when three summers had flown, With the wealth you had gather'd, to make me your own. That you'd love me as true on the mountain or plain, On the desert, or forest, or waves of the main; And if meeting with death on the land or the sea, That you'd breathe your last prayer for sweet Erin and me. The time has gone by, and no lover appears, Tho' I watch for his barque through my fast-falling tears; For I know he is true, and if living would come, To his fond loving bride and his dear native home. The waves of Lough Mahon are placid and deep, And the sweet summer zephyr has lull'd her to sleep; She dreams of her love, and the spot where he died, Tho' his ship has just anchor'd below in the tide. There's a gun from the river, that's shining like gold, And a flag is run up she remembers of old ; There's a skiff from a barque quickly rows to the shoreThey have met, and two fond hearts shall part nevermore. THE REGATTA. AmR-" Paddy Carey." 'Twas in Cork Harbour-once call'd Cove, Till Queen Victoria came to find it, And call'd it hers; but faith, by Jove, She ought a little better mind itWe lately had a jovial spree, And held our world-famed Regatta, That every body comes to see, From Mullinahone to Paramatta. Old and young, good and bad, Deaf and dumb, sane and mad, Crawling, creeping, laughing, weeping, Slight and stout and fatter; And charming groups, in ridiculous hoops, Came far and near to see the sight, And their beautiful eyes at the fun grew bright ; 355 356 SONGS OF THE LEE. While the Cockneys cry, as the boats passed by : " Oh, bless my 'art !-wot a stunning start ! And pity it is this Hirish lot Should have such a darling pretty spot As this beautiful 'arbour, This lovely sweet 'arbour." You may search till your grey for a port or a bay That will match in one day with our beautiful harbour. The sun shone down, serene and clear, On handsome boats and smiling facesThe R.C.Y.C. first was there, Determined to win all the races; Moustachio'd youths, in regatta suits, In wherries fill'd with charming crathurs, Look'd very wise and smok'd cheroots, And talk'd like ancient navigators. Punts and gigs seem'd dancing jigs, And yawls play'd rigs upon the water ; T yhile the Sybil yacht beat others flat, And faith we're glad the Mayor has bought her. To end the fun, the rain begun, And fast to shore sped skiff and shallop, While " amateurs " and their pretty dears Perform'd the Thunder and Lightning Galop*. Oh, a wetter set you could not get, When back at night to Cork returning : They seem'd to you like a shipwreck'd crew, Whose pleasant voyage was chang'd to mourning. Oh, search till you're grey, for a year and a day, From Mullinahone to Paramatta, And you never will meet with a pleasanter treat Than a day at our famous Cork Regatta. THE TRUMPETER. AI -" A Daughterof Israel." Awake, soldier ! wake to the battle once more We wait for thy shrill trumpet sound : Why sleep near the foe on a bleak foreign shore ? Thy war-steed is pawing the ground; SThe would-be poet "Lightning," and his eccentric companion, will please not to take this as an allusion to themselves, as the writer assures them he merely meant the eather. SONGS OF THE LEE. 357 Thy comrades are mounted to charge on the foe, And waiting in battle array : Then, soldier, awake, and thy loud trumpet blow, And victory crowns us to-day. He wakes, and they see, by his fast-glazing eye, They have waited his summons in vain; Then forward they dash, with a loud battle-cry, And leave him to die on the plain. He heeds them not now ; he is thinking of those In his far distant home o'er the sea, When he played on the bank where the wild-flow'r grows, Or sail'd in his skiff on the Lee. He murmurs, " Come forth, love, the stars are awake, Let us glide to Blackrock from your bower; The river is smooth as a calm summer lake, The beacon-light gleams from the tower. We'll whisper of love 'neath the bright evening sky, As our friends watch our boat from the shore "He pauses and says, with a heart breaking-sigh, " Farewell, I shall see thee no more !" The long night has ended, the morning is come, The cannon commences to roar, " To arms " is beating on many a drum, The foe is advancing once more; His comrades around him are mustering fast A bugle is close to him blown, Yet he answers it not-he will wake for the blast Of the Angel's last trumpet alone. THE GIANT'S STAIRS. A brawny smith was sleeping at the weary close of day; A boy upon a milk-white steed approach'd him where he lay" My mother thinks I sleep in death, beneath the ocean wave; But O'Mahony stole with magic spells, and keeps me in his cave. " Go watch for me to-morrow, at the witching hour of night, Where the last step of the Giant's Stairs dips in the waters bright; This is my seventh bondage year-the unseen door will openStep boldly in, the spell will cease, I leave you that as token." 358 SONGS OF THE LEE. He spurred his milk-white charger : " 0 ! do not fail me now," And honest vulcan felt a blow upon his manly brow; And surely when the morning came he gaz'd in mute surprise, The horse-shoe on his forehead stamp'd above his clear blue eyes. He watched as he was bidden-all danger he defiedAnd fearlessly he enter'd, when the door flew open wide; The way was deep and winding, but onward still he strode And confronted great O'Mahony in his subterrene abode. The giant chieftain sat within a hall of brilliant light; The honest smith half clos'd his lids to ease his dazzled sight; He lifts his hand above his eyes, and peers along the vault; A splendid vision meets his view, suspending breath and thought. The fluted crystal pillars gleam'd, with ev'ry brilliant dye, And pyramids of gold were pil'd, and tipp'd the ceiling high, And pendant from the roof were lamps, like moons of crescent light, While meteors moved in spaces vast, beyond his straining sight. And rows of horse and foot he saw, within each spacious aisle, In deep succession, closely set, arrayed in rank and file, All tranc'd or sleeping; but the chief was broad awake and bright, Surrounded by a troop of boys, array'd in green and white; Who greeted with a ringing shout, the hardy son of toil : " You're welcome to O'Mahony's cave, stout-hearted Maurice Doyle." The smith's stout arm seem'd shrunk to nought beside the giant's limb, His head, upon his shoulders broad, felt nothing next to him; Yet still our sturdy smith ne'er quail'd, but bravely spoke outright, Regardless of the giant's strength, and all the gorgeous sight. " I thank you, chieftain, kindly, my errand is soon told, I come to claim a neighbour's child whom you in bondage hold; He was a widow's only son, then let him be restor'dShe always meant that he should wield the crosier, not the sword." Up started the O'Mahony, the hall shook as he spoke"If you know the boy you come to claim, his bondage shall be broke; But if you make the least mistake, yourself too shall remain, Till Erin is a Nation, and the spell is rent in twain." He stepp'd among the youthful ranks in wonder but not fright, The boys were all the same in limb, in feature, dress, and height; Yet still he boldly fixed on one, and said, "'Tis he, I'm sure "" It is, it is," the children cried, "Oh, happy Willy Moore !" SONGS OF THE LEE. 359 The giant flung his falchion down, and darkness fill'd the hall, A tempest caught the brave smith up, and shook both roof and wall; And when lie came to sense he found the south wind blowing free, And Willy Moore beside him on the margin of the Lee.* THE HARVEST MOON. AI --" You have toll me that you lov'd ne." When the whispering dews of evening Lay their pearls on flower and tree, And the shadows gather darkly O'er the murmuring River Lee; When the reaper's task has ended, Each care has vanish'd soon, And the thought of thee comes blended. With the bonny harvest moon; And I watch thee in the moonlight Stealing through the shady grove, And I feel this poor heart beating To thy glowing words of love. There is nothing left to grieve me, As I know thee good and brave, And you never more shall leave me To rove on land and wave- For you say you lov'd me truly, Where'er your foot has trod, And that no other land on earth Can match our Irish sod; And we view the yellow harvest In the bright moon's silver sheen; And we love each other dearly In our darling land of green. "The road from Passage to Monkstown, one mile in length, runs along the shore, a little above high-water mark, passing through the skirt of the grounds of Carrigmahon, the seat of the O'Grady of Kilballyowen (now the water-cure establishment of Doctor Curtin), and is cut through the 'Giant's Stairs,' a succession of steep rocks, rising abruptly in the form of rude steps from the river. This spot has been invested by tradition with a particular interest, as the place where the Giant O'Mahony is enthralled by enchantment, and confined within the bowels of the hill in 'antres vast.' At its base the depth of water is considerable. In 1758 a vessel, commanded by Captain Cole, foundered under the 'Stairs.' "-Windele's South ofIreland,page 178. 360 SONGS OF THE LEE. Oh ! I often thought with sadness, When you were forc'd to roam, How we danc'd in youthful gladness At the merry Harvest Home; But now you have returned To your fields of golden grain, And God woill do the vork for which Our brave sons died in vain; And we shall rove together, In the good time coming soon, In plenty, love, and peace, beneath The bonny Harvest Moon. THE GREEN HILLS OF CORK. AIm -"Beautiful Venice." I have sought to discover a haven of rest, Where the sun sinks by night in the land of the west; I have dwelt with the red men in green forest bowers, Or the wild roaring prairie bespangled with flowers; I have hied to the north, where the hardy pine grows, 'Mid the wolf and the bear, and the bleak winter snows I have roam'd through all climates, but none could I see Like the green hills of Cork, and my home by the Lee. Beautiful city, beautiful city, Beautiful city, the pride of the Lee. I have slumber'd in palm-groves by clear running streams, And the wild Groves of Blarney came haunting my dreams; I have listen'd to bells on the soft summer wind, But the sweet bells of Shandon were dear to my mind I have mix'd in gay dances with beauty and pride, But there's none like the maiden that's now by my side; There is nought in the land of the slave or the free Like the green hills of Cork, and my home by the Lee. Beautiful city, &c. The bold feudal castle looks down on the Rhine, That flows through the land of the olive and vine; There's freedom and health in the fresh mountain breeze That careers round the home of the brave Tyroles- ; SONGS OF THE LEE. There's beauty and love in all spots of the earth To the heart that can call it the land of its birth; But of all the fair countries, the dearest to me Are the green hills of Cork, and my home by the Lee. Beautiful city, &c. THE BRIDGE THAT BARNARD BUILT. Am-" The Tune the Old Cow died of." Take this. What's this ? This is the bridge that Barnard built. This is the Council, void of sense, That furnish'd pounds, and shillings, and pence, To pay for the bridge that Barnard built. This is the river-our joy and prideThat wanted a bridge across its tide ; Not a flimsy structure made of wood, But a handsome stone one, firm and goodBefore the Council, void of sense, &c. This is the way, when coming to town, We go over and hither, or up and down, While crossing over the ricketty one, Knock'd up in .a hurry for good Sir John,* That he said would last for fifty years; And 'tis onlyfive, and he's fill'd with fears That 'twill tumble down and all fall in, As formerly happen'd to Brian O'Lynn; And still the river-our joy and prideRequires a bridge, &c. These are the arguments, pro and con, That were held the broken bridge uponSome wanted a swivel, and others said, "Nay," And some said, "Build it the good ould way; " Some said "timber," and some said "stone," Another said "iron " would answer alone; While another stood up-a provoking old fileSaying, "Faith let us give gutta percha a trial ! ' SSir John Benson. 361 :362 SONGS OF THE LEE. And thus, for years, amid frolic and fun, The work of the city was pleasantly done, Wrangling and spouting, or laughter and joke, All ending, of course, in a bottle of smoke. While this was the way, when coiing to town, &c. This is the man, neither short nor tall, That kick'd up a row in the Council hall, And said, "Yerrah, listen to me, if ye plaise, And I:ll show you the error of your ways; For you know no more about Science and Art Than the ass that draws a turfinan's cart. Sure, I told you before, and now declare, 'That the foot-bridge is only a trap and a snare, As you'll find some day to your grief and cost, When it tumbles down, and some lives are lost. Sir John's is nearly just as bad, And the one at North-gate will set me mad ; For, mind you, 'tis only a place to play For the wicked young urchins of Bachelor's-quay. That Enright got the bridge to doBut he's, like yourselves, a humbug, too; For he says he made a great mistake, And that the bridge he could not make, Without a thousand pounds or so; But he found too late it was no go. So, between ye all, I fear Saint Pat Will not like his name to a job like that And I'll move, when 'tis built (if I'm not dead), That ye call it ' the Bridge of Asses ' instead." Such were the arguments, pro and con, That were held, the broken bridge uponSome wanted a " swivel," and others, said "nay," And some said, " Build it the good ould way ; " Some said " timber," and some said " stone," Another said "iron" would answer alone; While another stood up-a provoking old file-Saying, "Faith, let us give gutta percha a trial ! And thus, for years, amid frolic and fun, The work of the city was pleasantly done, Wrangling and spouting, or laughter and joke, All ending, of course, in a bottle of smoke. SONGS OF THE LEE. While this was the way when coming to town, We go over and hither, or up and down, While crossing over the rickety one, Knocked up in a hurry for good Sir John, That, he said, would last for fifty years; And 'tis only five, and he's filled with fears That 'twill tumble down and all fall in, As formerly happen'd to Brian O'Lynn ; And still the river--our joy and prideRequires a bridge across its tideNot a flimsy structure made of wood, But a handsome stone one, firm and good *Although the Council, void of sense, Have furnish'd pounds, and shillings, and pence, To pay for the bridge that Barnard built. THE LEPRECHAUN. AIR-" Araby's Daughter." 'The morning sun shone over valley and mountain, And sprinkled with diamonds the calm-flowing Lee; 'The lark sang on high, and the splash of the fountain Was blent with the hum of the wandering bee, When Dermot came forth from his cot by the meadow, And gaz'd on the morning sky, azure and gold ; Ere taking his way through the sunlight and shadow, He stopp'd at the gate of the chieftain's stronghold. He lov'd the fair Una, M'Carthy's proud daughter, Whose beauty was sung by the bards of the land, And warriors often in marriage had sought her, And nobles had sued for the young maiden's hand; But Dermot was poor, and deformed, and lowly; Yet often he came from his cabin afar To gaze on the maiden, with thoughts pure and holy, As we gaze on the light of a far distant star. He thought, as he stray'd by the clear running river, " There's beauty and wealth in the bold chieftain's hall, When she scorns the brave she will look on me never, As the one who would win her must rival them all. Written before the foundation of the present beautiful structure was laid. 363 364 SONGS OF THE LEE. I must gaze on her still as the serf and the vassal, While selling the trout I have snar'd in the stream, And list to the sounds of high feasting and wassail, And back to my cabin to ponder and dream." The evening has come, and the rock of the fairy Is bathed in light from the red setting sun; As Dermot reclines there exhausted and weary, His long task is ended, his labour is done. But, hark ! there's a song through the sally-grove ringing, That is sweet as the lark's when he welcomes the dawn, And Dermot has stole on the fairy that's singingThough he often had foil'd him-that wild Leprechaun. He grapples the sprite, with his eyes beaming pleasure; The fairy has yielded at last to his fate ; And Dermot has gain'd the long-coveted treasure, And feels himself growing both handsome and straight. He hies to the castle : the handsome young stranger Is greeted with welcome and feasted with joy, Though his old mother thinks that some trouble or danger Has come in the path of her poor sickly boy. And soon, ere the long days of summer were over, A castle was built on that rock in the Lee;* For the chieftain's fair daughter had told her young lover She wish'd on that wild spot her dwelling to be. The joy-bells have rung, and the bridal is ended; The hall is deserted ; the banquet is o'er; The maiden with joy to her new home has wended; But the crooked-back peasant was never seen more. THE RIDER ON THE YALLA HORSE. AIR-" Dublin Hora1pip)e." George-a-Horseback, I remember, many years have flown apace, Since thy maker first in rapture look'd upon thy leaden face; Thinking that his work would win him immortality-alas ! If such thoughts had enter'd in him, from "Van Oss,"t he was vain ass. * There are two or three legends to account for Carrigadrohid Castle being built on the isolated rock in the River Lee. I have chosen the most romantic, though least probable. t The Yalla Horse and his rider were made by a Dutch artist named Van Oss. SONGS OF THE LEE. 365 G:eorge-a-Horseback, kings and kaisers, aye, and empires have their day, And the hold you had on memory is slipping fast away; For think, in your presumption, you cantankerous old fellow, Will the rider on the pale horse spare the rider on the yellow? George-a-Horseback, you were happy in the merry days of old, When they danc'd around their leaden calf-not having one of goldAnd the Orange Lilies deck'd thee, and the shouting rent the sky, When " The Glorious, Pious Memory," was drunk in old July ! George, your end is fast approaching, and you call, alas ! in vain, To " rally to the rescue " the elite of Faulkner's-lane; For the Orangeman has grasp'd the hand of his united brother, And the Lily and the Shamrock must be true to one another. So you see, my poor old Hessian, for the reasons I have stated, The Council thinks it time you should be superannuated, And will knock you from your lofty perch, and alter your position, To where you'll see the Railway Bridge-the "Ladies' Exhibition." And let them send the Battery, the rusty guns, and all, And make no more additions to the " Locals' " House of Call ; But put the Judge's Fountain there to purify the place, Or build the Mathew Monument, whose want is a disgrace. And the past shall be forgotten, and the Orange and the Green Shall be again united, as they ever should have been, And meet in peace together, as the branches of the Lee, That have long been separated, flow commingled to the sea. THE ABBOT'S LEAP. Amr-" Lady Jane." Hoarsely was the thunder growling ; chilly fell the plashing rain; Fierce the winter wind was howling, like a fiend in bitter pain; Blinding flashes play'd incessant round Gill-Abbey's taper'd spire,* While the Brothers, warm and pleasant, sat around their cheerful fire. The ancient Gill-Abbey, founded by Saint Finn Barr, that stood close to the site of the present Queen's College. 366 SONGS OF THE LEE. One and all intently listen'd to the legend or the tale, Or mutter'd prayers as lightning glisten'd, and wilder blew the angry gale ; And wondrous things to suit the season were whisper'd in that turretroom, Till Father Hubert told the reason their Abbot had those fits of gloom " He won the love, though others sought her, of young and gentle Emmeline, Of proud Fitz-Hugh the peerless daughter, descended from the Norman line : Alas ! the young and joyous lover-a suit like this ne'er comes to good, And woe and death around them hover: their fathers were at decaly fecld. " What boots it now to tell the story? They knew their sires would ne'er consent, And forth, when morn was grey and hoary, on his fleet steed the lovers went ; But, ah ! Fitz-Hugh came fast and faster; their speedy flight was all in vain ; I need not tell the sad disaster; but in the fight the maid was slain. " He fled from Ireland, wounded sore, and wandered, none but he knew where, And after many years were o'er, a holy man, with silver'd hair, Ha ! Marie ! what a blinding But not with age, came late at night gleam !" And, hark !-they started up with fright--that surely was a woman's scream. They rush abroad, with flaming torch, to find whence comes that dismal wail, And meet the Abbot in the porch, the first to brave the midnight gale. The Lee is now a foaming flood; yet, swimming through that fearful storm, They see a knight on war-horse good, that bears aloft a fainting form. His foes are spurring down the road; his armour all his efforts mar: Ha! (now the Abbot forward strode) give way, " For God and Saint Finn Barr !" He plunges from the dizzy height, and battles with the roaring tide, And soon the Brothers, with delight, beheld him by the rider's side. SONGS OF THE LEE. 367 From his arms he takes the lady ; now the knight can swim full well ; Friends are round them brave and steady : what need I the issue tell? A hospitable roof is o'er them-all their troubles soon were o'er; But the gallant steed that bore them never liv'd to reach the shore. THE SAILOR BOY'S SLUMBER. AIR-" Les Mousquitaires." Softly slumber, sailor boyLet no storm thy rest annoy; Scenes of love, and home, and joy Come to soothe thy dreams. Thy barque, amid the tempest's roar, Is drifting on a bleak lee-shore, And wild waves rushing madly o'er, And sea-birds' boding screams, Only seem like the breeze in the summer trees, And the music of rippling streams. Slumber, though the pilot's cry Is mingled with a bursting sigh; And help is o'er, the reef is nighGod's mercy on the crew ! Thy mother, by the winding Lee, Is praying, sailor boy, for thee; Thy little sister, full of glee, Doth fondly call on you, While the billows hide their joy and their pride To the shriek of the wild sea-mew. The storm is past and the wind at rest, But the throb of life is hush'd in his breast; The sailor-boy's gone to the Land of Rest, Where billows are heard no more. The golden curls that deck'd his head Are resting on his coral bed, And mermaids gaze on the beauteous dead Of that wild and distant shore; But the dearly lov'd twain are waiting in vain They will never behold thee morie. 68 SONGS OF THE LEE. JOSEPH AI-" She BRENAN.* f fom the Land." far He is resting afar from the land he ador'd; But the soil of the brave is his pillow, When he grasp'd not for Erin the conquering sword, When he died far away o'er the billow; For the coward deserted him, fearing the scars, And the renegade sought to ensnare him, Till he fled to the Land of the Banner of Stars, Where the brave and the true would revere him. He sung, while an exile, his dear native Lee, Where he lovingly wandered in childhood, And " the glen " where he dream'd he was happy and free, As his rifle rang clear in the wild wood. His warm young heart lov'd each mountain and sod, And he fear'd neither hardship nor danger : To rescue this land we woere given by God From the gripe of the cold-hearted stranger. He died, though an exile, as free as the windThe despot can reach him no longer; There's a home for the slave where no tyrant can bind, And might over right is not stronger. Then cherish his name in the home of his birth, Though the traitor and slave may forget him; While the heart beats responsive to virtue and worth, All the faithful and true shall regret him. LILY MOORE. FIRST PART. Who comes forth at early morning, Stealing like a timid fawn, As the birds, with joyous warning, Welcome in the blushing dawn? SI have waited in vain for some one of more ability than myself to write something to the memory of our brave and talented young townsman. If my lines are far inferior to what he deserved, the fault is theirs, not mine. SONGS OF THE LEE. And Lough Mahon's placid water Ripples on, serene and pure, Mirroring the Captain's daughter, Young and gentle Lily Moore. She has hasten'd from her bower, At the blush of sweet May-day, When the dew was on each flower, And the song birds on each spray; For her long affianc'd lover Promis'd-and his word was sureBy the gentle Lee to hoverWho so gay as Lily Moore? Hark ! across the sparkling river Comes strange music, soft and wild, Causing every pulse to quiver Of sweet Lily-nature's child; And a boat is quickly rowing From that foreign ship to shore, While no danger fearing, knowing, Calmly sits young Lily Moore. Now, she flies, as bearded faces, Glaring on her, meets her view ; But is captur'd, e'er three paces, By that scowling Moslem crew. Now her father sees her danger, Rushing from his cottage door, Calling on the heartless stranger To give back his Lily Moore. All in vain ! the sails are filling In the fresh'ning morning air, And the pirate off is stealing With the child he lov'd so dear. " Oh, Bismillah ! but the maiden Of the Giaour is fair and pure, And my barque is richly laden In a prize like Lily Moore. " While the Infidel, her lover, Lies out yonder stark and stiff, 'Neath the green and leafy cover, At the base of yonder cliff2A 369 370 SONGS OF THE LEE. She shall be the Sultan's leman, By the Prophet's beard, I swore, If she wed not with Suleyman, Who has captur'd Lily Moore. " Trample on the cross, and scoff it; Hasten to the open sea ; Let the banner of the Prophet Float above their winding Lee." Go ! thy prize is faint with sobbing; Vengeance cometh slow and sure; And an Irish heart is throbbing To avenge sweet Lily Moore. SECOND PART. Faint and travel-stain'd and weary, When the sun was in the west, Calling on the name of Mary, Sunk a pilgrim down to rest ; And the shadows gather'd o'er him, In the palm-grove where he lay, And the desert was before him, Should he wake at blush of day. Fierce the wild-cat scream'd above; Slily crept the hooded snake : But the danger did not move him, For the sleeper did not wake; And the moon rose bright and queenly, Shining on his fever'd brow, Till the morning broke serenelyHa ! God guard the pilgrim now. From the palace of the Sultan Rides the fierce Suleyman Bey, Rushing onward, dark, exulting, Like a vulture on its prey; And as fiercely as their master Comes his frowning Moslem band, Spurring onward fast and faster, Gleaming sabres in each hand. SONGS OF THE LEE. Look !-they see him through the branches, Sudden check his headlong speed; And their leader on his haunches Flings his bounding Arab steed. " Allah akbar, Alla illa !" Shouts he in that morning hour" Holy Prophet ! ho, Bismillah ! 'Tis an unbelieving Giaour. " Up, thou Christian dog !" he thunders, Spurning with his arm6d heel, While his band in silence wonders Why he spares the ready steel" Up ! no mercy will I show thee." Wild he springs from off the ground, Crying, "I had cause to know thee By the Lee, thou Paynim hound. " Now, you die before you leave me ; I have track'd thee safe and sure This is for the wound you gave me, That is for sweet Lily Moore !" Ha ! the band is spurring faster, Shouting vengeance, dark and wild" He has slain the Bey, our master ; Be his father's grave defil'd !" When the sun was bright and burning Came the cortege sad and slow, With their wounded Bey returning, Glaring on his fetter'd foe. Faithful slaves around him hover, Till the leech his wounds shall cure; While the dungeon closes over Him that lov'd sweet Lily Moore. THIRD PART. Gliding like an angry demon To the Harem's spicy bow'r, Comes the scowling Bey, Suleyman, At the stilly midnight hour; * God is great, and there is no God but God. 371 372 SONGS OF THE LEE. Jealous rage his bosom burn'd 'Gainst the lovely Christian maid, Who with hate his voxvs has spurn'd, And with scorn his love repaid. " False Isauri,* ho ! thy minion Soon shall meet a painful doom; For my slaves his limbs shall pinion, And with fire his heart consume; She shall see her Christian lover In his torments madly rave : May my curse his ashes wither, Hungry dogs defile his grave !" Twinkling stars are brightly shining In the heavens calm and pure; And he knows that oft reclining 'Mid the flowers sits Lily Moore. She is there ; but-" Oh, Inshallah Fix'd with rage Suleyman stood : " God of Islam ! holy Allah ! 'Tis the slave who spilt my blood. " Summon Muley Hassan hither "Quick the trembling slave obeys"Ha ! may blight thy arms wither ! Thou hast held the dungeon keys: Tell me why the Christian maiden Holds her lover by her side, When his hands with gyves were laden, And his limbs in fetters tied. " Allah ! see their sweet embraces ! Quick ! thy matchlock hither bring ! Thou shalt spoil their loving graces, And his heart with anguish wring. Ready when I tell thee fireSeest thou not her gleaming brow? Steady-straight before thee-higher ! Let his idol perish-Now !" * Jesus Christ. SO GS OF THE LEE. 373 A shot, a groan, and all is overFierce Suleyman's stark and dea 1; The maid is standing by her lover; Muley Hassan * swift has fled, Shouting, Fly, my Irish brother! This shall for my fault atone. Think of me, and love each other : Irish hearts are not of stone." " Down beside the placid river, With her ringlets flowing free, While the setting sunbeams quiver O'er her darling native Lee, Sits a young and happy mother, With her lov'd ones all secure : Well they love and prize each other, Though no longer Lily Moore. THE HAVEN OF REST. There's a haven of rest on the sweet River Lee, Where the wave-beaten sailor securely may sleep : Though the tempest is lashing the billowy sea, And the fiend of destruction career's o'er the deep; Though the ocean abroad in its madness may roar, As it dashes the barque on its foam-cover'd crestHe may slumber secure till the storm is o'er, As a babe lull'd to sleep on its dear mother's breast. The treacherous rock to our port is unknown; The quicksand ensnares not the ship to its doom; For beauty it stands in the world alone, Through the wild winter's blast or the sweet summer's bloom; The verdure-clad headlands that form its coast Slope down to the river, their bosoms to lave; And the gallantest navy the world can boast May anchor secure on its rippling wave. * Supposed to be an Irish renegade. 374 SONGS OF THE LEE. But yet there's one fault in the harbour we love, That mars all the beauty created by God : IT IS IRISH ; and therefore our beautiful Cove Is shunn'd by the Saxon, who hates the green sod. They will value it yet as a hope and a guide, As they enter our port by necessity driven; When the Babel of Ocean *--their boast and their prideIs dash'd on the rocks by the tempest of heaven. A gallant ship t came from a far distant shore, With a light-hearted crew of the fair and the brave : She will rest in our port as her journey is o'erThere's a cloud in the sky and a moan on the wave. They have pass'd the sure haven; their anchor is cast; But the tempest their barque 'gainst the wild rock's has hurl'd : Let us hope they have anchor'd securely at last In a haven of rest that is not of this world. THE LOVER'S REVENGE. AIR-" The Avenger." Oh ! heard ye yon shout rising high on the gale, That causes the cheek of the timid grow pale? For they know that ere long 'twill leave some void of hope, As it comes from the hell-hounds of bold Captain Cope. They have come from a raid with their prisoners and spoil, The gold of the rich, and the savings of toil: The wealth in their coffers is carefully laid, But the prisoner's must pine till their ransom is paid. The hall of the castle is blazing with light, And high revel is held, till 'tis late in the night; For the bandit chief claims, as his own proper prize, A beautiful maiden with dark beaming eyes. He seizes a bumper, 'twixt scorn and pride, Saying, "Comrades, drink deep to the health of my bride ;" But they start as the echoes of old Carrigrohan Are wak'd by a blast, though 'tis far from the dawn. *The Great Eastern. f The Royal Charter. * Carrigrohan Castle was once held by a band of daring freebooters under Captain Cope, whose exploits were a terror to the citizens of Cork and the inhabitants of the adjoining country, till at last they mustered a sufficient force and exterminated the band. SONGS OF THE LEE. It is only a harper, benighted and late, Who has sounded the blast at the postern gate; He is welcom'd with many a jest and a call, And usher'd at once to a seat in the hall. " A song," cried the chieftain, "sir harper, a stave; Sing high to the love of the fair and the brave." He touches the strings to an air wild and rude, While they listen intent to the minstrel's prelude. SONG. " The ravens are gathering dark in the sky, And the eagle is screaming his death-boding cry : They wheel round the castle, and soar o'er the flood, For the dawn is preparing a banquet of blood. The band is carousing, the chieftain is drunk, The warders in slumber are heavily sunk; The maid is bewailing the friends that are dear, Though help is preparing and rescue is near. " For the victims the bandit has plunder'd or slain Have long cried for vengeance in city and plain, And the brand and the torch, in the hands of the foe, Will soon have the hold of the robber laid low "-" Now hold," cried the chieftain, " what raven is here That croaks of the brand, and the torch, and the bier ?" He looks on his band, who now sleep one and all, While the harper has silently stole from the hall. Hurrah ! there's a shout, and a crash, and a roar, And the bandits have sprung from their sleep on the floor; They rush with their captain to join in the fight, But are met at the door by a noble young knight. " Ha ! curse thee, false harper ! there's truth in thy song; But the ravens shall banquet on thee before long : Though my band is surrounded, my castle on fire, It shall make for its chieftain a funeral pyre." They fought long and well in the fire-girdled hall, But the harper-knight's sword was a terror to all; The corse of their leader is flung from the cliff, And his band in their harness are gory and stiff; 375 376 SONGS OF THE LEE. The maid is unscathed by steel or by fire, And is held in the grasp of her grey-headed-sire, Who gazes upon her with rapture and pride; And the harper was blest with a blooming young bride. HURRAH FOR THE GREEN OLD ISLE!* AI-" War Song of Eri ." Hurrah for the Green Old Isle, By the broad Atlantic wave, With her daughters deck'd with virtue's smile, And her sons so bold and brave ! Let us join our hands once more On her shamrock-spangled sod, For the emblem that Saint Patrick bore, When he preach'd of Erin's God. Sons of the Green Old Land, By the sparkling River Lee, Unite together heart and hand Till our hearths and homes are free. To the bounds of the distant earth, Where'er the sunlight shines, For the dear old land that gave him birth The Irish exile pines; He thinks of his mountain home In the land he loves so well, And the lonely grave by the torrent's foam, Where his father fighting fell. Sons of the Green Old Land, With the exile far away Uniite together heart and hand To greet Saint Patrick's Day. The Saxon's galling chain Is eat with blood-stain'd rust; We'll rend its iron links in twainWhen we'll be free we must; * Written expressly for the Cork National Soiree, held in the Athenseum, March 17, 1861 SONGS OF THlE LEE. 377' And our harp that silent hung Shall charm a list'ning world, When Erin's songs are proudly sung, And her banner is unfurl'd. Hurrah ! in deep despite Of the Saxon's iron will, Let Erin's sons once more unite, For our hearts are Irish still. To the Emerald of the Sea, Let's fill the bumper high: May we roam her hills unchain'd and free, As the wild waves rolling high; May days of mist and gloom In this land no more be seen, And the shamrock twine in endless bloom With the orange and the green. Sons of the Green Old Land, By the murmuring River Lee, Give friendship's clasp with an honest hand Till our hearths and homes are free. THE LEE CLUB REGATTA SONG. RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO VICTOR FITZGIBBON, EsQ., AND THE MEMBERS OF THE LEE ROWING CLUB. Behind yon hills in the purple west, Where the brave old shamrock greenly grows, The sun is sinking down to rest, And the evening zephyr freely blows; Our boat is launch'd on the sparkling tide, With joyous hearts and a willing crew, As o'er its waves we calmly glide, For the River Lee to dare and do. River Lee, sweet River LeeOne and all then, brothers, row; Thy silver waves glide fair and free, As merrily over their crest we go. Away! away ! with the signal gun, The spray is flung from our bow in showr's, As the race of life when first begun, Will lead through childhood's path of flow'rs; 378 SONGS OF THE LEE. Like the memory of a fleeting dream, We are past the hills of sweet Glanmire, Oh, ever thus on life's dark stream, May we reach the port of our heart's desire ! Row together, brothers all, For the honour of our native tide; Like foam-bells o'er a waterfall, O'er her sparkling breast we gaily glide. Steady, now ! for our distant goal, Put forth your strength as our boat returns; As the dawn of Faith o'er the trusting soul, The beacon-light in the Castle burns. Remember bright eyes gaze on you, And watch our boat with throbbing breast; Then cheerily, cheerily, gallant crew ! When the prize is won, we'll sweetly rest. Row together bold and free, Though the pulses glow and the sinews strain; For the ever sparkling River Lee, The name we have won we'll still retain. --- 0- THE APOSTLE'S GRAVE * The autumn wind went howling past, The sere-leaf rustled in the blast, The thick dull rain fell pattering slow On the quiet homes of the dead below. My heart was sad as I rais'd my eye To the hurrying clouds in the dull grey sky; And the cypress trees did sadly wave As I knelt beside the Apostle's grave. I thought what a shadow was earthly fame, And what was the use of an honour'd name; That he who sleeps 'neath that cold wet stone Had toil'd unaided, and struggled alone, And Erin freed from the iron thrall Of the damning arch-fiend, Alcohol; And all he had gain'd in the land of his birth Was that simple cross, and six feet of earth. Far better be they whose ruthless hand Carried fire and sword through a peaceful land, Who, through widows' wail and orphans' moan, Had rais'd some tyrant's skull-built throne; With tears and blood had track'd their way, And the patriot's arm had fail'd to stay, And the cannon's roar, and a nation's tears, Had follow'd to their " honour'd biers." SCork can boast of being peculiar in many ways. Among others, the peculiarity of forgetting those who really serve her best. In any other city in the world, there would have been a public monument to Father Mathew years ago. It could have been done in Cork long ago, if those who have it in hands would leave the work there, in place of waiting for one who seems either unwilling or unable to execute it. 380 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Then granite was rais'd into pyramids high, And " statues of brass " tower'd up to the sky, And their names inscrib'd on " history's page " As the " godlike men of a glorious age ;" While the good and pious, the man of peace, Finds rest from his toil in this narrow space, The "prayers of the poor," and the tears they shed, Are the honours paid o'er his humbled bed. I look'd, and away the dark clouds roll'd, And the sun look'd out through banks of gold, And the rainbow shone o'er the sparkling sod Like the jewell'd gate of the House of God; And from the old stone cross I heard The joyous song of that sacred bird,* Who redden'd his breast 'gainst the bleeding side Of Him who on that cross had died. And I knew beyond that glowing west Was a Land of Light, far, far away, Where the good will find eternal rest, When earth and its honours are pass'd away. Oh ! better far a place with God, On the endless steps of his mighty throne, Than the courtier's smile or despot's nod, Or honours and titles, and sculptur'd stone. Then keep your laurels for other men; Let MATHEW rest in his humble grave, And build your granite pillars again To "conquerors on the land and wave." He needs them not-good use he made Of the talent which his Lord hath given, And now, 'midst joys that never fade, He takes his rest with the just in Heaven. * The robin redbreast. LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 381 DON'T FORGET " POOR BOTHERED DAN."* Winter nights are coming dreary, Chilling blasts howl by the door, Rich men's homes are warm and cheery ; But God help the houseless poor ! And at Christmas, when the bounty Of that good, kind-hearted man, t Is shar'd among the poor around ye, Don't forget " Poor Bother'd Dan." Once he wore a sword and feather, Now the sword is eat with rust; Long the old plume stood the weather, But at last it turn'd to dust. All his fighting days are over, Or, more correct, have ne'er began ; Soon he'll rest, " The Ancient Rover"Don't forget "Poor Bother'd Dan." Orders of his own creation Sparkle on his humble coat, Titles, high in estimation, Which no herald ever wrote. " Worthless baubles," says the sneererTrue ;but neither curse nor ban Ever "track'd " their honest wearer : Don't forget "Poor Bother'd Dan." Fierce elections, temperance meetings, Bands or parties, bonfire blaze, He was first, 'mid friendly greetings, " Guardian of the City Keys." Fire or flood, or fun and folly, Who has always led the van, And most lov'd Cork, if sad or jolly? Don't forget 'twas " Bother'd Dan." SFor the information of those who did not know him, Daniel O'Sullivan, Bothered Dan, or Cracked Dan, was a simple-minded old man (one of the extincpublic charact ters of Cork), who dressed in a quaint uniform, with an immense cocked hat, and his coat covered with all sorts of brass medals and ornaments, and imagined himself the commander-in-chief of the national forces in Ireland. He usually carried an immense brass key, for the purpose of bestowing the freedom of the city-Heaven rest his simple soul! He has died neglected after all; but he has gone where those who are exalted shall be humbled, and those who are humble shall be exalted. tSir John Arnott. 382 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Not much longer can he linger-Soon we'll have his vacant place; For grim Time, with ruthless finger, Marks his mild, yet warlike face. Now's the time, while he is near you Help the " General " while you can, And say not, when no more he'll hear you, We forgot " Poor Bother'd Dan." Though his locks are thin and hoary, And no king his titles gave, To wreathe his name in song or story, All are equal in the grave. Is he not a fellow-mortal; Dare you say the Son of Man Will thrust him from his blessed portal, Or forget " Poor Bother'd Dan ? " TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS. (Written for the Centenary.) The Irish hills-the Irish hills, Her rocky glens and mountain passes, Her brawling streams and sparkling rills, Her stalwart sons and blooming lasses; I prize ye in my Irish heart, Yet oft I've left ye a'thegither And to the bonnie North would start, To wander o'er the Scottish heather. I've roam'd by mony a burnie's side, Or crouch'd amang the gorse and fern, Have seen her clans in martial pride March to the pibroch wild and stern. I've drank "the maut" till a' was dark, Wi' Allan, Will, and Rab the Ranter, And shouted, "Weel done, Cutty Sark," Wi' that daft carl, "Tam o' Shanter." Wi' Mauchline's belles had mony a game, At simmer eve and dewy dawn, And Nancy's sodger seen come hame " When wild war's deadly blast has blawn." LEGENDS AND BALLADS. " The banks and braes o' bonnie Doon " I've track'd them till my foot was weary ; And often wander'd 'neath the moon Along wi' " winsome Highland Mary." I've wander'd doon the banks o' Tweed, To that sweet spot ca'd Linkumdoddie, And "Willie Wastle's wife" I seed, And, faith ! she was a grousome body; And, oh ! the days of "auld lang syne," Your memory o'er my fond heart gushes, When half my senses I wad tine, Wi' lasses braw amang the rushes. And yet I've never left my home To wander on the banks of Clyde, And but in fancy lov'd to roam, When seated by my "ain fireside." Then here's to him, the Scottish Bard ! To-night his country joys and mourns: We'll hold your name in high regard, And prize your songs, dear ROBERT BURNS. " NO IRISH NEED APPLY!" Aye, post it up on every hand, And shout it on the gale, And let the echoes of the land Repeat the mocking tale, Till it shall rankle in the heart, And flash the angry eye, As careless Paddy feels the smart" No Irish need apply !" Aye, brood upon the deep disgrace, And eat your tear-stain'd crust ; They clos'd against you every place Of confidence and trust; For when poor Paddy, night and morn, To raise his lot would try, He met those words of bitter scorn" No Irish need apply ! " 383 384 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. But when John Bull was sore beset With foes on every side, He said to Pat, " Forgive, forget," And such soft-sawder tried, Till Paddy left his native shore, On foreign strand to lie ; While Bull (ungrateful) cried the more, " No Irish need apply !" But spite of all the scorn they gave, The trumpet blast of Fame Has given Pat, on land and wave, A brave and honour'd name. At places such as Waterloo, Or Lucknow and Delhi, Whoever said, " You will not do; No Irish need apply !" Ah, yes ! he gave us husk and rind, And kept himself the fruits; But now there's something in the windHe's looking for recruits. The trumpets bray, the banners float, The drums go flaunting by; But Paddy hears in every note, " No Irish need apply !" He'll want us o'er the sea to roam, To fight his foreign foe; 'Tis better fight and die at home, With the devils that we know. His tall ships wait, their boast and brag, Saint George's cross on high; But Paddy sees upon thatflag, "No Irish need apply !" Ho ! Dives, pause-for you and me There's justice yet in store; A time will come when Pat shall be Your Lazarus no more. They say (and sure he likes it well) When Paddy comes to die, He'll meet upon the gates of -- , " No IRISH need apply ! " LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 385 THE MAYOR'S ELECTION. RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL JOHN ARNOTT, ESQ. The first new month of ' Fifty-nine " " Is after others disappearing, Though Cork began it very fine, With music, fun, and joyous cheering ; For Arnott of the open hand, Who helps at need his starving brother, Was hail'd as Mayor with blaze and bandFor " one good turn deserves another." We care not be he black or brown, From England, Wales, or "Scotland bonnie ;" If he improves our native town, He's just the man to suit our moneyTo see fair justice done to all, No matter what their creed or station, And keep each market, shop, and stall, From light-weights and adulteration. And build a bridge for Ireland's Saint, For many a day they've kept him waiting, Because the Council seems intent On not a-bridge-ing its debating. Our trades stand idle on "the Square "To build.it now would set them going; I need not tell you, Mr. Mayor, " The steed will starve while the grass is growing." And mud is handy in its way, For cabin walls or parish-pudding, But toddle through it every day, And see how it improves your footing; And ladies' hoops are pretty well For sweeping streets, but 'tis a pity The pretty creatures to compel With crinoline to clean the city. And agriculture's all the rage, And no one does the slightest harm; But, och mavrone ! 'twould vex a sage To see our "Park" a model farm; 2B 386 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. For boys must have a place to play, Or else they'll turn to cards and smoking, And I have heard their parents say, That hoops and kites are less provoking. Then, please your worship, give a poke To set the Council in a canter, Or all their talk will end in smoke, Unless to work they set instanter; And, faith ! we'll stand by you next year, And drink your health, in bumpers brimming, For Cork (beyond a doubt, 'tis clear) Should ever at the top be swimming. THE CHISTIAN BROTHERS. Our happy school upon the hill, Where first were taught the childish prayers, That prove through scenes of strife and ill The solace of our after yearsThy loving lessons still have power, When sorely tried by earthly leaven, To save us in temptation's hour, And point the narrow path to Heaven. In every rank, in every grade, Thy children play no common partThe skilful hand at every trade, The ornament of every art; The chemist, with his mystic lore, The clever scholar teaching others, The trader to a distant shore, Are pupils of the Christian Brothers. They teach the maxim to their flock, The children of the Irish sod, To shield the House upon the Rock, Whose corner-stone was laid by God; To live as honest men should do, And cheerfully for bread to labour, And give the right hand, firm and true, In love and friendship to their neighbour. LEGENDS AND BALLADS. The sailor on the stormy wave, Who fears that every rolling billow May sweep him to a watery grave, The coral rocks to be his pillow, Remembers there's a watchful eye That looks on him as well as others, As with a thankful, happy sigh, He thinks upon the Christian Brothers. The soldier on the battle-field, With fighting squadrons round him rushing, Although his spirit will not yield, The hot tears to his eyes are gushing. He thinks upon the peaceful word, 'Mid scenes at which our nature shudders, And spares his conquer'd foe the sword, Remembering the Christian Brothers. The exile in a foreign land, While others dwell in peaceful gladness, Will linger long upon the strand, And gaze across the sea in sadness. His home is by the winding Lee, Where, long ago, the best of mothers, Ere death o'ertook her, pray'd he'd be A credit to the Christian Brothers. Through horrors of the famine year, That made the stoutest hearts grow cold, They nobly strove their flocks to rear, Without the aid of English gold. You came not then, as brothers should, To help them in their bitter need, When He who loves the pure and good With blessings would reward the deed. Then say not after proofs like these, And many others quite as moving, That mixing up with youth agrees, And that our system needs improving. You'll find no better busy elves Thoughout the world, if you roam; Then with your own, improve yourselves, For charity begins at home. 387 388 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. THE KNIGHT ON THE COAL-BLACK STEED. A LEGEND OF ST. MARY'S OF THE ISLE. The storm-fiend went shrieking by, And crashing thunders rent the sky; The hoarse wind whirl'd the drenching rain, And fiercely rattled each window pane ! But firmly stood a holy pileThe fam'd " St. Mary's of the Isle," Whose monks sat round a cheerful fire, Though lightnings curl'd around the spire. The tale is hush'd, and the legend mute, As they list to the elements' fierce dispute, And anxious faces all are there, With many a silently mutter'd prayer ; But they start, and many have turned pale, As a shout is borne upon the gale, And the echo of that wild halloo Is-Heaven shield us !-" Grom a-boo."+ The storm has rent the belfry tower, But the brave old bell withstood its power ; And blent with the crash of the falling roof Is the sound of many an iron hoof. Look yonder !-O'er the flooded stream, Where the lightning flings its lurid gleam, Why comes he with such headlong speed, That gallant knight on a coal-black steed? Look again !-Through the midnight blast Follows that troop both fierce and fast, Furiously urging with spur and goad, Their foaming steeds on the flooded road. Ha ! they are gaining upon him now, As he wipes the blood from his throbbing browGod ! will none, in his utmost need, Rescue the knight on the coal-black steed? *The present beautiful convent of " St. Mary's of the Isle," near St. Finn Barr's Cathedral, Cork, is built on the site of the convent of the same name mentioned in the text. It is said that during the rebellion of "Silken Thomas," Lord Deputy of Ireland, he once took sanctuary within its walls from the myrmidons of the government. It is also mentioned as a place of great note for piety and learning, and then stood on an island, which was reached by an ancient stone bridge. t The war-cry of the Geraldines. LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 389 Faster ! faster!-the bridge is nigh; See, it looms dim 'gainst the stormy sky, Faster--thy war-horse needs repose ; But he'll bear thee yet from thy vengeful foes. He has gain'd the bridge, and his toils are o'er; The good steed falls to rise no more, And the knight has faced the yelling crew, Still shouting his war-cry, " rom a-boo." The plashing rain fell thick and fast, And fiercely yell'd the midnight blast; The foaming flood swept madly round, As the leader sprang to the reeking ground. " Surrender, traitor ! " he fiercely cried, " Or death shall quench thy rebel pride ;" But the knight has clove his skull in twainHe will never mount his steed again, Bravely done !--though his wounds fresh bleed, He has sprung on the leader's trembling steed, And bravely meets that hireling band Alone, unaided, hand to hand. They have hemm'd him in: "Down, rebel, down ! Thy life is forfeit to the crown !" They shout with many a wild halloo; But he only answer'd, " rom a-boo." The bridge is red with Saxon blood, And some have sunk in the hissing flood; Yet furiously they seek to kill The knight who is mounted, fighting still; But, ha ! what means that shriek of pain? The bridge is rent with the dreadful strain, And sinks in the boiling flood below, With the gallant knight and the hireling foe. The trembling monks look'd on aghast; But the Abbot cried, as he whirled past" O God ! will you let the brave knight drown, Though the boat is swamp'd, and the bridge is down?" He rushes wildly along the shore; But his cries are hush'd in the tempest's roar. Ha ! what said the knight as he sank from view ?"For dear old Erin, Crom a-boo," 390 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. None could say, when the storm was past, If any had reach'd the shore at last, Nor was the Abbot e'er known to tell Of what on that dread night befell; But a stranger sometimes cross'd the hall, Of noble bearing, fair and tall, And none could ever tell his name, Or what he was, or whence he came. Though often by the ruddy light Of the cheerful fire, on winter's night, While all within was bright and warm, They listen'd to the howling storm, And proudly told each gallant deed Of the rider on the coal-black steed, And whisper'd, " The stranger seldom seen Is--Silken Thomas, the Geraldine." SONG OF THE IRISH BREEZE. I have listen'd to the breeze, blowing from the distant hills, Murmuring among the trees, sporting with the summer rills, Softly sighing where the fern springs above our kindred's graves, Rushing wildly, dark and stern, by the broad Atlantic waves ; And my spirit doth rejoice With the glad breeze blowing free, For I seem to hear a voice Whispering words of hope to me. " Hope and trust-the time is near," does the wild breeze seem to say, " When the gloom of dark despair from this land shall pass away; When her sons that love and bless her need not leave their native shore, And the might of the oppressor shall be broken evermore ; When their strongholds shall be level, And the ivy clothe their walls, And the night winds hold high revel In their proud ancestral halls." I have wander'd by the stream at the rosy blush of morn, When the sun with golden beam rose above the waving corn, And the breeze in fitful murmurs mad defiance seemed to hurl : " Shall the Irish reap the harvest still to feed the Saxon churl, LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 391 Or come forth in wild commotion, With the banner and the glaive; Or beneath the deep green ocean Find a refuge and a grave? " I have stood at deep midnight by the peasant's ruined home, With the bright moon's silver light shining down from heaven's dome; And a young contented mother seem'd to croon a simple lay, And the children with each other join'd again in happy play, Till the breeze came hoarse and muffled, Like the Spirit of the flood, Asking, " Who can wash the threshold Of that grey-hair'd sire's blood ?" I have sat beside the sea rippling on the yellow sands, When the ocean winds blew free, telling tales of other lands, And the sunlight gilt the wave-tops, like the flash of polish'd steel, And strange voices whisper'd tidings which the bard dare not reveal; Coming from the distant world, Gallant vessels seem'd to float, And a banner seem'd unfurl'd, With a warlike trumpet note. By the bright lake in the valley, on the rock beside the wave, In the grove of waving sally, by the Irish martyr's grave, On the summit of the mountain, or beneath the summer trees, I am haunted by the murmurs of the chainless Irish breeze ; Yet it sings these notes of gladness In the poet's willing ears"Erin is not doom'd to sadness; God, ere long, shall dry her tears." THE SPRING OF THE HEART. Does it need to tell the story that the summons has gone forth, For old Winter, grey and hoary, to return to the north? Doth a myriad tiny voices not the gladsome tidings bring, That all nature now rejoices in the coming breath of Spring? It is coming in the plashing of a thousand sparkling rills, As they leap, with diamonds flashing, from the green eternal hills; It is come upon the river, as it calmly ripples by, Where the shadows quiver, quiver 'neath the ever changing sky. 392 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. It is coming with the swallow; it is coming with the bee; It is heard on hill and hollow, inhthe soft wind blowing free; It is come with violets springing; it is come with pleasant showers; It is come with wild-birds singing ; it is come with perfum'd flowers. It is coming with the maiden tripping through the dewy grove, When the boughs are blossom-laden, and the air seems breathing love, And far o'er the waving corn blithely sings the lark on high, As she blushes like the morn-hark ! her lover's step is nigh. Thus it is upon all nature Spring's soft influence reaches deep, Changing every hue and feature from its cheerless winter's sleep. Why should man be lost to feeling, and his voice in praise be dumb, When all nature is revealing, there are better days to come ? No ! for, see-a soft emotion stirs the breast and nerves the hand Of the sailor on the ocean, and the soldier on the land; And the thoughts of happy childhood come, like sounds of distant bells, To the exile in the wild wood, and the pris'ners in their cells. And a mutter'd prayer to Heaven comes from every laden breast, That their sins may be forgiven, " where the weary are at rest ;" And, from out the bosom rushing, sin and sorrow soon depart, When God's holy spring comes gushing o'er the winter of the heart. NURSERY RHYMES TO SUIT THE TIMES. NO. I. Ride a cock-horse to George's Street Cross, To see Mr. Arnott atop of his horse, With the fire-escape, and the plugs, and the hose, And he will have water wherever he goes; And the streets will be clean'd for fine ladies to walk, And the Council be whipp'd till they work and not talk, And the "Beautiful City," the pride of the Lee, Will soon be a credit to his worship and me. Hey, diddle, diddle ! the cat and the fiddle ! Old Barney jump'd over the moon ; The Gutter Club laugh'd at the welcome newsThe Queen is coming here soon. The news came over in three ships, although you take it easy; 'Twas told us by a little man that afterwards went crazy. LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 393 Make a pie ten feet high, baker's man. Troth, I will, Barney, as fast as I can. Pat it and stuff it, and mark it with B, And we'll serve it up hot to the Queen's majesty. Sing a song-the royal throng through Cork is passing byFour-and-twenty humbug knights bak'd in a pie; When the pie was open'd, they all began to whine, And Barney S - , that got it made, was knighted by the Queen. See-saw, without reason or law, Our "Park " was sold by the Council braw. Weren't they a dirty set To sell the Park for what they could get, And leave us trudge through wet and sludge ? And for our money they give us fudge. Hush-a-by, Georgey, down on the P'rade Of strong bars of iron your crutches are made; But the bars will soon break, and you're sure of a fall, And down will come Georgey, crutches, and all; And I'm greatly afraid that your friend Barney Sheen Will think you're too shabby to welcome the Queen, And will jabber and talk, like a man without sense, Till he'll have you all gilt at the city's expense. NURSERY RHYMES TO SUIT THE TIMES.* NO. II. Boys and girls, come out and playYou'll lose the fun if you longer stay ; Come with an effigy, come with a barrel, Come for to bury poor B--t C --- 1; Leave your supper, and come with the crowdThe band is playing sweet and loud ; * The origin of these rhymes was as follows :-When Col. Wood and Mr. Carroll lost the city election, messieurs the rabble made themselves very busy, burying them in effigy, when an amusing, and what might have been a serious, incident occurred to the writer. A funeral, preceded by a band and torch-bearers, was passing the Court House, where his workshop is situated, when one of the boys, seeing "WOOD CARVER " in large wooden letters in the window, suddenly cried, "Oh! be de jumpin' jackass! look where WooD & CARROLL is. Are we going to put up wit dat ?" The corpse was laid down, and a rush made to investigate the matter, while a few stones were thrown; but fortunately some of the mourners were better readers than the first, and discovered their mistake in time. The informer got two or three kicks for his pains, and the procession was resumed, with shouting for the popular candidates. 394 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. And the rabble, as if they were out of their mind, Play the d----l's tattoo at their heels behind ; While his worship the Mayor, Kinsale's M.P., Is keeping the peace of our "fair city ;" And the police look on, to a riot alive, And seem as among them they'd like to dive; But the never a reason they gave them at all For using the bayonet or powder and ball. For the boy that was kill'd-and another of course, Like the famed Johnny Leech-should go riding a horse Which, all day, as smooth as a boat did glide, And their friends were crying, " How nice they ride And they just got sight of the winning-post, When the race, and the boys, and the horse were lost; For the rival horse came with two knowinger lads, That were up to all tricks like the boys call'd " cads ;" And they frighten'd the horse that poor B--t was on, Till he flung up his heels, and so ended the fun; For poor B--t was kill'd, t'other wounded full soreA lesson to wild boys for evermore. A Bear and an Eagle are growling abroad, Whom some will censure, and more applaud, For setting their neighbours by the ears, And filling the world with hopes and fears. And it came round in simple wayThe bear had wanted to make his prey Of a Turkey that liv'd in the East; But the bird didn't like it in the least, And tried to fight his mighty foeBut, if left alone, 'twould be no goTill a Bull and an Eagle did interfere, And between them all they lick'd the Bear. Then the Turkey, to show his grateful heart, Call'd them " infidels" for taking his part; And 'twas all forgot, and the world at peace, Till the Bear and the Eagle agreed to fleece ; And first they bid the Bull good-bye, After throwing sand in his nose and eye; For the Eagle wants to live in a Roome, Though its landlord says he shan't presume; LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 395 And the Bear can't relish a bite or a sup, Till his neighbour the Turkey he gobbles up ; And the Bull now daren't interfere With his friend the Eagle, and foe the Bear : So between them all, the world, alas ! Has come at last to a pretty pass. NURSERY RHYMES TO SUIT THE TIMES.* NO. III. Whim, wham, whaddle, 0! Dance fiddle, faddle, 0 ! Bring the whip and saddle, 0 ! Till A-w takes a ride. I told my love so many times His riding to give o'er, For fear my boy should get a fall, As he has got before. I'd buy him lots of pretty toys As ever you did see; But, no ! Sir Wilful only wants The letters call'd M.P. I said the race was dangerous, And bid him to beware; But, only think-the saucy boy!He says he dinna care. He's off upon his hobby horse, And using spur and rein, And asking all the freemen's help He wishes to obtain; But still upon my foolish heart He left a heavy load ! For ah ! my darling does not know There's Lyons on his road;Though I told him, and he going, To avoid them if he could, As 'tis not the first, by many times, That Lyons spoil'd A Wood; * Messrs. Wood and Carroll, after being buried and all, should try their fortune at elections again, with the deplorable result mentioned in the text. 396 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. And, till I hear he's safe and sound, I can't take bite or sup, Lest (like bold Harry, long ago), The beasts should eat him up, Telegraph man ! pray tell, if you can, How goes the battle abroad ? Say, if the French are making a trench, Is the Austrian despot awed? Say, where is Garibaldi now, And who is the bravest fellow? With a faithful account of that terrible row, The battle of Montebello. What will we do, if the rumour is trueAnd there's little cause for doubtThat to meet the foe we all must go, Should war at home break out? And first of all they'll make a call, Some day that's not far distant, And visit every " draper's shop," And seize on each "assistant." There's no occasion there to force An edict so despoticThey're fine young men, and such, of course, Are brave and patriotic ; And out will come, at beat of drum, From office, desk, and counter, And leave the ladies mind the shop While they the foe encounter. The ladies will cry, with a tear in each eye, " What a handsome soldier-boy ! " As they march so gay, in bright array, Our enemies to destroy; And if wanting a name to trumpet their fame, When the news of the battle appears, I'd much recommend, as their steadiest friend, "' The Fair Ladies' Defence Volunteers." LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 397 NURSERY RHYMES TO SUIT THE TIMES. NO. IV. " Thunder " and "Lightning" were two pretty men That slept in their bed till the clock struck ten; Then up starts Thunder, and cries "I'm a dreamer! Faith, brother Lightning ! we're late for the steamer; Run on before, and tell Archy to stop, As we're going to Queenstown to take a small drop; And, if he don't wait, 'twill be worse for himself, As we won't patronise such a humbugging elf." The steamer bell is ringing loud, round go the paddle-wheels, When little Thunder jumps on board, with Lightning at his heels. There's pleasant looks on every side, and smiles on every lipBut, ah ! between it and the cup there often is a slip; There's dandies on the paddle-box, and dandies on the gunnelBut, ah! what means that sudden cry, "That dd, infernal funnel ! " The ladies fly on every side, like sheep without a shepherd, And ah ! the darlings, one and all, are spotted like a leopard. The dandies swore and bluster'd, and Thunder fairly roar'd, And Lightning cried, " There's no escape but jumping overboard ;" And Thunder clapp'd his hands again, and blubber'd like a ninny, "My salmon-colour'd dandy tie that cost me half-a-guinea !" And still the funnel vomited the smut that chok'd and soil'd, And more besides the "Shopkeeper" their bran new clothes got spoil'd; For Jtt cried, "Upon my word, the very saints 'twould fret ! I just had hit upon a plan to pay the nation's debt." They look'd a wise though sadder lot, when back again returning, And seem'd as if they left off black and took to second mourning; But all agreed the owners of the steamer should be broke For not providing funnels that would swallow their own smoke. The ancient fable is coming to passThe birds and beasts are at war, alas ! And Eagles with two heads, and Eagles with one, Are using the bayonet, the rifle, and gun. 39S LEGENDS AND BALLADS. The young Bear of Russia is growling his might; The Bull is preparing to join in the fight, And, with such preparation for bloodshed and strife, We may safely suppose 'twill be war to the knife. And with birds and with beasts, faith ! our poor Irish Pat Will be forc'd, I'm afraid, to behave like the Bat; For the Bull will not trust him far out of his sight, For fear he'd be helping the Eagle to fight. And the Eagle must think that the Irish in-fan-try Will be playing him tricks, like Killala and Bantry; Suspected on both sides, the easiest way Is to shout for the winner, whoe'er gains the dayAnd keep never heeding how goes either side, But mind his own business, and swim with the tide; And his country shall flourish in spite of them yet, For her sun will be rising when others have set. NURSERY RHYMES TO SUIT THE TIMES. NO. V. Baker, baker, badgeree, Welcome to my pillory : For baking me such musty bread I have a hole to put out your head. You cannot have a word to sayYou bake it now in open day; Then, pray, come tell us what's amiss, And why you bake such bread as this. " I'll tell you, then," the baker cries, " The fault with Mr. Public lies; 'Twas he that made a sad complaint, And did such awful pictures paint, Of work at night and Sunday labour. He drove in fits his next-door neighbour With tales, we can't deny are true, Of what unhappy bakers do When tired and drunk the streets they roam, At break of day, to cheerless home; LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 399 How days of rest, by God ordain'd, Were by the drunken brawl profan'd; And 'stead of sound of praise or pray'r, Foul blasphemy rang on the air, Till haggard, pale, devoid of strength, Exhausted nature fails at length To torpid sleep the baker yields, While others walk in summer fields, Or crawls to work with throbbing breast, When they shall calmly sink to restA pallid serf, a branded slave, Devoted to an early grave ! 'Ho !'cried old Public's startled neighbour, 'Abolish night and Sunday labour.' 'Twas done, and forth five thousand came, And each good man wrote down his name, That he or his, till they were dead, Should never touch that fiend, hot bread; From this should nothing make them budge, But, after all, 'twas simply 'fudge ;' For soon they came in great alarm, With faces longer than my arm, And fiercely they began to scold'Why, bless my heart ! this bread is cold: We thought that night-work was a curse,* But bread like this is ten times worse. We never meant-you'll find it trueTo hurt ourselves by serving you. But, not to interrupt our dealing,' They say, with such an air of feeling, 'We'll take it from you, I'll go bail, One halfpenny cheaper, as 'tis stale.' " 'Tis ever thus the public mind, Unsteady as the fickle wind; And so, in spite of all the fuss, This is the way you stand to us. I know not what to do or say, Or when to bake it-night or day; I am sorry to say that after the philanthropic and untiring exertions of Dr. Shaw, F.T.C.D., and others in their cause, the Bakers have fallen back to the old way. 400 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. For every lawful way I've tried, And still you are not satisfied. You brought me to a pretty passI'm like the man that lost his ass For, if I bak'd it 'on my head, You'd stillfind some fault with my bread." THE BLARNEY STONE.* On a moss-clad stone, by the sparkling Lee, In the mystic days of old, Sat a being fair as the eyes could see, Who play'd on a harp of gold, And sang sweet music, soft and rare, As the zephyrs toss'd her flowing hair. " Oh, come, young chieftain, come," she sang; " Thou art beautiful and brave, And thy heart shall feel no grief or pang In our home beneath the wave, Whilst thou art sitting by my side, And the harp is touch'd by your fairy bride. " The wealth of ocean is at thy call In our fairyland of dreams, Where age ne'er comes to fade or pall, And the music of fairy streams Shall lull thee to sleep on thy flowery bed, And the crown of our kingdom shall deck thy head. * The Anglo-Irish tradition connected with the origin of the word "blarney," as applied to an insinuating and persuasive address, is that one of the chiefs of the district having visited the court of Queen Elizabeth for the purpose of making an appeal to her, urged his cause with somuch tact and eloquence that the queen, on hearing the interpretation of his speech, turned to one of her courtiers and asked, "What part of Ireland is this goodly chieftain from?" and having been answered, "From Blarney," she ever after used the word when any one of her courtiers sought by plausible representation to win favour to their cause. The genuine Irish tradition connected with the stone is given in these verses by one who has had it direct from the voices which were afloat upon the air, while he was reposing by the wooded shores of the waters near. Blarney was a place of note in the Druidical ages. A huge crom-leach, or Druid altar, stands there still, in a space of wonderful beauty, a little below the Witch's Stairs, on the margin of the comrn-an. The Four Masters, at A.M. 3501, mention the Carrac Blamre, or Rock of Blarney. The stone usually appealed to now, by the touching of the lips, is not the genuine stone-that lies much farther down, built into the walls of the castle. To kiss it, the neophyte must be lowered, head downwards, by ropes: so the late parish priest of Blarney, Father Horgan, used to say, and he was a man of great traditionary learning. Of course, at the period to which this tradition refers, though only seven hundred years since, the waters of the Lee were far deeper than they are now, and shells of great size and splendour were abundant on the shore. LEGENDS AND BALLADS. "This land is lovely as aught on earth, But is nought compar'd to mine; For sorrow tracks your love and mirth, And your light doth seldom shine." "Hold, Fairy Queen !" he rais'd his hand, 'Tis Erin still, and my native land. "I love its mountains, wild and free, Where shines the hand of God; And, oh ! I love my native Lee, And its shamrock-spangled sod, While I unfetter'd free can roam, Then lure me not to your fairy home." " Ha ! free young chief! it will not be long Ere freedom leaves your shore, And these hills that echo'd the patriot's song Shall echo these strains no more, When the Saxon churl, with lying tongue, Has over your island his fetters flung." " Then tempt me not ! my place is here, If danger is so nigh : Far better meet a bloody bier, Than like a coward fly; For I will not sheathe my father's brand While a Saxon lives to curse the land." The fairy flung her harp aside, And gaz'd on him with grief, And stepp'd within the rippling tide Beside the youthful chief, And crouch'd within a glowing shell, And slowly sank as she cried, "Farewell ! " The young chief sat on the moss-clad stone, And ponder'd the fairy's words, Till he heard a Saxon trumpet blown, And the clang of Saxon swords; And a crimson flush is on his brow, For a score to one is around him now. 20 401 402 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. No mercy from the foe he sought, But wild his proud eyes gleam, And gallantly the chieftain fought, Beside his native stream ; But he fell at length, without a groan, And his red blood dyed the moss-clad stone. The fairy came to the spot again, When the moon came o'er the hills, And her sorrow for the hero slain, The dew-clad valley fills, As she stoop'd beside the silent flood, And kiss'd the stone dyed with his blood. His clansmen laid him in the dell, Where branches o'er him quiver, Beside the spot he lov'd so wellThe ever-sparkling riverWhere oft the Fairy Queen has sighed Above the stone on which he died. And time roll'd over, swift and fast, On rock, and tree, and flower; And the moss-clad stone was built at last In Blarney Castle tower, And they who kiss it, old or young, Are gifted with the fairy tongue. IRISH VOLUNTEERS' MARSEILLAISE. Aia-" British Grenadiers." Who talks of an invasion By Frenchman, Russ, or Don, And says we've great occasion For sabre, pike, and gun; And mourns the want of fighting men, And other paltry fears, When Erin's sons can meet again As " Irish Volunteers? " LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Who says that England in the fight Brave Paddy will not trust, And keeps the swords that should be bright In idleness and rust? 'Tis but a wretched coward lieDeny it now who dares !That from the Britishflag would fly " The Irish Volunteers." Who first came forth in bright array In glorious "Eighty-two ?" Who nobly battled in the fray At famous Waterloo? In fields that were Old England's boast These many hundred years, Who were the flower of her host But " Irish Volunteers ? " Ho ! forward, men of every creedOld Ireland and the QueenBe steady in the hour of need, The Orange and the Green ! And very soon the world shall see Those bitter foes for years Unite against the enemy, As " Irish Volunteers." Then forth, Fermoy, and lead the band To guard our native coast; Ho ! Arnott of the open hand, Be ready at your post! And, men of Cork, come forth once more And rattle it in their ears, That none can guard their native shore Like "Irish Volunteers." Ho ! "limber up," artillery, Ho ! riflemen, advance, March forward, Erin's chivalry, 'Gainst Russia, Spain, or France; And shew them by your ringing shout They come to find their biers, While our Green Land is fenc'd about By "Irish Volunteers." 403 404 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. CHALLENGE TO MR. RAREY, THE GREAT HORSE-TAMER. Mr. Rarey-oh ! my dearyWelcome back to town; We'll ring the bells, as each one tells You're a man of great renown. Aye, pitch your tent-'tis time well spentWe'll all be sure to go, 'Tis seldom seen in Cork, I ween, A genuine Rarey show. Mr. Rarey, oh ! be wary, Do not talk too fast, Or you may fail, for I'll go bail We've found your match at last. Act how you will, but prove your skill Before the British Nation, And tame that stud that won't be good, Our City Corporation ! Mr. Rarey, if some fairy Ever gave you pow'r, Use it now, and stop the rowWe'll bless you from that hour. Just drop in when they beginYourself must take the chairAnd grasp the rein that's held in vain By a celebrated M1ayre. Mr. Rarey-but take care he Does not take a notion; He's full of tricks, and with his kicks Might spoil your " locomotion." If he were tame, lie's known to fame For politics and Blarney; I mean the wildest of the stud, A famous one call'd " Barney." Mr. Rarey, don't get weary, Though 'tis just like Babel; Some fiercely shout and rush about, While others thump the table, LEGENDS AND BALLADS. The Mayre insists 'tis Barney's fault, But Barney.says " poor creature "" Yerra, let him talk, sure the world knows He's only human nature." Mr. Rarey, don't be chary Of your secret now; " Whispering " isnot the thing That ever stops a row; Kindness, too, will never doAh, faith, you look quite puzzledThe only way to gain the day Is, have them all well muzzled ! Mr. Rarey, I declare he Must not be forgot, To see this steed, your heart would bleed, He's nearly gone to pot; All trades have tried (and failed beside) To mend him-'tis a sin; But he's stuffed with bricks and mortar, And his rump is patched with tin.* Ullagone, a heart of stone I'm sure could not help fretting, Tlat horse (or Mare) should crutches wear From the usage that he's getting. Give him ease then, if you please, Or else his bones will crack From that ould deludin' vagabone That's stuck upon his back. FOREIGN LANDS AND IRISH HEARTS. Oh, yes, the sunny South may wear A flower-studded vest, And sweet perfumes may scent the air In Araby of the blest; SThe steed of George-a-Horseback. 405 406 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. And gems and birds of gorgeous hue Are found in distant lands, Where smiling skies of azure blue Look down on coral strandsBut Dead Sea fruits seem fair to win, Though dust and ashes are within. The foul hyena haunts the brake, The tiger guards the bowers, And often is the hissing snake Conceal'd among the flowers; And coral rocks are dreadful things Beneath a stormy sky, When the wild bird requiem sings To the drowning sailor's cry; But Erin's flowers are fair to view, Sparkling with gems of Heaven's dew. England may boast of wealth untold Around her haughty throne, And freely scatter blood-stained gold In ev'ry clime that's known; But look into her gloomy mines, And dens of dark despair, Where God's bright sunshine never shinesSay-Are they happy there? And might is right where shines the light, But God in time sets all things right. "Britannia rules the wave "-her guns Are bristling round the coast; But Erin-aye, and Scotland's sons Are foremost of her host. Her flaunting flag is proudly set Where'er the sun appears; But Erin's flag may flourish yet, When others sink in tears; And none may "rule" the wave or sod, But He, the great all-potent God! And Caledonia's sons may prize Their land of mist and mountain, Her maidens too have sparkling eyes, Like sunlight on a fountain; LEGENDS AND BALLADS 407 But deep within the exile's heart The Shamrock's ever springing, And songs of home will joy impart, Like sweet bells ever ringing; And beauty, love, and virtue rare Are centred in our maidens fair. Then wheresoe'er their lot is cast, Beside the mocking stranger, Let Irish hearts stand true and fast, And shield their land from danger ; And love their pretty Irish girls, Although no gems array them; But surely they are priceless pearls, E'en just as God has made themAnd, oh ! while e'er their life-blood runs Let Erin's maids love Erin's sons. THE CITY OF CORK ALPHABET FOR 1860. A is for Arnott, our worshipful Mayor, Who will keep us " in order'" the rest of the year. B is for Bernard, known better as " Barney," And fam'd from the " Poles " to the "Lakes of Killarney." C is the " Council " whom " Barney" looks after, And calls 'em "dam humbugs " 'midst uproar and laughter. D is the "Dyke," once the pride of our town, Which the old Council spoil'd, and the new one " done brown," E is for Enright that caused us great trouble, And would not build the Bridge till his contract they'd double. F should be the fountain we got from the judge, But the Council have grabb'd it, so F stands for "fudge." G "George-a-Horseback," who firmly clutches A stout rolling-pin, tho' his charger wears crutches. H is the "Harbour," the pride of our city, That is sadly neglected-sure more is the pity. I (like the man and his ass, in the fable) Have tried to please all, but (like him) I'm unable. J is for Jeffcott, who'll puzzle us yet, As the man who will pay off the "National Debt." K are the keys of our City that strong is, And are kept (like the fire-escape) where "Dick Long " is.* *Nowhere. 408 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. L is the " Lee," our own dear native river, Whose ripples seem gems where the bright sunbeams quiver. M is for Mathew that's fam'd o'er the earth, Though his name seems forgot in the home of his birth. N the " New Wall," with its green shady bowers, Though a crowbar would shield you as well from the showers. O with a "Flyn," means a brave little man, Who will keep all the Council from jobs if he can. P is the " Park," where we often repose, But oh, I forgot, there we can't show our nose. Q are the quarrels" that always ensue When the Council has business (important) to do. R is the " rain," which this year with its tillies, Keeps the ladies from flaunting like Solomon's lilies. S are the " steamers," whose funnels are snares, That bedabble with soot ev'ry tack a man wears. T is for " Thunder," who knows what I mean, And dear little " Lightning," who felt all the pain. U is the " Union's " Repeal, don't mistake it, Which the Queen waits to grant till we're ready to take it, V is "Victoria," who love's Cork we're told, May we oft see her dear face on silver and gold. W are the " Works," which after much slaughter, Supplies us with cold, but keeps some in hot water. X with another X, when we walk out, Is the best drink in Ireland, call'd "Beamish's Stout." Y is the "Yacht Club," whose boats gaily glide At "Cork Harbour Regatta," our boast and our pride. Z for the "Zephyr," the "Sybil," and Ariel," All crack yachts for sailing (&c.), fare-ye-well. " " BE TRUE. Be true, ah !be true, to the sailor at sea, Though the wild winds may drift, and the billows' loud roll May dash his frail barque o'er the rocks on her lee, Yet his heart is as true as the steel to the pole. Through calm and through pleasure, through tempest and foam, His thoughts are on God, on his country, and you; Then be your heart as faithful, and welcome him home; Be true to the sailor, be true, ah ! be true. LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Be true to the soldier, through distance and time, Let your mind never doubt, let your heart never yield, Though he find but a grave in a far foreign clime, And his bones lie at rest on the red battle-field; Yet he breathed your name in his last dying pray'r, As the stars twinkled down from the deep sky of blue, His dead hand is clasping a long tress of hair; Be true to the soldier, be true, ah ! be true. Be true to the exile in forest or plain, Though his home is in ruins, and cold is his hearth, And the long rolling foam-crested waves of the main Separate him for aye from the home of his birth; He thinks of her mountains and clear running streams, And the ever green shamrock bespangled with dew, One lov'd face for ever is haunting his dreams; Be true to the exile, be true, ah ! be true. Be true to the friend, though no more by your side, Who shared in your pleasures in past happy years, And heed not the lessons of fashion and pride, Though his eyes may be blinded with misery's tears. Remember one just God is over us all, And spurn not the old friend to welcome the new, Lest the false ones you trusted may laugh at your fallBe true to your old friend, be true, ah ! be true. Be true to your brother in sunshine and storm, Though the whisper of envy may sully his fame; Be your grasp still as loving, your welcome as warm, Let him feel that your friendship is more than a name. For the rough road of life has full many a thorn, And leal hearts and loving, alas ! are too few ; Be it yours then to shield him from malice and scorn; Be true to your brother, be true, ah ! be true. Be true to each, be true to the death, In the winter of age, in the sunshine of youth; Be the word you have pledged, though a whisper, a breath, Your loadstar to guide to the haven of truth; For one true heart is better than jewels or gold, And rewards which the proud of the earth never knew; But await till its throbbings are silent and coldThen be true to each other, be true, ah ! be true. 409 410 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. " ONE STORY IS GOOD TILL ANOTHER IS TOLD." Oh ! the workman is crushed by monopolies vile; His master's a despot ; himself is a slaveThe victim of avarice, falsehood, and guile, The football of power from cradle to grave; A manacled serf, with no will of his own, To be ground 'neath the wheels of the Juggernaut GOLD : ' Give us justice," the artizan cries, with a groan; But " One story is good till another is told." ' Ho, ho ! " cry the masters, " we've energy, skill; We have chemistry's aid, and a servant in steam, With patents, inventions, and power, and will, To work with the freedom and ease of a dreamWe may count on them all that they never will fail, Or the lightning-flash send to a far distant coast; But, alas ! with our men 'tis a different tale, For they're sure to desert when there's need of them most." The master has orders the trade to supply, And his word is his bond to be ready in time ; He calls in more help, and then forth goes the cry Of injustice, oppression, and every crime. 'The bench is deserted, the furnace is cold, The engine can't work, for its fires are dead; Thus " One story is good till another is told," As the men will not work, though their children want bread. The labourer, surely, is worthy his hire, And is free to demand a fair price for his toil; The employer is surely as free to inquire If the workman is skill'd, or his business would spoil. Though the man may be good for to work at his trade, He may yet in his heart be a profligate sot; Will you, then, force the master himself to degrade By employing such men ?-you will surely say not. Shall the drunkard be classed with the honest and true? Shall the skilled and the worthless be paid just the same ? ,Shall the many be injured to pleasure the few, Or merit be only a shade and a name? LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 411 Thus the markets are glutted with foreigners' wares, The workman is idle and wages can't rise, For while master and workmen are both by the ears, The alien steps in and the order supplies. It will ever be thus till the masters are fain The just laws and rights of their men to respect, And the artizans feel 'tis but right to maintain Their duties as men, which they often neglect. Remember the tale of the cats and the cheese, And leave strikes and disputes to the drunkards and drones, Have faith in each other-your welfare agrees" They who live in glass houses should never throw stones." THE NEW CRUSADE.* RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE IRISH BRIGADE. The monarch on high Heaven's throne Has laid the sure foundation stone, And sprinkled with His blood the root Of that Old Church you persecute; And promised to his chosen flock To shield that " House upon the Rock," Against which lightning, tempest, hail, Or " gates of hell should not prevail." You dare not call these empty boasts'Twas founded by the Lord of Hosts; Then tell us why you interfere With him who sits in Peter's chair? And why with gold in red right hand Ye seek to mar what God has plann'd, Till fair Italia's sons are led To rise against the Church's Head? You tried it oft, and try it still, To bend it to your iron will; And what has been for this your gain But centuries of woe and pain, The faggot and the dying groan, The Priest slain on the Altar stone? He said it-you would surely fail" The gates of hell shall not prevail." / Written at the embarkation of the Irish Brigade for Italy. 412 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. You offer'd to the starving Celt, Whom winter snows did ruthless pelt, To shelter from the biting blast, And feed the lov'd ones round him cast, If he would but renounce the creed For which his sires did nobly bleed ; But no, he feebly turned aside, And humbly signed the cross, and died. But now when storms around Her lower, From cabin by the ruined towerFrom storm-toss'd hut by ocean's foam, And from the Old Ancestral Home, Comes boldly forth each brawny Celt, The Harp and Cross upon his belt, An Irish heart, his coat of mail, 'Gainst which no armour can prevail. Bring forward then your force and might, And pit the wrong against the right, And try to crush with iron heel, And cannon's roar and flashing steel; But Pat will fill a bloody grave, Or God's Old Church untarnished save, Although you cloak your deeds of shame, As efforts made in freedom's name. Can aught but He who rules the wave, And holds as dust the Czar and Slave, Disturb the earth on which we tread, Or render dry the ocean's bed ? Then laugh to scorn the feeble power Who dares when storms around her lower, God's Church with puny arms assail, When "gates of hell" could not prevail. THE DREAM OF STEAM. The giant Steam awoke from a dream, And he laughed in joyous mirth, And his voice rang out with a horrid shout That shook the startled earth; LEGENDS AND BALLADS. He danc'd with glee, and " Ha, ha," said he, "My master yet shall rue, Though he rules the land, with his puny hard, There is one thing yet to do. ' Though he binds me well, in an iron cell, With axle, crank, and wheel, And shuts my mouth with rivets stout, And a rein of tempered steel; And a heavy load, on an iron road, He makes me drag along, Till the lazy wind I leave behind As I shriek in my anger strong. " From pole to pole, where the billows roll, His gallant ships I guide, And fight my way, through the angry sea, Despite of wind and tide; I saw, I plane, I pump, I drain, I stamp, I cut, I blow, Or stitch away, through the long, long day, For tired I never grow. " He sends me away from the light of day To toil in the gloomy mine, Or out in the field, where the harvest's yield In the golden sunbeams shine; I reap, I bind, I thrash, I grind, There is nought in the wildest dream That the hand of man, if he knew the plan, May not do with his servant Steam. "' I saw in my dream," said the giant Steam, But " How 'the brawny sons of toil'The sinew and bone of the State and ThroneAll their mighty efforts spoil : For they still adore, and bow before, A demon dark and fell, That fills the land with a pauper band, And the blackest crimes of hell. " He prompts the worst of the toil accurs'd, The idle and unskilled, Till they raise a cry for wages high, And their hearts with hate are fill'd; 413 414 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. And they cause a 'strike,' and deep dislike 'Twixt workman and employer, Who sets mne free and makes me be The artizan's destroyer. " And they meet and talk, as they idle walk, And bluster, swear, and boast, While the honest hand, who firm would stand To the last, will suffer most; For the paltry crew, who caused the brew, Will first themselves degrade, And as slaves return (what the true would spurn) The Judasesof trade. " Then blame not steam," he cried with a scream, " He must always serve the strong, For between ourselves, ye toiling elves, There is some one must be wrong; When the Wrong's removed, and the Right is proved, You may curb me with a feather, When the secret is found, through the world around, We shall work in peace together." TO THE MEMORY OF DAVID SKEEHAN. RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO THE "IRISH BRIGADE, BY THE WRITER. Halt ! his weary march is ended, and his short campaign is o'er, And the bugle-call will wake him to the battle nevermore. Lightly lay the green sod o'er him, where no foe can break the rest, Let the dear old land that bore him cover o'er his manly breast. Let him sleep, the Cross above him pointing to "The Soldier's Grave," Be the prayers of those that love him offer'd for the true and brave, And the "Faith "for which he perish'd dry the tear-drop as it starts: Fondly is his memory cherish'd, deep enshrin'd in Irish hearts. Daring want and toil and danger, bravely fighting sword in hand, Scouted by the wily stranger, stood that gallant Irish band. Some have fallen crush'd and gory, lying 'neath a foreign sod, Dying for Old Erin's glory, and the creed of Erin's God. Some from dungeon fetters weary, safely reached their native shore Honour to the name of "Mary "-vive la the Tricolour. Think of how She tried to save you, pointing with a loving glance, And the aid they nobly gave you, gallant hearts of sunny France. LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 415 And remember that " The battle is not always to the strong," Fire and steel and cannon's rattle shall not triumph for the wrong, For the Emblem ye have worn, and the Banner that ye bore, Shall the Tyrant's flag be torn, and his pride be quench'd in gore. March ! but should the tempest lower round the creed the Saviour taught, Swear to break the tyrant's power-think of how your brothers fought ; By the honoured grave before you-looking up into the skiesFor the mothers' love that bore you-Ready ! then, and do likewise. A NATIONAL PETITION TO HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN. Victoria on proud England's throne Thy sceptre rules from pole to zone, From Lapland's cold and desert strand To India's parched and burning sand. Thy navies float on every wave, Where zephyrs blow or tempests rave, And over mountain, moor, and moss, Thine armies bear Saint George's cross. Thy merchant ships bring wealth untold Of fragrant spice and yellow gold, And many a pure and costly gem Is sparkling in thy diadem. But in thy crown one gem appears, Its lustre dimm'd with blood and tears, 'Tis loosen'd in thy coronet, And may be lost if not reset, That Emerald, proud England's Queen, Is Erin's dear old land of green, Its value in thy crown of gold, In simple words can ne'er be told; Then, by the pure maternal love You hold from Him who reigns above, Give back the liberty we prize And dry the tears in Erin's eyes. 416 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Oh, give us back contented hearts, Restore the commerce to our marts, Bring merchandise unto our quays, And ships unto our empty bays; Give work to anvil, bench, and loom, And plenty in each toiler's room, And empt the jail, and fill the school, And curb our landlord's tyrant rule; Send back our absentees to hold The land for which their fathers sold Old Ireland's right-our priceless pearl For titles, Lord, and Duke, and Earl. We ask not back-why ask in vain ?The millions by our rulers slain; Their bones lie bleaching 'neath the waves, Or mouldering in shroudless graves. There let them rest, their toils are o'er, The landlord can evict no more; They shed no more the blinding tear, Nor cold nor hunger enter there. They wait the justice yet to come, When God shall strike their rulers dumb, And tyrants shrink, and despot quails, At sight of His unerring scales. Aye, hunger gnaws, and fetters bind, But who can chain the willing mind? In all our troubles, England's Queen, We dearly lov'd this land of green; We never blam'd we blame not thee,* Then set our dear old Erin free ! And break the chain, and spurn the rod, And rule us "By the grace of God." Oh, make us loyal, true, and staunch, And bring the peaceful olive branch, And bless our ark, like Noah's dove, And win a grateful nation's love. * This poem has been objected to as being too "Golden linkish," but I am as little for petitions as any one else. Though this country has many and serious grievances to be redressed, surely no one can say Her Majesty is to blamefor them; and even if she were, it does not belong to the true Irish character to remember it when she is in affliction herself. LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Oh, let not pride thy bosom steel, But listen to our last appeal; ,Coercion never made a friend, Our souls may break, but will not bend; Though bayonets reach the patriot's heart, Fresh martyrs to the cause will start, And years of blood, and millions spent, Will never cure their discontent. 'Then, oh ! if thou hast pity felt, Remember the enduring Celt, And he shall pray to Erin's God For thee, while shamrocks gem the sod. And guard thee well in danger's hour, Should wars disturb, or tempest lower, Right gallantly we'd meet thy foes. The shamrock, thistle, and the rose, United in one common cause ; For Ireland, Scotland, England's laws, Might dare all powers the earth has known To shake thy race on Britain's throne ! Then be a faithful steward thou, Ere time flings shadows on thy brow, And God shall bless thee in the hour You part from earth, and pomp, and pow'r. Thy wide domain shall pass away, Thine armies turn to senseless clay, Thy navies lie beneath the deep, With silent guns, and crews asleep; Thy jewell'd crown corrode with rust, When thou art moulder'd into dust, And of thy cities, wealth, and fame, The stranger shall forget the name; But thy good deeds shall angels write In letters of unfading light, And, oh ! the crown that waits on thee Shall shine through all eternity. 2D 417 418 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. THE ORPHAN'S JOURNEY. PART FIRST. " Oh ! I cannot rest, I cannot rest," Said a fair-hair'd little child, " Till I pillow my head on ny mother's breast, And hear her accents mild. They tell me father's 'neath the wave, And mother's 'neath the sod, Where they laid her in an early graveBut her spirit is with God." Then the child got up from the sunny bank He had lain there many hours, And his golden hair with the dew was dank, And tangled with buds and flowers : " I will go to seek the mother I loveI will find this heaven, I trow ; She will take me with her to God above, As there's none to love me now." He wander'd on by a pleasant brook, Where the water-lilies grew, And the sun shone down on a flowery nook From a sky of azure blue, Where a bower of roses gleam'd between The rocks by Nature riven; Said the child : "I've found it now, I ween ; This must be the way to heaven." He look'd, and saw a maiden fair As the sun e'er shone upon, And weaving pearls in her glossy hair, Knelt her own belov6d one : " 0 lady fair ! may a child come in? Is this the distant shore Where mother rests from care and sin, And sorrow comes no more ? " The maid sprung up in deep surprise, Her face in a crimson glow; The lover frown'd with flashing eyes, And scarce refrained a blow. , LEGENDS AND BALLADS. ' Go, go, thou gipsy brat !" he cried, " And seek thy dam elsewhere; She sleeps, perhaps, by some ditch sideWe shield no beggars here." PART SECOND. " That is not heaven," said the weeping child, As he went his weary way O'er hill, and dale, and woodland wild, On that scorching summer day ; And he watch'd the birds with longing eye That sung in the verdant trees, And murmur'd, with a weary sigh, " Oh ! would I had wings like these." He came when the sun was in the west In crimson clouds and gold, And wearily sank him down to rest Near a baron's proud stronghold; He gaz'd on turret, tower, and fosse, In the sun's effulgent light, And the banner that show'd a blood-red cross, On a field of spotless white. Then rose once more to journey on, Though his pulse with fever beat, And the blood stream'd down in the setting sun From his wounded hands and feet; But he reck'd them not, as he gaily cried, " My troubles now are past ; For that is the cross where the Saviour died, And this is heaven at last." He pass'd the gate, but a noble dame All sternly bade him stand; While the heir of that proud ancestral name She held by her jewell'd hand: " Where art thou going, vagrant wild?" He gaz'd with his eyes of blue : "I am going to mother, for that little child Has found his mother. too." 419 4.20 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. The vassals came at her stern behest To thrust the child away; And he wander'd on with a heaving breast, At the last faint blush of day : A storm was gathering o'er the heath, And night clos'd like a pall, As the child exclaim'd, with failing breath, " Can heaven be found at all ? " PART THIRD. The light has left his deep blue eye, He sinks upon the plain ; While lightning rent the lurid sky, And fiercely fell the rain : Ha ! no, he is up, though cold and wet, As a light shone bright afar. Said the dying child, "I will find it yet Beyond that distant star." The tempest sways him to and fro, But he nobly struggles on, While fearfully the rude winds blow Round that houseless little one. He is dash'd at length through a cottage door, By the rushing tempest driven, As he cried, "Mamma, I can go no more; Oh ! take me now to heaven." The morning sun shone bright and clear When the storm-fiend had pass'd, But the little child lay on his bierHis journey is o'er at last ; His hands are clasp'd on his little breast, And smooth is his pale cold brow, As an old man minurmur'd, "Take thy rest-Thou art with thy mother now." Ha ! blessed God ! thy ways are deep, Thou canst the haughty bow; Look yonder at the castle keepThe banner is sable now. LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 421 Its lady, with dishevell'd hair, Is check'd in all her pride; She mourns for her proud young heir, Who in the night has died. The maid has risen with the lark, And hastens to her bower; Her lover lies there cold and starkHis blood has stain'd each flower. A rival's hand has laid him low On the dew-bespangled sodWho shall the providence seek to know Of the Great Almighty God ? THE DIAMOND HUNTER. A MYSTERIOUS FRAGMENT. Who comes at deep midnight, unaided, alone, Where the spring gushes forth from a moss-cover'd stone, And grasps a red torch with a flickering light, As he peers all around through the blackness of night ? His visage is pallid, and white is his hair, And his form seems bending with sorrow and care; But his eyes seem endued with a power to scorch, As they glare in the light of the flickering torch. He stoops, with his ear pressing close to the ground, And listens intently for footfall or sound; But no murmur is heard in the gathering gloomAll is silent and dark as the mouth of a tomb; Then he springs to his feet with a maniac cry, And the gleam of a fiend in his fierce rolling eye, While strange faces around seem to gibber and mock As he fixes his torch in a cleft of the rock. Why clutches he wildly that ponderous stone With the lichen of ages all stain'd and o'ergrown, And struggles to wrench it, with might and with main, From the bed, where unheeded till now it had lain? There are many curious legends in connection with the Diamond Quarry, which is supposed to communicate by subterranean passages with some old castle in the vicinity. This story never being given before will invest the place with a peculiar interest. The view of the River Lee from the castle in question will amply repay the tourist, if he can contrive to come in the absence of its present hospitable proprietor. 422 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Vain effort ! his hands are all bleeding and torn, And his fast heaving sighs on the night air are borne; Still his muscles are straining, and fierce is his strength, As the stone seems to yield to his efforts at length. Ha ! outward it rolls with a plunge and a splash, While the echoes around are repeating the crash, And wild forms seem grinning in horrible mirth As the digger falls helpless and prone on the earth. Does no glittering treasure the torch-light reveal, Which that boulder for ages did darkly conceal? There is nought but a hole in the slippery rocks, All noisome and dank as the lair of a fox. Look ! look ! how he crawls to the aperture now, With the dew-drops of agony cold on his brow, And gazes once more on the earth and the skies With the balefire of avarice lighting his eyes; Then away by the light of that flickering brand, Which he grasps in his nerveless and shivering hand, And a howl like the reptile that lurks in the brakeHe has pass'd through the hole like a venomous snake. Why pauses he now when no danger is near ? There's a prize to be won, there is nothing to fear ; He is marking the course of the murmuring rill, As it glides on its course through the heart of the hill. Ha ! God ! but his blood seems congealing to stoneThere's a shadow distinct on the ground with his own ! And his tongue will not shriek, and his lips will not pray, For the form of horror that stands in his way. Yet it moves not ! it speaks not ! but stands in his track, And seems to be gazing in agony back, And thoughfix'd in the humid and slippery sod, Its footsteps seem flying the vengeance of God ; Its hands are extended in warning or prayer, And the blast of a tempest seems lifting its hair; But its eyes!-should he live till long centuries roll, Their expression is grav'd on his shuddering soul. LEGENDS AND BALLADS. He has ventur'd too far ! Shall he turn and fly, When the goal is so near, and the treasure is nigh? He has brav'd all the peril unaided, alone, 'To be scar'd from his track by a figure of stone. _No ! forward again for the glittering prize; He is free from the look of those maddening eyes, And the cave of Alladin is worthless and dim To the vision of splendour that's bursting on him. 'Tis the Palace of Fairyland ! sparkling and bright, With its floor and its columns all gleaming with lightAnd its roof !-allthe mines of Golcond and Peru Could not boast of one gem of such exquisite hue. All his! What wild visions are haunting his brainOf his pomp and his power, and enemies slain, And the ruler and monarch should bend to his sway, And the poor man be driven-with curses-away ! And his maine should be great on the land and the sea, And his might should be felt by the slave and the free ; But he starts, as the red flame is scorching his handHe had nearly forgotten his flickering brand. Away ! he will come to his treasure again, When deep midnight has fallen on mountain and glen; But his footsteps ring strange on the cavern floorHe has enter'd a passage he met not before ! He rushes all wildly, and shrieks with dismay, As grim shadowy spectres seem barring his way Through those echoing arches of ponderous span, And long passages hewn by the labour of man ; He totters, exhausted and ready to fall, To a pillar that stands in a ruinous hall, With his eyeballs distended, all speechless and dumbThere's no outlet from this, but the way he has come. O God ! for one glimpse of the pure light of dayHe can never return that horrible way, For the red flame is burning the flesh of his hand; May all curses alight on the treacherous brand ! His wild eyes in madness and agony rollHas the fiend come already to harrow his soul? What vision is towering ghastly and tall, With a raiment all mouldy and black as a pall ? 423 424 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Why stands he all coldly and mute in the dark, As if waiting the end of that flickering spark ? Why holds he before him that terrible scroll? 'Tis a lie! there's no bond with the fiend for his soul. But, hold ! some grim secret the lines may contain; He may live to see daylight and freedom again; He hastens to read, lest the flame should expire, That legend that seems to be written in fire : When the waves recede from the donjon walle, And the castle towers to ruine falle; When steyme shall burste through rocke and plaine, This lande shalle be helde by a pyrate Dane, Whose countlesse treasure he wille not pryze, But wille selle to a man accountede wyse; Whose golde, amassed by teares and cryme, Shall melte like snowe in the summer tyme; When hungry millions for breade shalle calle, And * falle; When starres to quenche the starres shalle try, And warres redd fyres illume the sky; When a goode man opens plentyes store, As thoughtfulle Josoph did of yore; When a kynge, whose lyfe was stayned with luste, Shall lye despysed in a cittyes duste;Then a man, though wyse, shall quake with fearv, For his tyme on earthe is drawynge neare; When the * * * " son of a namelesse churle To sudden deathe his steede shall hurle. And leave no heire to syp his wyne In the castel halles that once were myne;Then a child shall poynt the hidden celle, Where a countlesse treasure is berryed welle, And the wronge be righte, and the darke be cleare, And the lande be helde by its rightfulle heire. All useless !-he turns in anguish around, As the torch falls extinguish'd and black to the ground; He will grope to the hall he remembers so well, As this blackness around seems the threshold of hell. 0 mercy ! a dread voice rings close in his ear, As he stumbles, all madly, in horror and fear, Deep and hoarse as the sea waves that lash the wild shore " Take warning, rash mortal! come hither no more !" Oh ! bright rose the sun on a calmhn summer day, And sweet blossoms are decking each flower and spray, LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 425) And the lark pours its melody glorious and high, As he floats on his pinions far up in the sky, As a phantom came forth from a cleft in the hill Where that moss-cover'd boulder now lies in the rill, And mutters aloud, ever looking behind, As he speeds on his track with the wings of the wind. What babbles that phantom, so haggard and old, Of rubies, and diamonds, and sapphires, and gold, And the Hall of the Fairies-a glittering prizeAnd the figure of stone with the maddening eyes, And the scroll which in letters of fire appears, And the voice of the demon that rings in his earsWho cares, when all nature is joyous and glad, That the old Diamond Hunter is stricken and mad? Years have fled, and in the gloaming Of a golden autumn day, Little children, blithely roaming, Stopp'd beside the rill to play; But, hark ! a hurried step is falling That fills their childish hearts with dread, And on each other quickly calling, From that lone spot they quickly fled. Laughing now, and free from danger, Looking backward to the rill, They see a grim and hoary stranger Pass through the hole beneath the hill. They told the tale; and others, keeping Strict watch till weeks and months were o'erBut whether lost, or dead, or sleeping, The Diamond Hunter came no more. A DREAM OF THE PALM. Hark ! a multitude rejoices, songs of triumph swell the breeze, And the hum of childish voices, sweet as song-birds in the trees, Rises clear, and wild, and ringing, through yon city's open gate, As they come their anthem singing, and their little hearts elate. 426 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. See beneath the mighty towers, rank on rank the people throng; Now they strew the path with flowers, now they raise the gladsome song. Hush ! "Hosannah in excelsis," fills the air so pure and calm, As they raise on high above them branches of the graceful palm. Look ! can He who rides so lowly, with a small but chosen band, And a visage pure and holy, be a ruler in the land ? Ruler, yes; but, ah ! His kingdom lies beyond the deep blue sky, Where His Father reigns for ever--earthly monarchs come not nigh. Grey-hair'd sires come to meet Him, as in triumph on He came; Little children rush to greet Him, "Welcome in God's mighty name!" Now they raise the song of gladness, now their palms on high they tossGod ! to think that some among them nail'd Thee on the blood-stain'd cross ! Backward from the city portal ! scowling Pharisees, give way ! For the Son of the Immortal comes in triumph on His way ; Elders, clad in gold and purple, all unheeded is your hate, For Jerusalem rejoices that the Lord is at her gate. Fast receding through the city, see the cortege disappear, And your looks are void of pity, and your cheeks are blanch'd with fear, And a baleful light is looming, as your glance the Saviour meets; Do you feel the time is coming when His blood shall stain your streets? Evening came, and fierce and burning sank the sun behind a cloud, And upon a scene of mourning, night has flung her ebon shroud; Silence reigns, intense, appalling ; twinkling stars look brightly down, Like to diamond sparkles, falling from God's bright eternal crown, No sweet dew-drops fall from heaven, no soft breeze is stealing past, Yet across the parchi'd earth driven comes a wild and scorching blast, Like a myriad fiends careering, through the darkness and the gloom, Blighting all, and disappearing, rushes by the wild simoom. On the desert sadly lying, with a wild despairing cry, Sinks a pilgrim, faint and dying, none to close his glazing eye, None to soothe his bitter anguish, none to heed his feeble moan, Nought for which his soul doth languish, helpless, hopeless, all aloneNot alone ! for close above him, with the blush of coming day, Soars the vulture of the desert, glaring on his destin'd prey; Little recks the weary stranger how the vulture's eyeballs gleamHe is free from toil and danger, in a sweet, untroubled dreamn. LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 427 "'Up ! glad news the day is bringing-help, and hope, and friends are near," Seem the accents ever ringing, in the pilgrim's listless ear. Up he springs : " Has succour found me ?" wild he rais'd beseeching hands" Blessed God ! is nought around me still, but burning, arid sands ?" Ah !he sees the palm-trees waving o'er yon clear, pellucid lake, And he totters onward, raving, his fierce burning thirst to slake. Strange ! the sun with light is bathing yonder city's towers; but yet All seems from his vision fading-mosque, and dome, and minaret. Onward, onward, on for hours ; now, at last, he nears the brink Of that bright lake girt with flowers ; now he flings him down to drink. Ah ! that mist, his sight obscuring, veils the lake in deepest gloom'Tis the dread mirage is luring that lone pilgrim to his doom. No bright water gleams before him, but the earth is scorch'd and black Still the vulture hovers o'er him, keeping ever on his track, Like the evanescent pleasures which through life we fondly clasp, Finding aye the sought for treasures dust and ashes in our grasp. Faint not now when help is near thee ; see, yon sparkling fountain waits With refreshing draught to cheer thee, cooling shade and luscious dates. Water !" shrieks the poor forlorn. "Tempt me not, thou fiend of hell !" Listen ! on the hot air borne comes the tolling of a bell; And the gushing tears have started to the pilgrim's wistful eye, For the vulture has departed, and the friendly step is nigh; And the Lord, who looks from heaven on the desert and the main, To his tears relief has given, when all human help seems vain. And they bear him to the bowers of the ever spreading palm, Where the breath of tropic flowers fills the air with soothing balm, And the fountain, ever welling through the green and spangled sod, Seems a sweet voice that is telling of the providence of God; And the palm that wave above him fan his scorch'd and burning brow, Seem to whisper, those that love him well are watching o'er him now; And the cool and sparkling wavelets o'er his throbbing temples roll, As the waters of Repentance ripple o'er the sinful soul. 428 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Hoarsely rising on the morning to the gold and purple skies, Rings a trumpet-note of warning, where yon feather'd palm-trees rise; Springing from their peaceful slumber by that clear and sparkling well, Comes a host of countless number, bearing palm and scallop shellBearded pilgrims, grey and hoary, troubadours with song and tale, Gallant knights, renown'd in story, clad in suits of shining mail ; Steeds are neighing, bells are ringing, silken banners o'er them waveMarch they now, the matin singing, to the conquest or the grave. See ! across the desert winding, slowly toils that Christian band, 'Neath the sun all fierce and blinding, through the burning shifting sand : Pilgrim, haste ! there's danger o'er thee--Paynims mark thee for their prey ! See ! the knights are far before thee, speeding on their weary way; Late ! the foe behind are riding, 'neath their flag of red and green, Clouds of blinding dust are hiding flashing eyes and sabres keenOne shriek ! the infidel is present-a rush as of a mighty flood; The dogs that flaunt the blood-stain'd crescent are fetlock deep ii Christian blood. " Allah akbar ! illa Allah ! " shouting wild, they onward press, " Honour to the Sheik Abdallah !-may his shadow ne'er be less !" Through the unoffending pilgrims, slaying all, they wildly pour : " Sons of Islam ! shew no mercy to the unbelieving Giaour "Back--" Crusaders to the rescue ! " let the dogs your lances feel; Back, to take red-handed vengeance, comes that hedge of burnish'd steel. the vision's fled, the fight is Another shout rings out exultant o'er; The Holy Cross still floats triumphant, the bloody crescent sinks in gore. THE CAPTIVE A LEGEND OF - KNIGHT. CASTLE. Deep closing around the lone path of the stranger, The dull shades of evening were gathering fast, And warnings of evil, of sorrow and danger, Seem'd borne on the wing of the rude autumn blast; LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 429 Yet still by the bank of the foam-speckled river, And still through the gloom of the fast fading light, To the dark elm-grove where the sere branches quiver, Went recklessly spurring a gallant young knight. On, on, though the storm is murmuring louder; The last beam of sunlight has fled from the sky ; The glance of that rider grew sterner and prouder, And brighter the flash of his dark rolling eye; With his lance in the rest, and his battle-cry ringing, The breeze wildly tossing his long waving plume, While the mournful echoes his death-dirge are singing, He is gone through the mist, and the tempest, and gloom. Through brush and through briar, his war-horse is crashing, The dead leaves around him are whirled in showers ; While fiercely above him blue lightning is flashing, Revealing strange glimpses of castle and towers; With a rush, as though rider and steed were immortal, He has reached the portcullis, unsheathing his brand ; While the turret, the roof, and the iron-bound portal, Resound with the clang of his gauntleted hand. " O'Mahony ! O'Mahony ! come forth to the battle !" The knight wildly shouted in anger and scorn; But his summons is drown'd in the thunder's loud rattle, And still is unheeded his blast on the horn. " Ha ! craven, come forth, be you giant or devil; Give back the young bride I love truly and well." But the echoes are shrieking like demons at revel, While the tempest is tolling the great castle bell. His helmet has fallen, his long waving curls Are toss'd in the night wind and drench'd in the rain, While madly against the grim portal he hurls His lance and his war-horse to burst it in vain. The good steed is sinking, exhausted and weary; The young knight has hopelessly gaz'd all around At the wild waving trees, looking dismal and dreary, Then reels in his saddle, and falls to the ground. Softly came the silver splendour Of the bonny harvest moon, Gazing lovingly and tender On the flowers tempest strewn; 430 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Pendant gems in many a cluster Hung on every branch and spray, While the moon shed mellow lustre O'er the young knight where he lay. " Ho ! young knight, art dead or sleeping? Mount again-the storm is o'er ; Faithful watch above thee keeping, See, thy war-horse waits once more; Mount-although thy lance be broken, Thy good sword shall never fail; Thy plume and scarf with rain are soaken, The rust is gathering on thy mail. " Perchance, thy lady love is pining A captive in the giant's thrall; Perchance, in magic sleep reclining, She dwells in his enchanted hall Thy pathway is beset with danger, But valour ne'er can brook delay ; The scroll above thy head, young stranger, Will guide thee on thy lonely way." Madly up the knight is springing : Ha ! his good steed still is near, And a warning voice seems ringing Still upon his listening ear" Up and break thy lady's fetters, If the power of mortal can." Reads he now those dreaded letters Thus the mystic legend ran : He who seeks O'lIahony brave, the fearless and the free, Will find him in the Giant's Cave by the sparkling River Lee; Who seeks the Chief in friendly guise had better pause and stay, Who comes in anger is not wise, he'll surely rue the day. Swiftly to the saddle bounding, Like an arrow from a bow; Through the moonlit glades resounding Speeds his gallant steed Moro. Fast the wither'd leaves are falling, Night-birds scream around his track ; Echo seems upon him calling, "Rash young knight, come back, come back !" LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Back, oh, back !thou gallant stranger ! Speed not to that fatal bourne : They who rush on hidden danger Seldom on their path return. Wither'd branches gleam and quiver, Clouds obscure the moon's pale light ; Still beside the flooded river Madly spurs that fierce young knight. Now a distant rock is looming In the weird and fitful light, Where the waters, hoarsely booming, Sound upon the stilly night; Giant Steps, far up ascending From the swollen river's bed, Fling long shadows, dark impending, Filling all with gloom and dread. See ! at last, the knight is checking His speed along the river side, And blood-stain'd foam is whitely flecking His charger's panting, glossy hide; Fitful waves are sadly breaking The silence on the dismal shore, The rash young knight is vainly seeking The magic cave's mysterious door. Rest, oh, rest ! thy heart is weary: 'Tis not yet O'Mahony's hour; At deep midnight, wild and dreary. Magic spells have double powerRest and wait the Giant's token. On the ground his form he flung, And in soft accents, sad and broken, 'Twas thus the brave young stranger sung: "I think upon the happy time Beside the chainless Guadalquivir, When summer shed its golden prime Upon thine own beloved river, 431 432 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. And thou and I would sweetly stray, Beneath soft shadows ever glancing, And chase the rosy hours away With mirthful song and joyous dancing: Ah ! thus I ever dream of thee, My own beloved Rosalie. " And you became my blushing bride, When happy years roll'd softly o'er us, And through the clear and sparkling tide, My gallant barque so swiftly bore us. Thy father stood upon the strand, And bless'd us, though his heart was swelling; I bore thee to my native land, A pearl to grace mine ancient dwellingMy castle towers in NormandieMy love, my bride, my Rosalie. " Ah ! but the tempest came full soon; Our gallant barque was lightning-riven, The ocean-wave with wrecks was strewn, And we before the blast were driven; But, anchor'd here, the storm was o'er. Ah ! why did we one moment sever? I lost thee on this foreign shoreAye, lost thee, and I fear for ever; Far better had the raging sea Engulph'd us both, sweet Rosalie. "Thy birds no longer gaily sing; The flowers droop around thy bower ; As sable as the raven's wing, A flag waves o'er thy father's tower; Thy mother lies within the tomb; Thine aged sire his lost one's weeping; The ivied castle's sunk in gloom, The warder watch no longer keepingAll feel thy loss as well as me, My peerless Lady Rosalie. "They say the giant chieftain keeps-" Swiftly up the knight has sprung, And to the saddle quickly leapsThe magic door is open flung ! LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 'The crystal columns brightly gleam, Ascending to the vaulted roofA magic hall, that seems a dream, Is ringing to his charger's hoof. Deserted, silent, all alone, In vain the knight doth loudly call ; A gauntlet on the floor of stone, A massive shield upon the wall; No passage grim, or iron door, Or winding steps to him appear; Naught but the gauntlet on the floor, And shield upon the wall is here. What ! is his labour all in vain ? No answer to his call return'd? 'The knight dismounts in fierce disdain, And with his foot the gauntlet spurn'd : Ha, look ! the shield with light is cross'd, A sable curtain seems unroll'd, And on its azure field emboss'd, Those words appear in burnish'd gold. Pause ! for he who enters here Returns not till the seventh yeare. The Giant cannot leave his celle Till time shall break the magic spelle, But if thy courage will not yield, To face O'lahony, strike his shield, He dares thee, with his iron glove, For Countrie, Kynge, or Ladyes' love. " He dares !" exclaimed the gallant knight, As lifting up the iron glove, He gathers all his force and might, And pois'd it high his head above; One crash ! that rang for miles withoutThe very river, wild and free, Repeats that ringing clang and shout, "For God and Lady Rosalie ! " Ha, look ! another magic door, Unseen till now, is opened wide, The knight upon his steed once more, Doth through its portal quickly ride; 2E 433 434 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. The rock has clos'd with fearful sound, One echo ! and the din is past, The moon shines cold on all around, The knight has disappear'd at last ! And none can tell how he has fared Within the giant's magic hall; Perhaps the chief, O'Mahony, dared To hold him, with his bride, in thrall; Naught but that rock beside the strand, Where wavelets murmur bold and free, Can tell of brave Sir Hildebrande, And peerless Lady Rosalie. TWENTY POUNDS REWARD! TO THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL JOHN FRANCIS MAGUIRE, M.P., MAYOR OF CORK. Your Worship, although I'm not "evil disposed," Yet I'll tell you the one who "King George " has deposed, As my purse is but slightly encumbered with cash, Like that chap's in the play, it is filled but with trash; So just write me a cheque for the said Twenty Pound, And I'll tell you the spot where the lad may be foundOn the top of a steeple that points to the sky, Be the pipe in my fist ! faith your worship, 'twas I. Don't get into a passion, and call me a baste, 'And send to arrest me in hurry and haste; For there's many things done, and there's many things said, When your worship is lying asleep in your bed : And I'll stick to the truth, if I come to be hung, That his Majesty had a most vilyanous tongue ! Just listen a while and I'll tell you the whole, As an "open confession is good for the soul." It was just as you say, on the night of the third, That myself and another jackeen of a bird Were perch'd on "the Club," free from troubles and cares, And chatting about our own trifling affairs, And, as usual, one word only borry'd another, Till we spoke o' Bob Peel, when sez I to my brother, " He can talk, but won't fight; he's a coward," sez I, When my bould " George-a-Horseback " sings out, " 'tis a lie.' LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 435 Well, I kept never heeding the crathur a while, Though, to tell you the truth, he was raising my bile, When I thought how I got him a new coat of paint, And put up with abuse that would anger a saint ; And he said but for me, and my letters of old,* That " the Council" would paint him, and gild him with gold. He was bent for a quarrel, and badly inclin'd, And was drunk, or, at least, wasn't right in his mind. So, I said, "Me ould haro, give less of your chat, Or, believe me, 'tis soon I will make you lave that, And I'll station a far better man in your place, As you know to our city you're long a disgrace." But, me jewel! he flung his ould crutch at me head, That's as heavy and cowld as a big lump o' lead, So I jumped on his back, and I gave him the spur, And, mavrone, down he fell, my Right Worshipful Sir. So write me the cheque, or else send me the pelf, As I've turn'd " King's evidence" now on myself ; And don't fret about George-erra, who is it cares For a humbug that's stood there a hundred long years? And, whisper, I'll have a good drop on the sly, And I'll drink your good health on my perch near the sky, And long for your welfare I'll fervently pray, On this blessed and holy Saint Patrick's Day. THE SILVER BELLS. Up, far up in the abbey tow'r, Where the swift rooks wheel and play, The abbot climbs, at the vesper hour, Those steps so old and grey; And his heart is sad, and his eyes are dim, And he heaves a bitter sigh, For dismal thoughts crowd fast on him As he looks to the distant sky; But soon each hill and valley swells The echo of his Silver Bells. There was an old feud between his Majesty, the statue of George II. and myself, as "The Cock o' Sinbarry's." Neither friend nor enemy of his could say he was any ornament; he was the representative of a bad feeling, which, thank God, no longer exists. Put Father Mathew's monument in his place, and all parties will be satisfied. 436 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. The peasant knelt in his humble home, And mutter'd a silent pray'r ; The lordling, 'neath his gilded dome, Forgot for a while his care ; And to the hearts of old and young, Where their magic sound is driven, Come words of songs the angels sung, And thoughts of hope and heaven ; Each grey old sire, in wonder, tells Of the abbot's blessed Silver Bells. The abbot look'd, from his tower high, As far as he could see, On the gold and crimson evening sky, And the flashing river Lee, And the steeples of the ancient town, And the distant wooded shore,* While the tears his aged cheeks rain'd down, He may never see them more ; And no touch of human hand excels The music of those Silver Bells. The sun is set, the light is gone, The monks are in the choir, Yet still the magic bells rang onWill he never pause, or tire? They know not, o'er yon distant hill Where the blood-red watch-fires glow, The foeman comes, with iron will, Their abbey to lay lowBut hush ! one ringing anthem swells, And for ever mute are the Silver Bells. On a spot of great historical interest adjoining "the Friar's Walk," to the south of the city, was lately erected a castellated tower of considerable height, which, being placed in the centre of a circle of hills, is peculiarly adapted for an observatory by day or night, and may be visited by tourists with great satisfaction, as, perhaps, the only available spot from which the "beautiful city" can be seen at a glance. From its summit they can view the silver Lee, almost from its rock-bound cradle in wild Gougane Barra, to where it is lost in our unrivalled harbour, the summit of Mangerton, in Killarney, and the hoary peaks of the Galtees, that bound " Gallant Tipperary," are also visible, with the different lines of railway winding on their course till they are lost in the distant horizon. The tower was built to commemorate some event, which the owner has not yet revealed; but being a place of public resort, the visitor will be sure of a welcome reception from its courteous builder and proprietor, Mr. Michael Callanan. LEGENDS AND BALLADS. The morning came, the monks have fled, A ruin strews the ground, The good old abbot's lost or dead, The Bell's cannot be found ! And none could ever point the spot Where they are hidden well; The abbot and his name's forgot, His abbey none can tell, They live but in the poet's rhymes, The Silver Bells and the good old times. THE LONE STAR. AN EPISODE OF THE URSULINE CONVENT. Ah ! see yon maiden with golden hair. With its ringlets stirr'd by the morning air; Why flow the tears from her sparkling eyes, That are blue as the depths of the summer skies? Why looks she forth on the glancing stream, That is kiss'd by the sun's first rosy beam? And marks the birds with fleeting wing That abroad in the sunshine sweetly sing? Strange ! that the maiden should sadly weep When she rises up from her balmy sleep. What tale of woe can that face disclose, When her cheek is the hue of the damask rose; And her mouth, when dimpled with a smile, Bespeaks a heart that is void of guile ? Yet her hand, that stills her throbbing breast, Reveals a mind that is not at rest, And the maiden's thoughts seem far away, Though her eyes look forth on the blushing day, And a bursting sigh her bosom jars, Like a wild bird beating its prison bars. She speaks : "Oh ! I will not live in thrall, While my father sits in his ancient hall, And my brothers roam the land and sea, As the chainless tempest wild and free, 437 438 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. And my very dove, with snow-white plume, Will not live content in this convent gloom, But will wing its way to the sunny bowers, With the butterflies, and the scented flowersI will burst my bonds, and speed away, And live as wild and as free as they." Away, away, ere the matin bell Shall summon each sister from her cell, Across the diamond-spangled lawn; In the rosy blush of the summer dawn, And a crimson flush is on her brow. She has pass'd the wall, she knows not how, And stands where the river, calm and free, Rolls on like Time to Eternity ; And rock'd by the breath of the morning gale Swings a tiny boat with a snow-white sail. Oh, joy ! it seems her brother's skiff, Which sail'd on the lake 'neath the beetling cliff, Where the water-lilies sweetly grow, In those happy hours long, long ago : She steps on board with a bounding heart, And the slender moorings quickly part, As the breeze the fairy sail unfurls, And tosses wild her golden curls; But her white veil's flown with the morning wind, Like the emblem of peace she leaves behind. Away, away from the peaceful shore, And the kindly hearts she will meet no more, To the wide, wide world-that void unknownShe is speeding fast, unwept, alone,Ah, no ! for from the sky above Comes flashing down her snow-white dove, And nestles sweetly down to rest In the weeping maiden's heaving breast; And that one lone fast receding star, Shall guide her boat on the deep afar. The banner of England proudly floats On that mighty ship, and her dancing boats, And the curling smoke of the morning gun Salutes the newly arisen sun, LEGENDS AND BALLADS. And wakes to day, and to life anew, Her captain bold and her gallant crew, To wonder who, in that tiny bark, Has risen with the early lark. They guess not that a maiden frail Is hidden by that snow-white sail. They watch that boat in the morning hour Speed swiftly past the beacon tow'r, A tiny speck, unus'd to brave The broad Atlantic's rolling wave; 'The sea-gulls scream a mournful dirge, As, lost on the far horizon's verge, It fades from sense and sight away, In the glorious light of the summer day, With nought, but that watchful eye above, To mark that maiden and timid dove. Darkness has cover'd the earth and sky, Where the whirling sea-mews hoarsely cry, And a howling tempest madly raves O'er the foam-capp'd tops of the wild, wild waves; And hark ! the sound of a human wail Is faintly rising upon the gale, As that tiny boat is fiercely driven, Its snow-white sail- to tatters riven, On the seething ocean, wide and far, Away, away from the bright Lone Star. Oh, horror ! one flash lights upon the gloom, As the maiden speeds to a frightful doom, And the tossing breakers madly roar Round a wild and desolate lee shoreHa ! a shriek ! "Oh, God ! in mercy save A sinner's life from the ocean wave, And shield" One crash and the boat is gone, The fierce wild surge sweeps madly on, And the maiden lies, all cold and stark, On the gloomy shore, so drear and dark. The winds have lull'd, and the waves are still, And the sun comes peeping o'er the hill, And bathes in its soft light rock and dale, Where that maiden lies so calm and pale- 439 440 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. But see ! upon her snow-white breast The dove still nestles down to rest, As if to shield that gentle form With its downy plumes, so soft and warm, And call the roses to that cheek With its rustling wings and bright red beak. Ha, look ! the maiden opes her eyes, And her heart seems chok'd with bursting sighs; How wistfully she looks around, As she rises slow from the hard cold ground ! Can the liberty she thought was bliss Have brought her to a fate like this ? Has she left her happy convent home, Unfriended through the world to roam? Is no friendly voice, no kind heart near, To wipe from her eye that blinding tear? Ah, no ! but still, can she not return To those loving hearts that sadly mourn ! Away from this land of mist and gloom, Back, back to her dear old sunny room, And the holy sound of the vesper-bell, And the orphan children that lov'd her well, And dedicate her life to Him, Till her hair is grey and her eyes are dimTo him who died her soul to save, And rescued her from the deep salt wave. Oh, yes ! she will not longer stay ; Her snow-white dove shall point the way To the happy home, and the peaceful shore, Like Noah's peaceful dove of yore. The bird has mounted to the skyBut ah !-what means that sudden cry? A cruel hawk has quickly fled; The gentle dove falls pierc'd and dead That hapless maiden down beside, Its snow-white breast with crimson dyed. Oh) agony ! will her gentle doveFit messenger of hope and loveWill it speed no more on fleeting wing Through the deep blue sky, and the early spring, LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Or guide that maid, when her footsteps roam, To her loving friends and her peaceful home ? Will her bursting heart no more rejoice " But hark ! oh, God ! a human voiceAnd a stranger kneels in the sunny glade, O'er the slaughter'd dove and the weeping maid. "Ah, gentle lady, weep no more, There are friends to aid on this gloomy shore, And gallant spirits, bold and free, To shield such gentle doves as thee; Then dry those sparkling eyes, and come, I will guide thee to thy distant home, And guard thee in the hour of need With my trusty sword and gallant steed." He bears the maid to his charger grey, And speeds like the wind away, away. Away, away, by rock and dell, By the tangled brake and the thorny fell ; On, on, by a dismal dark ravine, Where a rushing torrent foams between ; And the maiden's heart beats wild with fear, For the sun is set and the dark is near ; And the knight has whisper'd words of guile, And his lip is curv'd with a mocking smile, And his eyes, in the twilight dim and grey, Have the deadly glare of a beast of prey ! " Help ! oh, help !" with a piercing shriek, She madly tries from his grasp to break; For, toppling grim and ghastly down, A ruin'd castle seems to frown, That looks a haunt of crime and care, And the fell abode of gaunt despair, And, oh ! as looking wildly back, Far, far away o'er another track, That star she loves, shines clear and bright, As a ray of hope in a cheerless night. " Help ! "-ah see, there is help at hand ! For springing forth, with a gleaming brand, A friend has to the rescue flown, On foot, unaided, all alone : 441. 442 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. " Ha !scorn of knighthood !" loud he cried, " Ere my trusty blade in thy blood is dyed Yield up the maiden free from harm, And the loathsome touch of a traitor's arm, Or else you die by the blessed light, Thou ruffian chief, and false black knight !" With a ringing clang their swords have clash'd; The maid to the earth is rudely dash'd ; But short and bloody is the strife, As they fiercly seek each other's life; The ruffian knight is wounded sore, But the brave young stranger's fights are o'erThe spot is vacant where he stoodHe is borne away on the foaming flood ! And the maid has fled in wild dismay Where the bright star sheds its blessed ray. Ever onward, in frantic haste, Till lost in a dark and tangled waste, She sinks at last with failing breath, Her brow bedew'd with the damps of death ; Her heart is sad, her frame is worn, Her raiment into shreds is torn, And her thorn-cut limbs in anguish bleed, While she listens to that panting steed, And looks in speechless horror backThe wounded knight is on her track ! Up and on ! and away again Through the brawling stream and the haunted glen, Through horrors that no human tongue In its wildest strain has ever sung. Her breath in agony is drawn, But see-thank God !-the blessed dawn Is gilding yonder flowery valeHer guiding-star is growing pale; And hush ! sweet music steals around, As the maid falls senseless to the ground. The solemn bell for noon has rung The prayers are said, the mass is sung, And now the holy anthems peal, For a sweet young sister " takes the veil ;" LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Again the solemn strains arise, She comes ! that maiden with deep blue eyes, And the open brow so calm and fair, And her dimpled smile as her golden hair For ever from her head is riven; For Angela is the bride of heaven. And the widow and the orphan child Have learned to bless that sister mild; And the fervent prayer of the houseless poor Has risen for her, from the convent door. And many a nun's fair cheek grew pale Whene'er she told her thrilling tale; And others smiled, as they would deem That star but the light of a warning dreamTill years roll'd on, and lov'd and blest, Sweet Sister Angela sank to rest. LITTLE AGNES MARY. Through the ever-changing cloudlets In the sky above me, I can feel a gentle spiritThere is one to love me; And a tiny voice, in whispers Softer than a fairy, Seems to murmur, "There's a way To come to Agnes Mary."* When the wind, with rushing pinion, Howls along the river, And across the moon's dominion Lightnings gleam and quiver, And upon the land and ocean All is dark and dreary, Still I feel thy wings in motion, Pretty Agnes Mary. God, who took the tiny flower To the bowers of Eden, Grant me from thy mighty power When with years o'erladen; * The writer's infant daughter. 443 444 LEGENDS AND BALLADS. Oh ! in thy mercy grant to me, Of sin and sorrow weary, The humblest place in sight of Thee, With little Agnes Mary. SIC ITUR AD ASTRA.* RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO --- Be this motto aye before thee, when thy heart would fail, Let not doubt or fear come o'er thee, or thy cheek grow pale, Perseverance is the winner in the race of life-Daring courage is the gainer on the field of strifeWho has ever seen the timid reach the distant goal ? Or good deeds has e'er expected from a coward soul ? No ! 'tis but the brave and truthful, spite of fortune's bars, Be they hoar with age, or youthful, ever reach the stars. Who would crawl through life unneeded, all unknown to fame, Gliding by unheard, unheeded, bubbles on the stream? Or toiling in the hive of Mammon, hearing not the groans Of starving brothers calling on them, " give us bread, not stones. Be not with dishonour crested, live not thus abhorr'd, Dying old, unlov'd, detested, such is their reward, Wield the sabre, grasp the helm, heal the soldier's scars, Hold the sceptre of a realm, only gain the stars. There are stars, but not of heaven, given to the few Who, despite of earthly leaven, greatly dare and do; Only most that go to find them, though the goal is nigh, Leave the other stars behind them, shining in the sky. Would you reach at those that burn in the world's light, You must light to darkness turn, make the DAY a (k)night, And unless King Death too surely all the project mars, You will grasp the prize securely, night reveals the stars. Onward then ! thy crest can guide thee, one way or the other, Shield the lov'd ones close beside thee, help thy toiling brother, Thus the clasp'd hands shall remind thee, friendship unto all, Thus the wings shall leave behind thee many a snare and fall; "Thus we reach the stars," the motto of a very pretty crest-two clasped hands with star-studded wings attached. LEGENDS AND BALLADS. 445 .So when others shall inherit all thine earthly fame, They can point to deeds of merit, springing from thy name, And exclaim, " Though he's reclining 'neath the dewy sod, His soul has reach'd the star that's shining o'er the throne of God!" FAREWELL! Farewell ! I have sought to perform a duty, In singing of home and our own river Lee, Preserving the legends of valour and beauty, So dear to the hearts of the brave and the free. That her daughters so fair, and her sons ever witty, May long on its banks in prosperity dwell, As the pride and the boast of " the beautiful City," Is my best wish in bidding thee, reader, farewell. Farewell to the exile across the wild billow, Who thinks with a sigh of his dear native shore, 'Though the flowers of the prairie may sweeten his pillow, Or bloom o'er his grave ere his journey is o'er ; As he wanders afar should these lines ever meet him, Reminding of feelings his tongue cannot tell, In place of kind friends, with good wishes they greet him, And bid him, dear exile, brave exile, farewell. Farewell, but remember the song and the story, That clings round each bank of the emerald sod; Be it yours then to follow the footsteps of glory, That hallow the fields where in childhood you've trod : Be it mine to endeavour to pass to long ages Those deeds which unsung are unstable as sand, And my brightest reward for the toil of those pages, As a brother to rank with the Bards of our land. THE RIVER LEE, CORK, AND THE CORKONIANS. BRYAN A. CODY. 1Le ib e . CHAPTER I. Gougane Barra, the source of the Lee. UNLIKE many of our Irish rivers, the Lee is not hallowed by any stirring historical associations. Its verdant banks have seldom trembled beneath the rush of charging squadrons, and the peaceful valleys through which it flows have but rarely echoed the war-cries of contending armies. Destitute of the interest which attaches to places where those great struggles have taken place on which the destiny of nations hinges, it is almost equally devoid of the charm with which storied ruins invest those rivers whose banks they crown, and to whose natural beauties they form such august accessories. The Rhine itself would lose most of its attraction were it deprived of its ruined towers and monasteries, " And chiefless castles, breathing stern farewells, From grey but leafy walls where Ruin greenly dwells." Neither do the waters of the Lee flow broad and deep, like those of the magnificent Shannon, nor with the rapid sweep of the sombre Aunadhuv. Throughout its course, until arrived near Cork, its width does not entitle it to be considered much more than a broad stream, and its current is, for the most part, gentle and unruffled. But, in compensation for the want of those advantages which have made other rivers more famous and more frequented by tourists, nature has lavished on the Lee every charm that could delight the eye of the painter, or kindle the imagination of the poet. Flowing through one of the most beautiful and fertile districts of the " sunny South," its course lies between scenes of sylvan but hangeful loveliness; through pleasant vales, shaded by scattered clumps of trees; by green hills and lawny uplands, which laugh back the smiles of Heaven, and on which groups of cattle pasture or ruminate; past stately villas, with spreading lawns, and by fields of rich pasturage and vivid greenness, on whose soft sward many a pattern is held, and, doubtless, many a love-tale told. This essentially pastoral character of the scenery of the Lee inspired 2F 450 THE RIVER LEE. the following lines of Milliken, a poet who was born and reared on its banks :" Pale goddess, by thy ray serene I fondly tread the level green, Where Lee serenely rolls His smooth and ample tide, 'Mid fields in flowers profuse, and woody knolls; Thy silver lamp my guide."* Another Cork bard, whose muse was evidently inspired by something stronger than the water of the placid Lee, thus hymns its praise : " 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." Beginning with a description of its source at Gougane Barra, we purpose to sketch the principal points of interest and beauty along the course of this lovely river ; craving the indulgence of our readers for our imperfect portraiture of scenes, to depict whose varied loveliness truthfully and vividly transcends the power of pencil or of pen. From the village of Ballingeary, in the west of the county Cork, a narrow road, skirting the base of a steep hill, leads to the Pass of Keimaneigh. A little beyond the head of the Pass, a bend in the road suddenly discloses a scene more wildly grand and stern than picturesque. Bare and precipitous mountains bound the view on all sides, and enclose a tranquil sheet of water which sleeps within their rugged embrace, "like a wo man in a warrior's arms." This is the sacred Lake of Gougane Barra, the source of the River Lee.t The mountains which encircle the cradle of the infant Lee divide the counties of Cork and Kerry, and the lake is formed by the mountain rills that descend their sides. It is oblong in shape, and near its centre arises a small island, connected with the southern shore of the lake by a narrow causeway. This island is overshadowed by venerable ash trees, which a useful superstition has preserved, at least from the hand of man. On the island are the ruins of the chapel and of the hermit's cell, whence the place derives its sanctity. In this lone retreat St. Finn Barr, + who flourished towards the end of the sixth century, lived in seclusion for * "Ode to Cynthia." t The Luvius of Ptolemy-from which, however, it does not derive its name, but from the Irish Lia, which means a river. $ "The name Finn Barr, literally signifies white or grey-headed; his real name was Lachan, being so baptised. He was a native of Connaught, and having set seventeen years in this see, died at Cloyne in the midst of his friends. His bones, several years after, were deposited in a silver shrine, and kept in this cathedral."-Smith'sHistory of Cork. THE RIVER LEE. 451 many years ; and from the difficulty of access formerly, the island, as well as the shores of the lake, was a refuge for the victims of religious and political persecution of various periods. Contrasting with the barren rocks and shores around, this island, with its embowering trees and verdant sward, is most refreshing to the eye; and so vividly green is its grassy carpet, that it seems like an emerald set in the ring of the lake. This lonely island has been consecrated anew in lines which have the true stamp and ring of genuine poetry, by the gifted J. J. Callanan, whose dawning fame was extinguished by a premature death in a foreign land.* His poem beginning with the line " There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra" is so well known that it is unnecessary for us to give more than this passing allusion to it. A large part of the island is covered with the ruins of the chapel before mentioned, adjoining which, and facing the causeway, is a large square enclosure containing eight cells, rudely constructed of brown stone, like all the buildings on the island. The south and east sides of the square are bordered by a terrace, from which a few steps lead to the chapel on the north side. A mere remnant of the oratory remains to gratify the curiosity of the antiquary or the eye of the artist. The interior is about thirty-six feet long, by fourteen broad, and the side walls only four feet high, like those of the cloisters adjoining. These cloisters consist of four small chambers, and two cells of such narrow dimensions that they must have been a very inconvenient habitation for the hermits who once dwelt in them. Securely havened from the storms and vicissitudes of the world within these mountain fastnesses, St. Finn Barr, the hermit of the hoary head, nourished those holy thoughts and lofty aspirations which he subsequently realised in the foundation of Cork, and of the Cathedral which bears his name.t A long series of hermits succeeded St. Finn Barr in his retirement at Gougane Barra, seeking a refuge in its rocky bosom.~"'Gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, And scorn," and often vainly. The last of these was an ascetic named O'Mahony, whose tomb, shamefully neglected, is on the mainland. Although he *He died of consumption, induced by too close application to study, at Lisbon, in 1829, in his thirty-fourth year. tA popular legend ascribes the foundation of that building to the following circumstances:-St. Patrick, after banishing the reptiles out of the country, overlooked one hideous monster, a winged dragon, which desolated the adjacent country; and power was conferred on a holy man named Fineen Barr to drown the monster in Gougane Lake, on condition of erecting a church where its waters met the tide; and the saint, having exterminated the monster, fulfilled the agreement by founding the present Cathedral of Cork. 452 THE RIVER LEE. shunned all intercourse with his kind, his memory is held in deep reverence among the peasantry of the district. Near the causeway on the southern shore of the lake is a burial place "Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap." Mr. Windele, who gives a faithful and admirable description of Gougane Barra in his "South of Ireland "-a book which we recommend to all tourists in the South-thus describes the cemetery of Gougane :"At a short distance, on a little green eminence, a few lowly mounds without stone or inscriptions point out the simple burying-place of the district; their number, and the small extent of ground covered, give at a glance the census and the condition of a thinly-peopled mountain country; and yet this unpretending spot is as effectually the burialplace of human hopes, and feelings, and passions, of feverish anxieties, of sorrows and agitations-it affords as saddening a field for contemplation-as if it covered the space, and were decked out with all the cypresses, the willows, and the marbles of Pyre la Chaise." At the entrance of the causeway leading to the sacred island is the holy well, to which there are two great pilgrimages annually of the diseased, the maimed, and the blind, who seek a cure for their ailments in its miraculous waters. There are nuinbers of these holy wells in Ireland, and their worship, which is supposed to be of Phoenician origin, is an innocent and beautiful superstition which we would be unwilling to see decay. These wells, once desecrated by the bloody rites of the Druidical Baal, are now consecrated to Christian prayers and harmless Christian ceremonies. And here we cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of quoting the following lines on these crystal shrines by J. D. Fraver:" The holy wells-the living wells-the cool, the fresh, the pureA thousand ages rolled away, and still those founts endure, As full and sparkling as they flowed ere slave or tyrant trod The emerald garden, set apart for Irishmen by God ! "And while their stainless chastity and lasting life have birth Amid the oozy cells and caves of gross material earth, The scripture of creation holds no fairer type than theyThat an immortal spirit can be linked with human clay ! " The well, which is formed by the waters of the lake, is surrounded by a square enclosure, covered over with flags, and a cross is deeply sculptured on a stone at the back. In the midst of the walled enclosure on the island, planted on an elevation, is a wooden pole, the remains of a cross, to which innumerable rags, the votive offerings of pilgrims to the sacred fount, are nailed or otherwise fastened. On St. John's Eve a pattern is held at Gougane Lake, which is attended by the peasantry of all the surrounding baronies. Of the mountain streams that feed Gougane Lake, that which descends THE RIVER LEE. 453 from the mountain called Nadan-uiller (the eagle's nest), at the western extremity of the lake, is the natal stream of the Lee, whose true source, however, is a spring in the mountain, the approach to which is extremely difficult. To the east is the outlet of the lake, not much more than three feet wide. Through this rocky passage the youthful Lee leaps and flashes, and flows with the exuberant joyousness of a sportive child, over rugged stones' Which seemed to 'plain With gentle murmur that his course they did restrain."-Fary Queen. And hence the name Gougane, which signifies "gurgling head." The mountains of Gougane possess a savage grandeur, and almost as fine an echo as those of Killarney. Of these, Derreen (the little oak-wood)-now treeless-is the highest. The next in size are Faolite (the cliff), Maolagh (the prospect), Coom-roe, Naclan-uiller,and Clara. Their steep sides are covered with heath, and sprinkled with the gay blossoms of the Londonpride. From the summit of Derreen, on a clear day, the view is truly magnificent, embracing the purple outlines of the Killarney mountains, Glengariff, Bantry Bay, and, in the far distance, the heaving bosom of the broad Atlantic. Limiting your vision, a line like a black thread, running towards the south-west, marks the gloomy Pass of Keimaneigh; while, towards the east, you perceive the waters of the Lee expanding into the Lakes of Inchegeela, about ten miles from Gougane. Turning from the extensive and diversified prospect to east and west, towards the lake, you behold its solitary waters, with the island at your feet, and the encircling cliffs torn by mountain streams, and echoing the wild cries of the grouse and the lapwing. The precipitous sides of Faolite and Clara sink sheer down to the waters of the lake, which reflect the frowning cliffs above, thus adding to the impressive grandeur of the scene. It is indeed-, " A savage place, as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted, By woman wailing for her demon lover ! " The aspect of solitude which is impressed on the whole scene is so intense, that we fancy it must be the favourite haunt of the coy nymph, Egeria; and, certainly, no better place could be chosen for the retreat of an anchorite. Speaking of similar consecrated shrines in Ireland, to which pilgrims resort with penitential prayers and offerings, Dr. Petrie says :-" Nor is it easy to conceive localities better fitted, in a religious age, to excite feelings of contrition for past sins, and expectations of forgiveness, than these, which had been rendered sacred by the sanctity of those to whom they had owed their origin. Most certain, at all events, it is, that they came to be regarded as sanctuaries the most inviolable, 454 THE RIVER LEE. to which, as our annals show, the people were accustomed to fly in the hope of safety-a hope, however, which was not always realised." Such, with its features of mingled beauty and sublimity, is the source of the River Lee, over which, like the Grecian Helen, loveliness presides with unvarying splendour from its cradle in Gougane Barra to the termination of its course at the entrance of Cork Harbour. CHAPTER II. The Pass of Keimaneigh-Lough Allua-Inchegeela-Castle of CarrignacurraThe O'Learies-Toon Bridge-Dundarirk Castle-River SullaneCastle of Carrig-a-Phooka. Close by the mountains encircling Gougane Barra is situated the celebrated Pass of Keimaneigh, or the Path of the Deer, through which runs the high road from Macroom to Bantry. Nothing more wild and awe-inspiring can be conceived than the appearance of this ravine at its entrance from Gougane side. A huge mountain seems to have been riven from summit to base by some mighty convulsion of nature in order to form this romantic pass. Precipitous walls of rock rise here to the height of several hundred feet on either side of the road, shutting out all light, save what is afforded by a narrow strip of sky, which is alone visible overhead. Dark as " the inside of a wolf's throat," the ravine is gloomy on the brightest day- " At noonday here 'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night." Entering the pass, a scene of savage grandeur, fit for the pencil of Salvator Rosa, bursts upon the view. In the rocky walls that line the defile, numerous chasms have been worn by mountain torrents, which stream down their sides and flood the road in wet weather. These chasms invest the rocks with a still more rugged aspect; while the huge blocks of stone, and rocky crags piled up confusedly around, assume, in the dim light, the most fantastic outlines, reminding us of D. F. M'Carthy's beautiful lines on " Awful Ceim-an-eagh, Where the severed rocks resemble fragments of a frozen sea, And the wild deer flee ! " t The gorge is tortuous, and as you proceed you seem to be hemmed in, without visible means of egress, by towering barriers of rock. * Essay on the Round Towers of Ireland. t Alice and Una. THE RIVER LEE. 455 In the interstices of the rock, the arbutus, London-pride, the foxglove, the purple heathbell, with innumerable ferns, mosses, and lichens, grow in the wildest luxuriance. So secluded is the gorge and so complete the solitude, that it seems equally adapted for the inspiration of the poet or the lair of an outlaw. It served the latter purpose before that pioneer of order and civilisation, the engineer, carried the present fine road through the heart of Keimaneigh, and thereby robbed it of much of its security as a retreat for outlaws. It is said that during the Rockite disturbances in 1822, a detachment of yeomanry, under Lord Bantry, while passing through the defile narrowly escaped being crushed to atoms by an enormous mass of rock, which, hurled on them Tell fashion, in the name of the Trinity, by the redoubtable Captain Rock himself, came thundering down the cliff just as the last of the yeomen had passed the spot where it fell-completely blocking up the passage in their rear, and securing them from the pursuit of their enemies. * About midway in the pass the wild sublimity and grandeur of the scene is almost overwhelming. Huge crags and fragments of rock appear toppling over the brows of the cliffs that frown darkly on either side of the spectator, and seem to threaten his instant destruction; while shattered stones of immense size lie around, as if flung there in the sport of Titans. The pass, as it approaches the Bantry side, gradually widens, disclosing a noble view of the Bay. This entrance to the pass is inferior in rugged majesty to that near Gougane Barra, where the rocky walls are more precipitous and picturesque. Leaving the Pass of Keimaneigh (which, we may remark, is about two miles in length from north to south), we return to the Lee. After issuing from the Lake of Gougane, the Lee flows in an eastern direction, through rocky banks, with a foaming and rapid current, to Ballingeary, where the Bunshelin, a small stream, falls into it. The country, here is wild and barren, dotted at intervals with straggling herbage. The glen through which the Bunshelin flows is beautifully wild and sequestered, extending to the vicinity of the village of Ballyvourney, near which is a circular stone fort, with subterranean galleries. The Lee now expands into the broad sheet of water, called Lough Allua. The lake (or rather chain of lakes) is four miles in length, and about one in breadth. It is studded with several islands formed by the windings of the Lee, in its * This incident is detailed at much length in a description of Keimaneigh, which appeared in the Dublin University iagazine for June, 1848. Mr. Windele visited the Pass in 1827, a few years after the occurrence is said to have taken place; and as so diligent a collector of everything of interest connected with the places about which he has written has not mentioned an incident so romantic, we may well doubt its truthfulness. At all events, si non vero, 6 ben trovato. 456 THE RIVER LEE. sinuous course through the soft, peaty soil of this extensive flat. At its western extremity rises the gloomy hill of Coolnegreenane, or the " mountain unknown to the sunbeam." The road to Bantry winds along the northern shore of the lake. A little farther down we come to Inchegeela. Here the Lee separates into a succession of tarns, the picturesque appearance of which relieves the wild and uncultivated aspect of the surrounding country. In Dr. Smith's time, the char abounded in the lakes of Inchegeela; but they have been since exterminated by that omnivorous enemy of epicures, the pike. Formerly, some metallic cubes, yellow and shining like gold, were found in this district, and metallic ores have, from time to time, been washed out of the adjacent rocks during floods. Owing to the rocky bed over which the Lee flows, its stream is, for the most part, clear and sparkling as far as Inchegeela. The village of Inchegeela possesses a fine Roman Catholic Church, a constabulary station, &c. The second bridge that crosses the Lee spans the stream at this place. In the distance rise the Sheehy mountains, from whose summit is a splendid view. About a mile from Inchegeela is the Castle of Carrignacurra, or the Weir Rock, sometimes called Castle Masters, after a modern proprietor. It rises boldly from a cliff over the river, and is still in tolerably good preservation. It is surrounded by trees, which bring it out in agreeable relief from the bare country around, and consists of a high square tower without any discernable outworks. It is said to have been built by Sabina O'Carroll, wife of one of the O'Learies, whose principal stronghold it remained for many years. The O'Learies, although subject to the M'Carthies, were once a powerful sept in this country, which has been called lbh-Laoghaire, or Ivleary (the O'Leary's country), from the extensive possessions this family once held in it. In 1588, Dermot O'Leary, then chief of the clan, was attainted for engaging in the Earl of Desmond's rebellion; and in "the troubles " of 1641, Carrignacurra was forfeited, and garrisoned by Cromwell's troops. Mr. Windele thus refers to the O'Learies :-" The name is still frequent here amongst the peasantry; but a sod of the fee-simple property belongs not to one of the clan. The governor and company for making hollow sword-blades, in England, long since disposed of that. Fame, however, has been more partial to individuals of this race, and Ireland claims amongst her most eminent worthies the name of the pious, the enlightened, and the facetious Father Arthur O'Leary; and there is a very reasonable chance that the writer of ' Whiskey, drink divine '-the best song hitherto written in praise of our Irish Falernian-may yet add his name to the lengthened roll. The M'Carthy Reagh was the Lord Paramount of the O'Learies, but his authority ceased at the Revolution, THE RIVER LEE. 457 and he himself became an exile in a foreign land. The late Count de M'Carthy Reagh resided at Toulouse, and left behind him, at his decease, a magnificent library, second only to that of the King of France. No other private collection in Europe possessed so large a number of printed and MS. books on vellum, of which scarce and valuable material it contained not less than 826 volumes. His sons, nevertheless, at his (lodeath found themselves under the necessity of parting with it; and thus this splendid literary cabinet, the pride of this unfortunate family, became scattered over England and France. It would seem as if fortune had not yet ceased her persecutions of an ancient and distinguished race. From Carrignacurra the Lee winds through a flat uninteresting country until it reaches Dromcaragh Castle, another ancient fortalice of the O'Learies, now in the possession of Mr. Brown. As we are not aware of any historical associations connected with this ruin, and as it possesses no picturesque attractions, we shall pass on to Toon Bridge, which crosses part of the swampy plain through which the Lee flows in this place. A vast marsh, clothed with heather and water plants, spreads away for miles on all sides. Attempts have been made at various times to drain this extensive quagmire; but either because they were on too small a scale, or unskilfully conducted, they have been hitherto abortive. We need not dwell on the importance of reclaiming this moorland, the benefits that would result from such an improvement being sufficiently obvious.t Through this morass" Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge, And feeding pike starts from the water's edge," the Lee creeps sluggishly along, and forms a number of islets, shaded by groups of trees. Near Toon Bridge, the River Toon pours its waters into the Lee, after a course of about two miles through a romantic valley. On a steep hill above the bridge rises the Castle of Dundarirk, once a keep of the M'Carthies, but forfeited in the rebellion of 1641. It is a single tower, and from its summit can be had an extensive and beautiful prospect, the cause and origin of its name. Not far from Dundarirk is Raleigh, the seat of the late lamented James Minhear, Esq., who was a leading and highly-esteemed citizen of the southern metropolis. The Minhears, as the name implies, are of Dutch descent. * Bolster's QuarterlyMagazine for October, 1827. t An intelligent American gentleman, who had taken a tour through a great part of M unster, observed to us recently that he was greatly struck with the large quantity of reclaimable land he observed lying waste, proving, as he remarked, want of enterprise in the proprietors, and a negligent system of cultivation on the part of the farming classes. South. The latter fact has, however, been ascribed to the want of tenant-right in the 458 THE R1VER LEE. We now arrive at one of the principal tributaries of the Lee, the Sullane, a river little inferior to the Lee, either in the volume of its waters or the length of its course. It rises in a bog in Ballyvourney, receiving in its course to the Lee the waters of the Bughill, the Foherish, and the Lany. At the junction of the Foherish with the Sullane stands the Castle of Carrig-a-Phooka, or the Rock of the Spirit. It is situated on a rock in the vicinity of the Sullane, and its position is one of great strength. It is a single square tower, somewhat dilapidated. Carrig-aPhooka belonged to the M'Carthies of Drishane, and is chiefly memorable as having been the retreat of Cormac Teg M'Carthy, after the defeat of the Spaniards at Kinsale, in 1601. It was here M'Carthy wrote his penitent letter to the Lord President of Munster, abjectly craving forgiveness for his defection. The castle is accessible only by a narrow and slippery ledge of rock, on which but one person can pass at a time. Independently of historical interest, the hoary walls of Carrig-a-Phooka are invested with an additional charm by weird legends of the wild horse and its headless rider; and the peasant who has to pass it after night fall hastens his pace, crossing himself the while, and muttering a prayer to the Virgin to preserve him from being spirited away by the terrible phantom. Smith mentions the remains of a Druid altar, or cromleach, in its neighbourhood, but without any foundation in fact. Had he said a part of a Druidical circle, he would have been more correct. From Carrig-a-Phooka the Sullane flows eastward in a tranquil current, through rich and fertile banks, to the town of Macroom. CHAPTER III. Macroom-The Castle-Pistoric Notices-Carrigadrohid Castle-Beautiful Scenery-The River Dripsey-Inniscarra and its Ruined Church. About three miles above the junction of the Sullane with the Lee is situated the thriving town of Macroom. Its name, which signifies " a crooked oak," is said to have been derived from the plain of Grom, a fane of that deity, the Jupiter of the ancient Irish, which occupied the site. The town is surrounded by an extensive and fertile vale, bounded in the distance by a range of rugged hills, which, were they of somewhat greater elevation, would be entitled to the designation of mountains. Seen from the river, the town forms a triangle, at whose base flows the Sullane, and from whose apex the main street extends in a straight line. Markets are held there weekly and annually, and the Quarter Sessions THE RIVEI LEE. The population is about three for the west riding of the county. thousand; while the number of tan-yards, flour-mills, &c., in the town furnishes a gratifying proof of its rising importance and of the extent of its trade. Formerly, it would seem that the manufacture of the Irish nectar, potheen, was extensively patronised by the Macrompians. Macroom has a high reputation for its hospitality and the jovial character of its population; and one of them, named Barry, has been handed down to the admiration of posterity in a poem, the opening stanza of which we transcribe : " Oh ! what is Dan M'Carthy, or what is old Jem Nash, Or all who e'er in punch-drinking by luck have cut a dash, Compared to that choice hero, whose praise my rhymes perfumeI mean the boast of Erin's Isle, bold Barry of Macroom?" * The Roman Catholic Church is a spacious structure, with an embattled belfry, and from its situation on the slope of a hill, has a very fine appearance at a distance. Nearly opposite the Church, on an elevation above the southern bank of the Sullane, stands Macroom Castle. Sir R. Cox says it was built by the Carews in the reign of King John, while others absurdly attribute its erection to that monarch himself. There can, however, be scarcely a doubt that it was erected by the sept of the O'Flynns, who once held extensive possessions in Muskerry. The O'Flynns were dispossessed of the Castle by Dairmid M 'Carthy More, whose clan ruled over Macroom for centuries. The castle is of massy strength, and is flanked by two square bartizans. It is of no particular style of architecture, but an in congruous jumble of several-attributable, doubtless, to the fact of each successive occupier having either made repairs or additions to it in his own taste. Notwithstanding its nondescript character, the castle looks extremely picturesque, with its ivy-mantled walls towering above the placid Sullane. The castle possesses much historical interest. It was besieged in 1602, SOwing, probably, to having been once the seat of some of our ancient bards, the muses have smiled on Macroom, which has been prolific in poets ;having, among others (at least Macroom contends with Connaught on that head), given birth to the "great" O'Kelly, better known by the modest lines in which he introduced himself to Sir Walter Scott, even than by his "Curse of Doneraile." Another local poet, named Connolly, was famous there in his time; but he is now forgotten. A Macroom poet is supposed to have composed the doggerel called "The Storeen of Muskerry," from which we extract the following stanza: " In my rambles and frolicsome raking, Amongst the wide nations while wandering, Amongst smiling and affable females, My trifling gains I've been squandering; I prattled, I gabbled, I prated With all the fair maids in the country, And with amorous verses repeated, Their favour I gained in each company." 460 THE RIVER LEE. by Sir Charles Wilmot, who was on the point of raising the siege, owing to the stubborn resistance of the garrison under Lord Muskerry, when the castle took fire accidentally, and the besieged had to surrender unconditionally. In 1641, it was again burned down, but was rebuilt the same year by Lord Clancarty, chief of the M'Carthies of Muskerry. In 1650, it was garrisoned by the Roman Catholic Bishop of Ross; but being threatened by an imposing force under Lord Broghill, the Commonwealth General, the Bishop set fire to it, and concentrated his men in the park, where, after a brief but bloody struggle, he was defeated and made a prisoner. Ireton, when President of Munster, caused both the castle and the tower to be burned; so that the former has had the :singular fate of having been burned down no less than four times. The castle was again besieged by the troops of James II. ; and Major Kirk, with a body of 300 dragoons, forced the defenders to retreat. "In this castle," says Smith, "is a handsome gallery, with other good apartments; and Sir William Penn, the famous sea-admiral, was born in it." :Sir William was the father of the celebrated founder of Pennsylvania. A battle was also fought in the neighbburhood of Macroom between Brian Boroihme and the King of Oneachach (a part of S. Carberry), who was chief of the O'Mahonies. The latter was assisted by a large body of Danes but he was defeated, notwithstanding, with great loss, nearly all the Danes being slain. Adjoining the castle, an old stone bridge of nine arches spans the Sullane. Among the many handsome villas that rise along its banks at this place are conspicuous Mount Massy on the north bank, Rockborough, the property of the Brown family, Sandy Hill, and Firville, the seat of Mr. Harding, situated in a romantic glen. Ere quitting Macroom, we may mention that some ancient weapons were found, many years since, in a cavern on the adjoining lands of Codrum. A little below Macroom, a small stream pours its tribute into the Lee. Near their confluence stands the Castle of Mashanaglass, erewhile a fortalice of the M'Sweeneys. It is a high square tower, rising grimly above the plain like a grey spectre of the past. There is nothing either in its architectural design or situation worthy the special attention of the tourist. It was forfeited in 1641-a year so fatal to the native owners of the soil that it may be called the year of confiscations. It must stand for aye with "a black mark" in the chequered page of Irish history; the sad epoch whence date the misery and expatriation of most of the noblest races of our land, who once ruled proudly over princely possessions, on which many of their lineal descendants are now but humble tillers of the soil. THE RIVER LEE. 461 The road fron Mashanaglass passes through a gloomy and romantic glen called " Glencaum," or the Crooked Glen. Rugged masses of rock, in whose interstices grow the ash, the oak, and the birch, rise to a considerable height on each side, screening the river from view, and shrouding the glen in so deep a gloom as to render it suitable for the haunt of a guerilla, or of a bandit. Here the course of the Lee is very sinuous, and the only object of interest on its banks is the church of Aghina, on the south side, which, standing on an elevation, and having a square tower, has an imposing effect when seen at a distance. We now arrive at the extremely picturesque Castle of Carrigadrohid. Like the celebrated Mduse Thurm on the Rhine, it stands on a steep rock, in the midst of the Lee. A bridge on either side connects it with the banks of the river, whence the castle derives its designation, signifying the Rock of the Bridge. The Lee foams and rushes in a turbulent current around the rdck on which it is built; and the spectator is impressed at once with the strength and romantic effect of its position. Its site is said to have been chosen by the lovely Una O'Carroll, to gratify whose caprice, her lover, Diarmid M'Carthy, raised the castle in a marvellously brief time, on the cliff she had chosen, where they both lived happily after their nuptials. During the stormy times that succeeded the year 1641, the possession of Carrigadrohid, from the importance of its position, was fiercely contested by the followers of Cromwell and the adherents of the Stuarts. But the castle is especially associated with as noble an instance of heroic self-sacrifice as is recorded in history. After the defeat of the Bishop of Ross, at Macroom Castle, in May, 1650, which we have mentioned already, Lord Broghill promised full pardon to the captured prelate if he would persuade the garrison of Carrigadrohid Castle to surrender. The bishop consented, and Broghill marched to Carrigadrohid. The bishop having been brought to the castle, under the protection of a flag of truce, bravely exhorted the garrison to hold out to the last, observing that his life should be held as nothing in comparison with the great and sacred cause they had sworn to uphold. The result of this noble harangue was what might be expected. The devoted prelate was instantly hanged in sight of the garrison, who, exasperated by the spectacle, bravely resisted the forces of Broghill, who, unable to take the castle by main force, at length obtained possession of it by a stratagem, which is thus related by Smith:-" The English got two or three team of oxen, and made them draw some pieces of great timber towards it, which the Irish mistaking for cannon, presently began to parley, and surrendered upon articles." From Carrigadrohid the Lee runs in a north-easterly direction through 462 THE RIVER LE1E. a well-cultivated country. A little below Oakgrove, the banks of the river become beautifully wooded. Leafy vistas are seen spreading away into sylvan recesses, through which the sunbeams glimmer mistily on a carpet of vivid green. Here the river Glashagariff swells the tide of the Lee, whose banks are now occasionally studded with elegant villas, the names of whose owners do not immediately occur to us. Not far from the hamlet of Dripsey, through which the high road passes, the waters of the important tributary of that name commingle with those of the Lee. The Dripsey has its source in the Bogera Mountains, on the borders of Muskerry; and, after being joined by the Rylane, flows through the parish of Donoughmore before it pours its tribute into the Lee. In the immediate neighbourhood of the village of Dripsey is St. Olan's Well, near which stands a noble pillar stone inscribed with mystic Ogham; and in the adjoining churchyard is a stone, said to be his tomb, and which is called St. Olan's Cap. This cap is believed to possess miraculous healing virtues ; and Smith says the people of the vicinage are persuaded that if the stone were removed it would return of itself to its present position. Passing the ruins of the church of Innisluinga, erected by St. Senan, of Scattery, and lower down of Castle Inchy, we come to the most charming scenery through which our river flows-the romantic valley of Inniscarra. We shall not attempt to describe a scene which is indescribable ; but we must linger a few moments within the crumbling walls of the old church of Inniscarra, which stands on the margin of the river, embowered in venerable trees. It was founded by St. Senan; and its solitary situation in a lone glen on the marge of a murmuring tide, at the confluence of the Lee and Bride, was admirably fitted for the indulgence of prayer and religious meditation. The guardian trees that evershadow the ruins have been religiously spared by the hand of man -a refined feeling that does honour to our poor countrymen. " Those annals (the Irish) and the lives of our ancient saints," says Dr. Petrie, in his Essay on the Round Towers, "show that trees were a usual ornament in the immediate vicinity of the ancient Irish churches, and having been often planted by the hands of the very founders of those buildings, were preserved with most religious veneration, and their accidental destruction deplored as a great calamity." Beneath the mouldering graves that lie thickly around reposes the dust of many generations of the inhabitants of the surrounding districts. The road between Ardrum and Inniscarra passes through some of the most exquisite scenery to be found on the banks of the Lee. Richly wooded demesnes meet the eye on all sides, diversified by extensive THE RIVER LEE. 463 tracts of fine grazing land, dotted at intervals with rustic cottages, which impart that peculiar air of life to the scene with which the lowliest habitation of man never fails to invest even the remotest solitudes of nature ; while the bright river is seen glancing in the distance between the stately trees that fringe its banks. The chief object of interest at Ardrum is the residence of Sir George Colthurst, Bart., a fine old-fashioned structure, in excellent preservation, and of considerable extent. CHAPTER IV. The River Bride-The M'Sweeneys-Kilcrea Abbey and Castle-Arthur O'LearyBishop Hurly-Muskerry-The Ovens-Ballincollig-The Barrets-Legend of Poulan-Iffrin-Carrigrohan Castle-The Approach to Cork. The River Bride, one of the most considerable tributaries of the Lee, rises in the parish of Kinneigh, and after flowing about fifteen miles in a north-easterly direction, falls into the Lee at Inniscarra. A round tower of peculiar structure exists near its source, having a hexagonal form from the base to a height of fifteen feet, the remaining portion of the pillar being circular. The erection of this tower may be referred to a period many centuries anterior to that which has been erroneously ascribed to it by Dr. Smith, who assigns it to the commencement of the eleventh century of our era. Proceeding down the Bride, the next object of interest that arrests the eye is the venerable ruin of Clodagh Castle, once a stronghold of the M'Sweeneys, a military clan, who formed the Gallowglasses of the Thane of Muskerry. This family was distinguished for its hospitality, a remarkable instance of which is mentioned by Dr. Smith. He says that on the high road, near Dunusky, a stone was set up, on which was an inscription in Irish, inviting all passengers to the house of Mr. Edward M'Sweeney for lodging and refreshment. This stone was subsequently removed by a less generous member of the sept, who, it is said, never prospered after. After passing the ruins of Castlemore, formerly a keep of the M'Carthies, the Bride flows through a fertile tract of grazing land, about one hundred and fifty years ago a vast morass. This was the great bog of Kilcrea, which Smith characterises as being, thirty years before his time, a refuge for wolves and "Tories," to the terror and annoyance of the neighbouring country. He also quotes, from a work on agriculture, by one of the Ryes of Rye Court, some curious particulars regarding the draining and reclamation of these bogs. 464 THE RIVER LEE. Kilcrea Abbey, or, more correctly speaking, Friary, is situated on a gently rising slope above the Bride, about eleven miles west of Cork. Its name is derived from the Irish Killa Crea, which signifies the cemetery of St. Cera. An antiquated bridge crosses the river close to the Abbey, the entrance to which is shaded by a fine avenue of trees. The Friary was founded in A.D., 1465, by Cormac M'Carthy Laider, Lord of Muskerry, for Franciscans, and was dedicated to St. Bridget. The ruins are extensive, and the walls still remaining almost entire : the Abbey has an imposing appearance when viewed from the bridge. On entering the ruins the effect is still further enhanced, and a feeling of religious awe, inspired by the spreading aisles and transept, now unroofed and dismantled, where once sacred hymns were intoned, and fragrant incense rose to the fretted roof. Until lately, the entrance was lined on both sides by a grisly wall constructed of human bones and skulls. The nave is separated from the choir by a square belfry, eighty feet high, through which a round-headed archway communicates with the choir. The columns supporting the arches are round, low, and formed of solid masonry. From one of these columns four ribbed arches spring-an architectural peculiarity which distinguishes this building from all other structures of the kind. The mullions of the windows were destroyed by the sacrilegious hands of Cromwell's troops. A side aisle communicates with the nave by three pointed archways; and at the right side of the nave a passage leads into a chantry. Two massive pointed arches divide the aisle at the west end of the transept, which is about seventy feet in length. The Abbey (if so we may term it), belongs at present to Mr. Rye, of Rye Court; and the old woman who acted as our cicerone, informed us that one of his ancestors, while attempting to remove some stones from the ruins for building purposes, was prevented by ghostly interposition from carrying out the desecration. The entire space within the walls is thickly peopled with the dead, the peasantry of the surrounding districts eagerly coveting the privilege of having the bones of their relatives repose, when life's feverish dream is o'er," within its hallowed precincts. In Kilcrea are buried many members of the house of the M'Carthies of Muskerry, from Cormac, its founder, to the last descendant of the race, who died in Cork, and was buried here in 1832, after which the ancestral tomb was walled up, never to be opened again save to the trumpet-summons of the Judgment Day. Among the remarkable personages interred here was Roger He was an ardent reO'Connor, whose tomb stands in the nave. publican and free-thinker, and, with his brother Arthur, took a leading part in the rebellion of 1798. He fortunately escaped the perils of that stormy time, and was subsequently known as a writer of several works THE RIVER LEE. 46.5 of no particular merit. In the south-east angle of the nave is the tomb of Arthur O'Leary, commonly called " the outlaw." It bears the following inscription : " Lo ! Arthur Leary, generous, handsome, brave, Slain in his bloom, lies in this humble grave." His fate, as illustrating the iniquity of the penal laws, deserves a special mention here. Though possessed of considerable property, O'Leary spent the early part of his life in foreign military service. On returning to his native land, his great popularity among the peasantry excited the jealousy of a neighbouring landed proprietor named Morris. This feeling was intensified into a deadly hatred towards O'Leary, from the fact of a horse belonging to the latter having beaten one of Morris's in a race. Availing himself of that article of the penal laws which disqualified a Catholic from keeping a horse above the value of five pounds, Mr. Morris publicly tendered him that sum, in the most insulting manner, for the winning horse. O'Leary replied that "he would surrender him only with his life." Whereupon Morris and his friends closed around him, a struggle ensued, but O'Leary escaped, being indebted for his safety to the fleetness of his steed. His resistance was represented to the government in such a light that he was proclaimed an outlaw, a large reward offered for his apprehension, and troops despatched to arrest him. The peasantry were so attached to him that for four years his popularity secured him from the most active exertions of his pursuers. At length he was surprised by an ambush near Mill Street, and was shot through the heart at the early age of twenty-six. The brother of the deceased watched an opportunity for revenge; and two months after the event, on the 7th of July 1773, he rode up Peter's Church Lane, in Cork, in broad daylight, and deliberately fired three shots in succession at Morris, who was standing near the window of his lodgings in Peter Street. Mr. Morris was wounded in the side by one of the shots, from the effects of which he died. The avenger of his brother escaped to America, where he died not many years since. Within Kilcrea are also interred the remains of one with whom are connected some interesting historical reminiscences. In the southern transept is a broken tomb, of which the inscription is defaced, but on which a cross fleury is still visible. This is generally believed to indicate the resting-place of Bishop Herlihy, or Hurly, erst titular Bishop of Ross, one of the three Irish Prelates who attended the Council of Trent. His life was an eventful one. He was a native of Carbery and On returning to Ireland, after assisting at the of humble origin. 2G 466 THE RIVER LEE. Council of Trent, he was declared a rebel, and retired to Carbery, from which he was shortly afterwards driven. Betrayed by a renegade named O'Sullivan (the first, we believe, who has ever sullied that fine old Celtic name), he was imprisoned in Dublin Castle, whence he was transferred to the Tower of London, where he was confined in one of its gloomiest dungeons for three years and a-half. After some attempts to liberate him had failed, he was at length set at liberty, and was about to visit Belgium when he was seized with illness. He had himself immediately conveyed to Ireland, that he might die in the " Island of Saints." On landing he was made prisoner and confined in the Castle, until an order came from the Lieutenant of the Tower for his release. He then repaired to Macroom Castle, the residence of his friend More, whose hospitality he enjoyed for a brief period. Bishop Hurly now took a small farm near Macroom, where he led a life of sanctity and retirement, revered by the inhabitants of the district, who believed that he effected miraculous cures of diseases. He died in 1579, and was buried, as we have said, at Kilcrea. Although considerable space has been devoted to the interesting ruins of Kilcrea Friary, we cannot quit it without quoting the following lines from the celebrated ballad, entitled " The Monks of Kilcrea," as showing the genial hospitality which once prevailed among the holy brotherhood who inhabited it:- IM'Carthy " Three monks sat by a bogwood fire ! Bare were their crowns, and their garments grey. Close sat they to that bogwood fire, Watching the wicket till break of day; Such was ever the rule at Kilcrea. For whoever passed, be he baron or squire, Was free to call at that abbey and stay, Nor guerdon or hire for his lodgings pay, Tho' he tarried a week with its holy choir." And now a bare inhospitable ruin meets the eye of the wayfarer; while in place of friendly welcomings, he hears the wind moaning drearily through its crumbling cloisters, as chanting a dirge for the past, and wailing for the happy time that shall return no more. Life and thought have departed from it, giving place to ruin and death-grim tenants who have taken a lease of it for ever. The Friary was plundered by the soldiers of the Catholic Tyrone, in 1601, shortly after which it was repaired. In 1614, the Lord Deputy Chichester intrusted the care of the Monastery to Charles M'Dermod M'Carthy, Lord Muskerry, a Protestant, on condition that he should not allow Friars to dwell in it, and that the land should be let to none but English Protestants. These conditions hlie seems not to have fulfilled, since the Friars were not expelled until after the war of 1641, THE RIVER LEE. 467 when Cromwell granted the lands to Lord Broghill. They again reverted to the Clancarty family; but on the attainder of Donagh, the third Earl, they came into the possession of Captain Hedges, by purchase from the Hollow Sword Blade Company. They ultimately came into the possession of the Ryes, of Rye Court, to one of whose descendants they now belong. A little to the west of the Friary, higher up the stream, stands the Castle of Kilcrea. It was once a keep of the Clancarty sept, and the date of its erection is cceval with that of -the Friary, by whose founder it was built. It is a square tower, seventy feet high, and still in a good state of preservation. The bawn and moat still exist; but the barbicans and outworks are a mass of ruins. The interior of the building is bare and gloomy ; but the view from the summit-the ascent to which is by a flight of marble steps-is varied and extensive. The eye ranges over a large part of that beautiful district, known by the name of Muskerry, or the Pleasant Country; a district renowned for its comely maidens and stalwart men, and no less celebrated for feats of equestrianism as daring and slap-dash as any of those so graphically described by Lever. In the distance are seen the spreading woods of Castlemore, in the midst of which is Rye Court, on whose noble lawn hurdle races and athletic sports are frequently held. Crowning an eminence beyond Rye Court are visible the shattered remains of Castlemore, already mentioned. About two miles west of Ballincollig, and seven to the west of Cork, is situated the hamlet of the Ovens, on the banks of the Bride. This place is chiefly remarkable for its limestone caverns, said to extend many miles under ground. There are two entrances to them, but some of the caves are so low as to oblige the explorer to creep on hands and knees. A mile to the west of Ballincollig, the Bride joins the Lee. Near their junction, rising behind the church of Inniscarra, is a partly wooded and partly uncultivated hill called Carvagh, or the barren ground, once the property of a thirsty soul named Dowe, a toper of the "good old times," who drank it acre by acre. The Lee, now increased by the junction with the Bride, winds at the base of Carvagh in an easterly course, in view of the village of Ballincollig. Here are extensive military barracks for artillery and cavalry, and also a constabulary barrack. Here also are manufactured large quantities of gunpowder, in the powder-mills belonging to Sir Thomas Tobin, who thus affords considerable employment to the people of the vicinage. About a mile from the town is Ballincollig Castle, once a fortress of 468 THE RIVER LEE. the Barretts.* It was garrisoned by Cromwell and James II. It is of considerable antiquity, being generally supposed to date from the reign of Edward III. The castle is of quadrangular form, and was formerly flanked by towers at each angle. It is built on an isolated rock, of moderate elevation, in the midst of a plain. The Barretts were an influential and predatory clan; hence the bawn, in which they kept the cattle captured in their forays or raids, was well fortified by two towers. The thickness of its walls and the strength of its defences attest the purpose for which it was built, and prove it to have been erected in those feudal times when men were guided solely by the simple rule" That they should take, who have the power, And they should keep, who can." Fine lawless days, no doubt, when robber knights washed down with stoups of potent ale or wine the meat they had plundered from their weaker neighbours, and scorned every man of low degree as a scurvy knave. Such were the Barretts of Ballincollig; and Dr. Smith relates that in 1381 the citizens of Cork, harrassed by the repeated forays of these freebooters, despatched a large force against them, capturing the chief of the Barretts and several of the clan, who were detained as hostages. As we approach the church of Killogrohan, on turning a bend in the river, we come upon a deep gloomy linn or pool, aptly designated Poulan-Iffrin, or Hell-hole. A hideous snake or dragon of immense size is said to inhabit this pool. He watches vigilantly over untold treasures that lie buried beneath the waters, which he never quits except for an evening promenade on the banks of the river, where the marks of his paws have been sometimes discerned. Crofton Croker has celebrated this pool as the chief haunt of that ubiquitous sprite, "Teigue of the Lee." On the south side of the river, cresting a steep rock which rises perpendicularly above the road that winds at its base, stands the picturesque Castle of Carrigrohan. A few years ago it was a mouldering ruin, but has since been completely restored by Mr. M'Sweeney, who now inhabits it. It was formerly a pile of considerable extent and massy strength. In 1462, it is mentioned as having been the boundary of the Carrigrohan was founded by the liberties of the city of Cork. M'Carthies, and came subsequently into the possession of those bold acquisitive Barretts, of whom we have already made mention. Their * In reference to the Barretts, the following characteristic anecdote is related of the Earl of Tyrone :-As he was marching past Castlemore, a residence of the Barretts near Mallow, he asked who lived there; and being told that it was inhabited by one Barrett, a good Catholic, whose ancestors had been settled in Ireland over 400 years"No matter," he replied, "I hate the English churl as much as if he landed but yesterday." THE RIVER LEE. .69 estates were forfeited at the Revolution, and in 1641 Carrigrohan was dismantled. It afterwards became the residence of Captain Cope, a daring Rapparee, who, at the head of a gang of brigands, plundered travellers, and laid the neighbouring country under contribution. Opposite Carrigrohan the Awbeg commingles with the Lee, about four miles from Cork, after passing through the famous village of Blarney. So much has been written on this renowned spot, that we shall content ourselves with this passing notice of it. A little beyond the bridge, near Carrigrohan Castle, rises a steep hill, from whose brow, looking eastward down the valley of the Lee, the prospect is truly splendid. Beneath, the river is seen flowing through the plain in those tortuous, snake-like windings so well expressed by the French word replis, through verdant banks of such velvet softness that they seem to mould themselves to the sinuosities of the stream, rather than the latter to yield to theirs. On either side, softly swelling hills spread away to the horizon, dotted at intervals with groups of trees and browsing cattle. Over all plays that ever-varying light and shade which constitutes the most exquisite charm of Irish scenery, and the absence of which imparts so much monotony to some of the loveliest scenes of continental Europe; while far to the east the view is bounded by the dark cloud which marks the position of the fair City of Cork. CHAPTER V. THE CITY OF CORK. After passing Carrigrohan Castle the eye is attracted by the District Lunatic Asylum, pleasantly situated on the slope of a hill above the river. The style of architecture is original and rather peculiar. The prevailing character is the Gothic, rendered still more unique by broken lines and projections, some with high-pitched turrets, ascending in diminishing stages, and others with extinguisher-shaped terminations, the impression produced by which is anything but pleasing. The Asylum is divided into three main compartments, of which the central is appropriated to the harmless and convalescent patients, the eastern to the violent, and the western to those in the lowest state of insanity. The ground enclosed consists of fifty-seven acres, the greater part of which is cultivated by the inmates. The building, which is capable of containing 500 inmates, is the largest of the kind in Ireland. This, however, is merely accidental; and it should not be thence inferred that the people of Cork are more liable to insanity than those of any other town in the kingdom. 470 THE RIVR LEE. A little below the Lunatic Asylum (which, as a very equivocal compliment to Lord Eglinton, was, until lately, named after him), the Leo is divided into two branches, the principal of which rushes foaming through the salmon weirs that obstruct its course" Like sheet lightning Ever brightening, With a low melodious thunder." After embracing a large portion of Cork, between the North and South channels, the severed streams re-unite at the eastern extremity of the town; thus verifying the topographical accuracy of Spencer's description :" The spreading Lee, that, like an island fayre, Encloseth Corke with his divided flood." Above the weirs, on an eminence at the northern side of the river, is seen Shanakiel House, the seat of Francis R. Leahy, Esq., J.P. It is beautifully situated in a well-wooded demesne, and commands a noble prospect up and down the stream. The approach to Cork by the western suburbs is strikingly beautiful. To the left appear the wooded heights of Sunday's Well (so called from its ancient sacred fountain),' with its garden-covered slopes thickly studded with pretty villas. On the other side of the river, and parallel with the great western entrance to the city, is the Mardyke-a charming avenue, nearly a mile in length, and bordered by two rows of elmtrees. It was lit throughout by lamps ; but many of these have been removed by an over-economic corporation. This agreeable walk was formed across a swamp in 1719, by Mr. Webber, who built at its western termination a red brick house (whence it was designated "The Red House Walk)," and enclosed a tea-garden, much frequented by the citizens of that day. Some of the trees have been barbarously hacked in pruning, and now present a mis-shapen and grotesque appearance. For the enlightenment and comfort of etymologists, we may mention that the name of this once favourite promenade-now abandoned for the most part to invalids and nursery-maids, with their toddling charges -is derived from a walk in Amsterdam, called the M.eer Dyke, or sea-dyke, an embankment raised to arrest the encroachment of the sea. Proceeding along the Western Road, the Queen's College is seen to the right, on an elevation above the southern arm of the Lee. It is a very handsome building, of grey lime-stone, in the florid Gothic style of the Tudor era; and no higher testimony could be given to the beauty of its design, than the emphatic declaration of Lord Macaulay, that it is THE RIVER LEE. 471 " worthy to stand in the High Street of Oxford."* The beauty of the building is enhanced by the cluster of trees in which it is embosomed; but its general effect is somewhat impaired by the too close proximity of that gloomy-looking structure, the County Gaol-its classic and effective porticoed entrance, notwithstanding. Standing, as it does, near the site of the ancient Gill Abbey, once a seat of holiness and learning, founded by St. Finn Barr, in the seventh century, the situation of the College has been happily chosen. The building occupies three sides of a quadrangle. In the west side are the lecture rooms; in the east the residences of the president and vicepresident; while the north side, or front, which is 200 feet in extent, consists of the Examination Hall, Library, and Tower entrance. The south side is still unoccupied; but the space is likely to be covered ere long by buildings for the residence of professors and students, without which the College can never be anything better than a high school. The Examination Hall is remarkable for its noble proportions, being 90 feet by 36, and 56 feet high to the apex of an open-timbered roof, whose stained and varnished trusses rest on stone corbels. At the western end is a dais lighted jy a recessed oriel window. Adjoining the Examination Hall is the Library, a very fine room with a gallery running midway around the sides. It contains about 10,000 volumes of the best editions in every department of literature and science. In 1854, an annual grant of £1,600 was made to the College; £500 of which is appropriated to the Library, and since that period a large number of volumes has been added to it. Opposite the entrance to the gallery of the Library are the Museums, which occupy the northern side of the quadrangle. They contain wellarranged collections of specimens of fossils, minerals, &c., and some beautiful stuffed humming-birds, presented to the College by a Corkman, General O'Leary. The visitor cannot quit the College without being impressed with its harmonious unity of design and perfect adaptation to the purpose for which it was erected. This unity and congruity prevail in every detail, even in the furniture and fittings; and altogether the building is an enduring monument of the skill and taste of the architects, Sir Thomas and Kearns Deane. The College has been now nine years in existence, having been opened in Nov., 1849, on which occasion the President delivered an inaugural address, which subsequently obtained considerable notoriety by a * The passage from which these words are quoted occurs in his land," vol. iii., p. 171, where, with his usual splendour of diction, Cork:-" The town is adorned by broad and well-built streets, by Corinthian portico, which would do honour to Palladio, and by worthy to stand in the High Street of Oxford.' "History of Enghe thus describes fair gardens, by a a Gothic college, 472 2 THE RIVER LEE. blundering Italian translation, whence originated the case of "Angeli v. Galbraith," arising out of the dismissal of the former from his proSince that time the College has not fessorship in Trinity College.* made much progress as regards the number of students, although many of them have highly distinguished themselves. Two of its dlves, Messrs. C. Daly and R. Wall, obtained appointments in the Indian Civil Service, for which they had to compete not only with the alumni of the Irish Colleges, but with the dlite of some of the English Universities. It is right also to add that another student of the Queen's College, Mr. John Pope Hennessy, obtained an appointment in the office of the Committee of Council on Education, after having passed a searching examination, with marked distinction, and also read some able papers at the late meeting of the British Association at Leeds, where he achieved a brilliant success. At the Woolwich examinations, students of the Cork College have been equally successful. In some recent examinations for degrees at the Queen's University, however, the reputation of the College was not sustained, and it must be confessed that it has been retrograding of late. This comparatively backward position is clearly traceable, in the first instance, to the discountenance of the Roman Catholic Church, which calnot fail to exert an appreciable influence on a community so essentially Catholic as that of Cork; secondly, to internal mismanagement arising from dissensions among the professors, and between many of them and the President, which have caused so many visitations to be held in the College, and which have rendered it impossible to effect that harmonious co-operation so essential to the success of an educational institution; and, lastly, to the unsatisfactory mode of appointment to the professorships, which, in many instances, have been obtained by men comparatively unknown, while candidates of acknowledged ability and high reputation have been * The President desired to have the address translated into Italian, in order to disabuse the heads of the Church in Italy of the unfavourable notions they had formed of the Queen's Colleges. It was, therefore, intrusted to Signor Angeli, the Italian Professor of Trinity College, who was presumed to be a perfect master of that language. How he executed the task may be inferred from the evidence of Mr. Panizzi, the librarian of the British Museum, one of the most eminent Italian scholars of the day, who swore, in the case referred to above, that the translation was not Italian at all. The following apposite lines (slightly modified) from one of Boileau's Satires, were handed round the court during the trial, and caused much amusement :" Un savant au collibge fut jadis la mode, Mais desfous aujourd' hui c'est le plus incommode: Et i'esprit le plus beau, i'auteur le plus poli, Angeli." N'y parviendrajamais asu sort de 1' The happy application of those lines will be rendered still more obvious when we mention that Signor Angeli was appointed over a man of superior merit by castle-jobbing and backstairs influence. Mr. Whiteside characterised the translation as "a fine specimen of rigmarole." Having seen it, we can fully endorse the opinion of the learned Attorney-General. THE RIVER LEE. 473 totally overlooked. Undoubtedly, including the President, a few able and eminent men occupy chairs in the Cork College; but without questioning the competency of any of the professors, we repeat that many of them were appointed over the heads of better men. Advertising for candidates for a vacant chair in the Queen's College is of late years a mere farce; and in looking for it, an able Irishman, with the highest testimonials, will have little or no chance against a mediocre Englishman or Scotchman who had never been previously heard of. The almost constant absence of Sir Robert Kane from the College has been also considered as a principal cause of its present state; but we do not think this has any material influence in its production-the causes already enumerated being fully sufficient to account for it. It is, therefore, in no wise surprising that the Cork College, despite a curriculum expressly arranged to meet the requirements of our "practical" age, and although amply provided with all the appliances requisite to impart superior instruction, has not been hitherto successful; and were it not for the number of scholarships and prizes, as well as the government patronage at its disposal, it is indubitable that the Munster branch of the Queen's University would be an absolute failure. As it is, the annual grant of £8,600 is expended for the education of a few students. Ere quitting the subject, we may remark that although a chair of Celtic literature has been established in the College, it would seem to be a mere pretence of nationality, no provision whatever having been made for its working. Practically, it is the veriest sham; and hence the learned professor who fills the chair finds his situation a sinecurehaving had no class, because no encouragement has been given for its formation. This is the more to be regretted at a time when some of the ablest philologers of the age, and especially those of Germany, recognise the value of the Irish language for the purpose of ethnological research. By the study and comparison of the Irish with cognate tongues, new and valuable results could not fail to be brought to light concerning the migrations of the Celtic race, and the fusion of other races with it. After passing the Queen's College, the handsome church of St. Vincent {as yet without its tower and spire) is seen on the northern side of the river; and rising at a commanding elevation above it appear the ivied walls of Blair's Castle, the residence of Mr. Windele, the well-known antiquary. Mr. Windele possesses a fine antiquarian collection, particularly rich in Irish archmeology, containing a megalithic library, consisting of Ogham inscriptions, in which department of our national antiquities he has been the principal discoverer. There are also at Blair's Castle several portions of primeval mills, and remains of local medieval sculpture. 474 THE RIVER LEE. Blair, the founder of the castle, was a Scotch surgeon, who, in the middle of the last century, obtained a reputation by an accidental cure, for which he was attacked by a quartetteof local physicians, who proved, to the satisfaction of all men, that, treated secundum artem, the patient ought to have died, and that the Scotch surgeon had cured him unprofessionally. After this lucky "hit," Blair made a fortune by his practice, built his Scottish castle, and wrote a book full of pestilent doctrine, or rather rank infidelity, which was triumphantly refuted by the learned and facetious Father Arthur O'Leary. Arrived at the County Court House (whose faultless portico he will pause to admire), the traveller finds himself at once in one of the principal thoroughfares of Cork. The favourable impression it is calculated to produce in the mind of a stranger will scarcely be diminished by a more extended inspection of the city, the irregularity of whose streets, like those of the quaint old burghs of Flanders, invests them with a picturesqueness denied to towns where greater uniformity prevails in the houses. A diminutive tenement side by side with one five or six stories high; some projecting boldly several feet beyond their neighbours, others modestly receding from the view; a crooked house leaning with a touching confidence against a straight, with here and there a collapsed one shored up; bay windows and flat mixed confusedly together; redbrick alternating with queer-looking weather-slated houses-Quakers among edifices; quaint Elizabethan gables rising beside glaring modern fronts; and one building robed in cement, with its neighbour shrouded in yellow wash; flat roofs and pointed jumbled together; and, crowning all, a mass of indescribable, mischief-meaning chimneys of every conceivable shape-such, with a too prevalent air of uncleanliness and dinginess pervading the thoroughfares, are the prominent features of the streets of "the beautiful city." It would be uncandid, however, were we not to state that many of the thoroughfares are really handsome and spacious, and that the city generally bears the unmistakable stamp of an opulent and prosperous community. Unlike Dublin, Cork has but few streets with any significative name, and fewer still called after patriotic Irishmen. These are easily enumerated. Grafton's Alley, so called after the young Duke of Grafton, natural son of Charles II., who was killed there during the siege of the city in 1690: it was then an open marsh. Mulgrave Street, so named to commemorate the visit of Lord Mulgrave, so popular during his viceroyalty. O'Connell Street preserves the memory of the great Irish tribune; while Grattan Street struggles to maintain its glorious name against the English patronymic of Admiral Duncan. George's Street is so styled after the enlightened Second George, who complacently exclaimed, on being asked THE RIVER LEE. to accept a dedication from a hapless cultivator of the muses--" Ach, Gott! I hates boets and boetry !" and finally, Ireland Rising Liberty Street," so designated in commemoration of the Volunteers of 1782, whose first Associations were formed in Cork. But how amazed would be the deluded traveller were he shown the squares of Cork, of which there are nominally plenty-but such squares 1 It would puzzle Sir Isaac Newton to make that geometrical figure out of them; and yet the Corkonians unconsciously mention their squares with as much complacency as if they had a real existence and were nb myth, thereby conveying to strangers the idea of a city of vast extent and magnificence. Their " park " is a similar imposition, being nothing more than a reclaimed marsh, on which there is not the shadow of a tree or even of a shrub. The good Cork folks have a firm faith that all these shams are realities, and it would be cruelty to disabuse them of a dece tion from which they seem to derive so much harmless gratification. To do so would be to render existence miserable-creation a blank to them. By all means, let them have their hobby; for what would life be without iliusions ? In the next chapter we shall briefly trace the origin and rise of the city. " CHAPTER VI. The City of Cork-continued. Historic Notice. The history and antiquities of Cork having been minutely explored by Smith, Croker, Windele, and others, we shall content ourselves with briefly adverting to the foundation and rise of the city, and to a few of the historic events of which it has been the theatre. Cork is of ecclesiastical origin, having been founded at the commencement of the seventh century by St. Finn Barr, who established the Cathedral on the south-western part of the insulated morass, from which the city derives its name-the Irish word corcach signifying a marsh. Beneath the fostering protection of his religious foundation, huts sprang up gradually, forming the nucleus of the future city. It was, in sooth, an unpromising site for a town; a lonely valley, several miles from the sea, enclosed by steep hills clothed with primeval forests, and with an oozy, desolate fen spreading around, through which crept the sluggish waters of the Lee, forming in its windings a number of reed-covered islets, the haunts of wild fowl and reptiles. The little towns had spread over two or three of these islands, when, in the beginning of the ninth century, a number of those piratical and sanguinary Sea Kings of the, 476 THE RIVER LEE. North, came up the river in their vulture-beaked galleys, gazed wonderingly on the even then venerable Cathedral,* with its cluster of houses in the midst of that wild swamp-then startling its quiet seclusion with their savage war-cries, attacked, pillaged, and burned the town, after their fashion, bearing away the plunder in their ships, and chanting their warlike runes as they steered triumphantly down the stream.t In the tenth century these grim rovers attacked the city again and yet again; but many of them, weary of blood and plunder, or smit, mayhap, with the wild beauty of the place, settled down there, and diverting their skill and energies into more peaceful channels, engaged in trade, and laid the foundation of the future commercial prosperity of the city. At the present day the names of many of its inhabitants attest their descent from these Danish pirates. From the period of their settlement the city grew apace, and the Scandinavian adventurers were converted into peaceful chapmen when it was surrendered to the Anglo-Normans in 1172, by Dermond M'Carthy, Prince of Desmond. By a grant of Henry II., the city of the Ostmen, which covered the greater part of the space between the present north and south bridges, was exempted from the ideal possessions bestowed upon Robert Fitzstephen and Milo -deCogan as their portion of the quasi-conquered kingdom of Cork.+ In the 13th century several religious establishments were erected and endowed in Cork. In 1214, a Grey or Franciscan Friary was founded by Dermond M'Carthy Rea, at Shandon, on the north side of the city. In 1229, a Dominican Friary arose on the present site of the convent of St. Marie's of the Isle, near the Cathedral. About the middle of the 12th century, the Monastery of Gill-Eda was founded near the bite of the present Queen's College. The steeple church of the abbey fell down in 1738. There was also an abbey of Canons Regular, founded so far back as the 7th century, which, like all the foundations of that class in Ireland, adopted the rule of St. Augustine, in 1420. This house, afterwards called the Red Abbey, is the only foundation of which any SDr. Molyneux mentions a round tower as having been discovered by the Danes, in Cork, in the ninth century. In making this assertion-for which, we presume, he had xeliable authority-the doctor unwittingly contradicts himself, being, in common with Dr. Ledwich, John Lynch, and Peter Walshe, an advocate of the Danish origin of the towers. The one referred to stood close to the Cathedral of St. Finn Barr. It was injured during the siege of 1690, and existed until about the middle of thelast century. Dr. Petrie conjectures the date of its erection to have been coeval with that of the Cathedral. His arguments in favour of the Christian origin of these mysterious structures are very plausible, but by no means so conclusive on the question as persons but superficially acquainted with it would have us believe. See his " Essay on the Round Towers of Ireland." t Vide Thierry's graphic description of the expeditions of the Vikings in his Conquete de l'Angleterre, vol. i., p. 126, et seq. The " Heimskringla" of Snorro Sturleson also affords us a vivid conception of the Norsemen. + The original Danish city occupied only about half the space, which was subsequently encompassed by walls. round THE RIVER LEE. 477 remains now exist. There were besides several priories and nunneries; and at the period of the Reformation the city abounded in religious confraternities. In 1491 the Pretender, Perkin Warbeck, visited Cork, where his cause was warmly espoused by the Mayor, John Walters, who proclaimed him heir to the crown. For this mistake, or indiscretion, Henry VII. deprived Cork of its charter, and had Walters executed with the luckless Warbeck. About this period the city was surrounded by fortifications, which enclosed that portion of it situated between the north and south branches of the Lee. The walls were defended by several strong towers, one of which stood at the extremity of Christ Church Lane, and another where the City Club now stands. The north and south gates were strongly fortified, and the western wall was protected by St. Peter's belfry and two strong. towers. These defences were needed by the industrious citizens against the hostile clans who held possession of the country around it, and by whom the city was reduced to a chronic state of siege. No citizen would venture outside the walls without arms and a strong escort. Writing in the reign of Elizabeth, Camden says that Cork was "so beset with rebel enemies on all sides that they (the citizens) are obliged to keep constant watch, as if the town was continually besieged."* With regard to the trade of Cork at that time the reader will be enabled to form some idea of it by the following passage from Crofton Croker :-" The ancient trade of Cork was very limited, and entirely confined to England and the ports in the Bay of Biscay; the principal import was wine from France and Spain, and in return it exported staves, hides, fish, skins, and wool. All the traffic was carried on in foreign bottoms, for Cork, in the reign of Elizabeth, only possessed a few fishing barques; nor were there warehouses established for the reception of merchandise, and every trader, therefore, brought his goods at his own risk, and disposed of them in the best manner he could from Foreign vessels were received in a canal near on board his vessel." Castle Street, and were enclosed by a portcullis, between the King's Castle, on the site of the old Police Office in Market Street, and the Queen's Old Castle, which occupied the site of the monster establish- t * The following curious extract from the charter granted by Queen Elizabeth to the city of Cork shows how little it was anticipated in the sixteenth century that a communication so safe and rapid as that afforded by the Great Southern and Western Railway would exist between Cork and Dublin in the nineteenth:-" Because that the city of Cork is far distant from the city of Dublin, so that by the violent insurrection and route of the Irish people, 'there has not been at any time a safe access from the the there be for future." said city of Dublin to Cork, nor will t "Researches in the South of Ireland," p. 20. 478 THE RIVER LEE. mnent still retaining its name. Hence originated the city arms: a ship between two castles, with the Virgilian motto (a little altered): statio bene fida carinis. The names of Roche, Skiddy, Gould, Terry, Galway, Sarsfield, Meade, Morrogh, and Copinger, were common among the inhabitants of Cork for centuries, and their decendants rank among its leading citizens at present. They were, withal, a sturdy and independent race of men. A message having been sent them by the Lord Deputy desiring them to proclaim James I., they treated the messenger with great indignity, refusing to obey the mandate, whereupon Sir Charles Wilmot was despatched with troops to the city; but the citizens refused to admit him with more than six soldiers, and forbade him to lodge in the suburbs.* Intimidated by the approach of Cromwell, the city declared for the Parliament in 1649, about which time William Penn, the celebrated founder of Pennsylvania, became a convert to Quakerism, in Cork, after having accidently heard a sermon from a member of that sect. In 1688, General M'Carthy took possession of the city for James II., who made a public entry into Cork the following year, after having landed at Kinsale. The siege of Cork, by Marlborough, and the Duke of Wirtemberg, in September, 1690, is the most important historical event connected with the city. Nature has precluded Cork by its position from ever becoming a place of military strength. Surrounded by steep hills, it must inevitably be at the mercy of an enemy who obtains possession of them; and so, despite its embattled walls at the period of the siege, it held out but five days against an army much inferior in numerical strength to that which had unsuccessfully attacked Limerick a few weeks before. As our limits will not allow us to dwell even briefly on this siege, we refer such of our readers as may be desirous to know the particulars of it to Macaulay's History of England, vol. iii, p. 679,t the Journal of the Very Rev. Rowland Davies, Dean of Ross, recently published by the Camdem Society, and edited, with considerable erudition, by Mr. Richard Caulfield, of Cork, who has enriched the work with valuable notes,* and to a rare book, "The life of Joseph Pike," a Quaker, who "Tuckey's Cork Remembrancer," pp. 71-75. t The noble historian erroneously states that the siege lasted but forty-eight hours; whereas it continued for five entire days. Although a very graphic, his lordship is by no means a trustworthy historian. $ The Dean was a jovial, vet bellicose Churchman, equally ready to drain a bottle as wield a sword or point a cannon. He also loved to prescribe for the ailments of old ladies; and so strong were his prescriptions, it seems marvellous how any of his patients could have ever recovered from their effects. The most amusing feature in his journal is the minuteness with which he notes down the price of everything he buys, THE RIVER LEE. 479 resided in Cork during the siege. From the last mentioned work we cannot forbear quoting the following interesting passage:-" The siege ,(of Cork) presently came on; for the governor would not surrender upon summons. The pavement of the streets was pulled up to deaden the bombs, of which there were, I think, twelve or thirteen throwin into the town while the siege lasted. The cannons from without roared, and they made a breach in the east side towards South Gate; the then Duke of Grafton commanded the marines, and approached to Dunscombe's Marsh over the river, intending to storm at the breach; and in all human probability had carried the town, but that he was mortally wounded from the walls, and so carried off, and died in about a week." The shot which killed the Duke was fired by a blacksmith from a forge in Old Post Office Lane. After the surrender of Corki the extensive Clancarty estates in the country were forfeited to the Crown. At the period of the siege the city occupied about the tenth of the space it now covers. Shortly after that event, the marshes of the city began to be reclaimed, and some improvements to be introduced, as will be seen by. the following extract from the Council Book of the Corporation of Cork-" 30th of July, 1697. Ordered that Mr. Edward Richardson, according to proposalls by him given in this day to the Councill, for bringing in fresh water in pipes to every house in the City, who shall agree with. him, have liberty according to his proposall, of breaking up the pavement, in mending the same, and all other matters in said proposall contained, provided he performe the said worke in three yeares tyme." The town gradually extended from island to island, and the various channels that flowed through it having been bridged over, it arose like another Venice above the flood. Until the close of the last century, the principal streets were tideways, bordered by quays, at which vessels took in and discharged cargoes. Patrick Street was arched over in 1783, previously to which a channel flowed through it. It is now the principal thoroughfare of Cork, and is adorned with handsome shops. The Grand Parade, its most spacious street, was arched over in a similar manner in 1780. At the south side of the Parade was It was the fashionable promenade, shaded by trees, called the "Mall." then much frequented by brave gallants in cocked hats, powdered wigs, frills, ruffles, and steel-handled swords, escorting young ladies in hoops as voluminous as the crinoline of our day, who tripped daintly along in gold-clocked stockings and red-heeled shoes, over a rough irregular The Assembly pavement-flagged trottoirs being then unknown. as well as what he spends in the inns he was so fond of visiting, where his expenses seldom exceeded sixpence. As illustrative of the relative value of money then and now, we may mention that for this sum the Dean got a good dinner and a couple of bottles of ale. 480 THE RIVER LEE. Rooms, in George's Street, were then a gay resort, wherein were held weekly dancing reunions, called " drums,' referred to by Dr. Smith, in his quaint amusing way. Within the last thirty years the city has extended rapidly, covering the sides of the surrounding hills with stately terraces and villas. But though blessed, like Damascus, with many flowing streams, its streets are even more filthy than those of the Pearl of Islam. In many of the thoroughfares are to be found heaps of offal, over which at times hungry curs growl and fight undisturbed-or pestilent sinks, wherein half-nude brats dabble ecstatically. Nor is uncleanliness a new feature in Cork; it seems to have been always inseparable from and indigenous to it. Fynes Morrison, who wrote about Ireland in the year 1600, says :-" Even in the best city, as at Cork, I have observed that my own, as well as other Englishmen's chambers, hired of the citizens, were scarce swept once in a week, and the dust, then laid in a corner, was, perhaps, cast out once in a month or two." The statement should, however, be received with some limitation, as, in point of veracity, the writer might be termed the Cambrensis of the 17th century. Samuel Derrick, writing to Lord Cork in 1760, says : "I scarcely need inform your lordship that this city is nine or ten miles from the sea, that the streets are very dirty, the place lying low, therefore subject to much rain." Du Solle, an American, bears similar testimony to the untidiness of Cork. A writer in the University Magazine for June, 1848, thus refers to the city :-" Cork is a pretty slattern, slipshod and draggle-tailed." Continuing the figure-how fascinating would she not be did the slovenly beauty but wash her face, bind up her unkempt tresses, and keep herself neat. The limits of this work preclude us from doing more than giving a rapid glance at the commercial career of the city. Its development was rapidly promoted by the American war of independence, which made the harbour a rendezvous for vessels of war and fleets of merchantmen, chiefly bound for the West Indies. At the period of the Union, numbers were employed in Cork in the various branches of cotton manufacture, cloth-weaving, wool-combing, paper-making, glass-blowing, and tanning, all of which became extinct within ten years after the passing of the act. Her commerce again revived towards the close of the great French war, Cork having obtained contracts for victualling the navy, which gave a great impulse to her mercantile prosperity. One of her merchants, Daniel Callaghan, senior, realised an immense fortune by the navy contract, which he secured by his superior ability. He was one of the most remarkable men that Cork ever produced, having risen from comparative poverty and obscurity to the very foremost position among the merchants, not alone of his native city, but of the whole kingdom. THE RIVER LEE. 481 The thriving condition of. the city received a severe blow from combinations among the coopers of Cork, which resulted in the withdrawal -of the contract. Of late years, however, the city has progressed steadily in trade and commercial enterprise, in which it excels any other provincial town in Ireland, save Belfast alone.* It is true, there are but few manufactures, and the visitors will miss those tall chimneys which .characterise manufacturing towns; but there are several monster shops and extensive establishments for curing beef, pork, &c. The principal manufactures of Cork are tanning, distilling, brewing, wool-combing, glue-making, &c., which are chiefly carried on in Blackpool, a suburb of the city. There are four distilleries, and five breweries, including one recently established by the Messrs. Murphy. The chief tanners are, D. Murphy and Sons, Sir William Hackett, and the Messrs. Hegarty. The leather trade was almost extinguished in Ireland by the potato blight of 1845-6, but has since quite recovered. While on this subject, we may remark that tanning and currying are carried on very extensively in the city, while the sole-leather manufactured in Cork has been long considered the best in Ireland. Within the past ten years, the Messrs. Hegarty have produced finished calf-skin and upper leather which will bear comparison with the best manufactured in Bordeaux. Of the monster drapery establishments, that of Fitzgibbon and Co. (the Queen's Old Castle) is the most extensive. Among these are also the fine concerns of Messrs. Carmichael and Co., who have recently enlarged their establishment; Thomas Lyons and Co., Ogilvie and Co., and Messrs. Arnott and Co., who afford considerable employment in the city by the making of knitted polka jackets, silk nets, and caps, crotchet work, gloves, and several other articles, which they ship to various countries. The butter trade is the staple one of Cork, and the principal source of its wealth. As some statistics, showing the increase of this important trade cannot be uninteresting, we may mention that in 1633 butter was first shipped in firkins from Cork. In 1806, the export of butter amounted to 160,000 cwts. In 1835, 279,000 firkins were exported; in 1850, 340,826 firkins, and in the year ending August, 1853, 345,258 firkins, exclusive of kegs. Besides supplying the English markets, the Cork exporters ship to Australia, the West Indies, and Lisbon. To show how considerably the trade has increased, we may mention that a few years since the average yearly receipt of butter at the Cork Market did not exceed 280,000 firkins, while the quantity received for the last two * Dean Swift, referring to the trade of Cork in 1706, observes:-" Cork, indeed, was a place of trade, but for some years past is gone to decay, and the wretched merchants, instead of being dealers, are pedlars and cheats. 2H 482 THE RIVER LEE. years amounted to over 400,000 firkins each year, representing an amount of capital equal to about £1,500,000. The export trade of Cork is now chiefly carried on, and its mercantile repute sustained by, the eminent firms of John Gould and Co., Burke Brothers, Honan, Hardy, Adams, Hodder, Sugrue, Clare, and P. Murphy and Son. Mr. Pike and Messrs. Lecky and Beale have extensive dockyards on the river, in which they have constructed several first-class iron ships. The statistics of the trade of Cork, however, being easily accessible, we shall merely mention in this place that, in 1854, the tonnage of foreign vessels entered at Cork harbour was 175,155 tons, and of British and coasting-trade, 470,765 tons, and that the population of the city, according to the census of 1851, is 85,745, showing an increase over the previous census of 1841 of 5,025 inhabitants. A very satisfactory instance of local enterprise is furnished in the success of the Cork Gas Consumers' Company, incorporated recently under the Limited Liabilities Act. It possesses a capital of £40,000, and numbers about one thousand of the gas consumers of the city. When we consider that this company had to contend with a rich and influential one long in possession, and the punctuality with which they fulfilled their contract to light the city when they had but a very limited time to carry it out, it must be admitted that the Cork Gas Consumers" Company is a very gratifying evidence of the energy and business capacity of its directors. Being wholly unessential to our purpose to give more than this imperfect outline of the history of Cork, we refer our readers for more minute information to the local historians, and especially to Mr. Windele's invaluable "Notices of the City of Cork," and to a scholarly essay on Cork, by John Geo. M'Carthy, Esq., the esteemed President of the local Catholic Young Men's Society. In the next chapter we shall treat of the institutions and public buildings of Cork. CHAPTER VII. The City of Cork-continued. In noticing the public establishments of Cork, the Royal Cork Institution is first entitled to claim our attention from its local prestige. The building is an antiquated fabric of dingy red brick, and is situated in an unfrequented part of the city. Its interior comprises a lectureroom, a small and neglected museum, a library containing about 13,00a books, chiefly scientific, and a hall embellished with several mutilated THE RIVER LEE. 483 Ogham inscriptions, some rib-bones of whales, old stones, and other interesting objects. A few years since this hall was also adorned with a venerable shark, from whose abdomen protruded a bundle of musty straw-a spectacle at once novel and imposing. The Institution was founded in 1802, by a number of noblemen and gentlemen with a view to the diffusion of science among the community generally. A charter of incorporation was afterwards obtained, as also a Parliamentary grant of £2,000 per annum, subsequently increased to £2,500. The encouragement of agriculture being one of the primary objects of the Institution, farming societies were accordingly organised in different parts of the county, premiums adjudged, and a botanic garden taken in 1810. A large house was hired, in which lectures on various branches of science were delivered, including some on anatomy as connected with art. We have now to record an act of the committee of the Royal Cork Institution, which entitles them to the gratitude of the people of Cork. A splendid collection of casts, taken under the special superintendence of Canova from the finest specimens of Grecian and Roman art, preserved in the Vatican and the sculpture galleries of Italy, were sent by Pope Pius the VII. as a present to the Prince Regent, afterwards George IV., who gave them to Lord Ennismore for presentation to the Cork Society of Arts.* That society immediately engaged a house, and went to considerable expense in constructing a hall suitable for their reception. Some years after the society became bankrupt; but the casts were retained by the architect in compensation for a debt incurred by him in fitting up the hall. Hearing that they were about to be advertised for sale, the proprietors of the Cork Institution immediately redeemed them for a sum of £300, and had them transferred to the Old Custom House, a grant of which they had previously obtained in 1831. Owing, however, to religious and political sectarianism-that perpetual bane of our country, instilling its virus into every phase of Irish societythe noble objects for which the Cork Institution was established, and which were carried out at first with vigour and success, were almost wholly neutralised. The government, finding that no commensurate benefit accrued to the public, gradually reduced the annual grant until 1830, when it was entirely withdrawn.t Since then the institution has * In justice to the memory of a gifted citizen of Cork, it is right to mention that it was at the instance of the late Mr. Willes, head-master of the School of Design, first established in Cork, that Lord Ennismore procured the casts for the city. t Sir Walter Scott's forcible comparison in reference to our party strife is only too true,-" They (Irishmen) are like people fighting with daggers in a hogshead."-Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol. vi. 484 THE RIVER LEE. had a languishing existence, and is at present chiefly supported by the medical faculty of Cork. As a literary association, the Cork Library Society ranks next in importance to the Royal Cork Institution. It was founded in 1790, by a number of Cork merchants, for the circulation of standard works. The library is situated in one of the most central parts of the city. It contains about 20,000 volumes, principally in the department of Belles Lettres, together with some valuable books of reference. About forty periodicals and newspapers are also taken in. The reading-room is spacious and well kept, with a gallery extending around three of the sides. Here some of the Cork quidnuncs may be seen any day, as well as a few quiet old gentlemen, who seem to be fixtures there, and to whom the library affords a soothing retreat from the noise and turmoil of the world without. Here some local literateur may also be occasionally seen consulting a book, but rarely seated at the tables or fires with book in hand; for your genuine literary men seldom read in public libraries. When we consider the advantages that are afforded by the Cork Library, we are surprised that they are not more generally availed of than they have hitherto been, especially as the subscription is so moderate as one guinea per annum. Among its other advantages, it possesses that of having a very attentive and courteous librarian. The only other library worthy of notice is that of the Cathedral of St. Finn Barr. It comprises a valuable collection of theological and historical works; but it is hermetically sealed to the reading public of Cork, to whom its existence is scarcely known. The apartments appropriated to the School of Design form a portion of the premises of the Cork Institution. In 1848, the upper part of that building having undergone alterations and improvements, the school was accordingly opened and several pupils received. A few years since the collection of casts already mentioned were removed from the cheerless and mouldy room in which they had been entombed for years, to the more airy apartments in which they are placed at present, where, freed from the dust and mould contracted in their former quarters, they now appear in somewhat of their pristine beauty. The people of Cork do not sufficiently appreciate the value of the truly splendid art-treasures they possess in these casts. Gazing upon these god-like forms as they shine out in the softened light upon the enraptured vision, we feel the full meaning and beauty of that fine metaphorical expression so felicitously applied to the peerless edifices of Greece-" Frozen music." Among other figures in the sculpture gallery is that of the celebrated Apollo Belvidere. This faultless specimen of Grecian art entrances, by THE RIVER LEE. 4 85' its matchless beauty, even the eye of the unartistic visitor. Enveloped as with a perfume of eternal youth, with a wondrous blending of vigour, grace, and symmetry, a triumphant disdain seated on the brow and quivering in the lip-there stands that glorious form, instinct with the god, and lustrous as with a radiance from on high.* Near the Apollo stands the group of Laocoon-the inspiration of Lessing's great work-a production still more celebrated for the influence it exerted over the master mind of Germany.t The group presents a marked contrast to the beaming presence of the imperial sun-god. The latter becomes the more fascinating the longer you gaze upon it; while the expression of intense agony on the face of his doomed priest fills the soul with mingled emotions of terror and awe. As we gaze on the group, Virgil's noble lines are instinctively; recalled and how vividly does it embody the poet's thought:Illi agmine certo Laocoonta petunt; et primum parva duorum Corpora naturum serpens amplexus uterque Implicat, et miseros morsu depascitur artus, Post ipsum, auxilio subeuntem, ac tela ferentem, Corripiunt, spirisque ligant ingentibus; et jam Bis medium amplexi, bis collo squamea circum Terga dati, superant capite et cervicibus altis. Ille simul manibus tendit divellere nodos, Perfusus sanie vittas atroque veneno; Clamores simul horrendos et sidera tollit. Quales mugitus, fugit cum saucius aram Taurus, et incertam excussit cervice securim. Our space will not permit us to dwell on the other casts in the gallery; but we would fain linger a moment to give a wistful glance at that perfect impersonation of womanly loveliness, the Venus de Medici; at the Venus of Canova, whose charming attitude is so expressive of startled modesty; at the exquisite face of the Clytie, with its expression of ineffable and dove-like gentleness; at the chaste Diana, more graceful than the fawn beside her, and with step so elastic that she seems about to spring from earth to her celestial home; at that noble piece of sculpture, Germanicus, a finished type of manly beauty; at Adonis, on whom Venus seems to gaze with a look of unutterable love; at Antinous, whose hyacinthine curls shadow a beautiful but an effeminate countenance; at the Lycian Apollo, whose attitude is the ideal of graceful repose; and, finally, at the splendid torso of Hercules, which fitly closes our rapid survey of these noble specimens of sculpture. In the school * Winckelmann's critique on the Apollo Belvidere is one of the most beautiful and just in the whole range of art criticism. t See the first volume of Lewes's "Life of Goethe"-a work that should be in every public and private library. + En., lib. ii. v., 212 et seq. 486 THE -RIVER LEE. are also a fine collection of busts, relievi, masks, &c., one of which, a mask of Minerva, is a gem of art. The late accomplished Head-master, Mr. Raimbach, has been succeeded in the office by a gentleman who is filled with a genuine enthusiasm for his art. We have seen some of Mr. Sheil's paintings, one illustrative of Longfellow's " Excelsior," one entitled "Jacob's Dream," and another representing the Assumption." Judging from the true artistic verve and skill exhibited in these productions, we venture to augur for Mr. Sheil a distinguished position among the artists of the day. Under his zealous superintendence, the school has attained a high degree of efficiency, and numbers at present about two hundred students. Several of the pupils have received certificates of merit, and also obtained appointments in the London Central Training School of Art. With so admirable a means of aesthetic culture as that afforded by this fine collection of Art-Treasures, it is no marvel that Cork should be prolific in distinguished artists-especially susceptible to their influence as are the denizens of the southern metropolis, whose lively imaginations and warm feelings are easily wrought to that elevation of sentiment and refinement of thought usually engendered by the contemplation of such masterpieces. Gazing spell-bound on these divine creations of human genius, Barry, Grogan, Forde, Maclise, Hogan, Heffernan, Fisher, and other eminent Cork artists, drank in that inspiration which enabled them to soar so high, and to reflect such lustre on their native city. Under the present excellent system of instruction, the Cork School of Art is gradually forming a permanent and valuable museum, admirably adapted for training both the artist and the artisan in the most elevated departments of high and mechanical art. At the annual competition for national medals in London, four medals have been obtained by Cork within the last two years; and a gift of £10 being attached to each medal, to be given in works of art to the school in which the student who obtains it is educated, the school has been presented with works to the value of £40. These works consist of copies of Perugino's frescoes, with tracings from the original pictures, examples of the best Italian art, frescoes, mosaics, stained glass, wood carving, electrotypes of Cellini's chefs-d'ceuvre, and photographs of crystal cups and enamel in the Louvre, and of armour in possession of the Queen. As a reward for a medal obtained by the school, it will be presented next year with photographs (nearly four feet by three) of Raphael's Cartoons in Hampton Court. As a work of scientific sun-painting, these photo- " THE RIVER LEE. 487 graphs are the most wonderful of the age; and thus, owing to the efficient training in the local school, the citizens of Cork can experience the rare enjoyment of gazing on a perfect representation of one of the most glorious productions of the divine painter of the Transfiguration. The school has been also recently enriched with a noble head of Achilles and a cast of the charming Venus of Milo. These additions, in conjunction with the gallery of casts, render the Cork School of Art the very best in the country for the artist and the mechanic; and there can be no doubt that any intelligent student, availing himself of the advantages that this institution presents, would soon be capable of decorating the public buildings of the city, in a style similar to that in which the beautiful Roman Catholic Cathedral has been lately embellished, and in a spirit akin to that by which artists were inspired in the age of Leo X. We earnestly hope that, fired by the -example of the many illustrious artists to whom Cork has given birth, they will strive, with generous emulation, to equal their renown; and we as earnestly trust that the committee of this institution will cordially co-operate with the Department of Science and Art to carry out a system of art-education, which appears to us the best adapted to serve the public that has ever been instituted by any government. In evidence of the success of the present system of instruction, we may mention that the number of local medals obtained in 1857, with two masters, was fourteen; while in 1858, with one master, no less than twenty-one medals were awarded to the school. This fact is a conclusive proof of Mr. Sheil's ability and zeal; and the students of the school should sedulously avail themselves of both while that gentleman is yet connected with it, since they cannot always enjoy the advantage of having a Head-master at once so able and zealous. In the immediate vicinity of the School of Design is the Atheneum, erected a few years since, and chiefly constructed of the materials of the building used for the National Exhibition at Cork in 1851. Being in an unfinished state, the exterior has rather an unsightly appearance; but when the contemplated semicircular Doric portico shall have been added, it will be a very handsome edifice. The interior, however, is truly grand both as regards design and vastness of proportion. The Rotundo is lofty and spacious and is separated from the great hall, above which it is elevated several feet, by a screen of Corinthian columns. The hall is one of the noblest in the United Kingdom, being 113 feet in length, and 53 in width. It is lighted by a glazed roof, itself supported by a double row of fluted Corinthian columns. At the western end is a semicircular recess containing a fine organ and seats capable of accommodating a large orchestra. Extending along the 488 THE RIVER LEE. cornice of the hall and of the dome are innumerable small jets of gas. which diffuse an equable and mellow light. The building reflects the highest 'credit on the architect, Sir John Benson, and the builder, Mr. W. Brash. The Athenaeum was intended to be, what its name implies, a temple for the promotion of science, literature, and the fine arts. These objects have been defeated in a great degree by the difficulty of hearing distinctly in it-a very serious drawback to its utility. It has been, therefore, abandoned for the most part to the votaries of Terpsichore, and numerous balls have taken place there, which are remarkable for having been almost invariably the occasion of some "row." We must now glance rapidly at some of the remaining public buildings. The steeple of Shandon Church, being a perfectly unique specimen of architecture, first claims our notice. It has been wittily designated "the pepper-box steeple." It is faced with two red-stone sides, and two of limestone, which invest it with somewhat of. a harlequin aspect. If we may use a bull, its weather-cock is a fish (query-a shark ?), which stubbornly resists the persuasions of your zephyrs, and " soft souths; so that its office appears to be merely to indicate the direction of the last gale. The steeple is also provided with a monster clock, which exhibits a perverse and vicious propensity for going wrong. The Court House, referred to in a former chapter, has been the object of special praise for its external beauty, and of unmeasured censure, on account of its internal construction, to every going judge Assize, as well as to builders, who have of course no interest in alterations. Its happy lot has been that the changes suggested by one judge have been condemned, as a matter of course, by the next. Its temperature, and internal arragements, have ever been the subject of complaint and querulous remonstrances, especially from lawyers and attorneys, whose lives are so precious to the public. We doubt whether a Ruskin would, be able to convert the courts of this unfortunate building into comfortable and satisfactory halls of justice. It was built in 1835 at a cost of £20,000. The Mansion House is a plain, substantial edifice, erected in 1767. As an instance of the changes wrought by time, this building, so many years the scene of corporate festivities, has been converted into an hospital under the charge of the Sisters of Mercy. Apropos of the Mansion House, it is worthy of mention that the Mayors of Cork were entitled by virtue of the office to dispose of the city refuse, and the city scavengers were appointed by the Corporation; an office, strange to say, generally held by respectable citizens about the middle of the last century.* A clause in the charter of Queen Elizabeth empowers the Mayors of Cork of Council Book, vol. v. THE RIVER LEE. 4b9 to have " borne and carried " before them "one decent sword sheathed, and," it continues, " our will is that the sword-bearer be adorned with a remarkable cap." This latter injunction has been carried out to the letter. The cap is remarkable. On Grenville Place, in the vicinity of the Mansion House, a Turkish Bath has been erected by Dr. Barter. It has a handsome front, is furnished with private dressing-rooms, and is capable of accommodating about fifty bathers at a time. The Butter Exchange is a handsome building, with a fine portico. In 1849 it was considerably enlarged, chiefly at the instance of the Weigh Master, John Besnard, jun., Esq., J.P., and of the late James Minhear, Esq., J. P., in whose death the butter trade has sustained the loss of one of its most valuable and estimable members. The new Police Office (designed by Sir John Benson) is a tasteful structure, although its effect is considerably marred by a block of dilapidated tenements immediately in front. The former Police Office was a confined and unhealthy court, and the new one is a considerable improvement on it. Owing to the unwearied exertions of the Rev. Mr. Foley, a handsome Gothic tower has been recently added to the Roman Catholic Cathedral. From its elevated position, the tower has a fine effect, and is an ornament to the city. The Commercial Buildings, Savings' Bank, National Bank, and Bank of Ireland, situated on the South Mall (one of the finest streets in the city), are handsome buildings. The bridges have no pretension to architectural design. Patrick's Bridge, which was destroyed by the disastrous flood of November, 1853, was a well-proportioned and effective structure. A temporary wooden bridge has been erected near it, to be removed as soon as a new one shall have been constructed. The contemplated bridge is to be a stone one, of three arches, the cost of which is estimated at about £18,000. Professor Hennessy, late of the Queen's College, having proved the bridges on the North channel to be the principal cause of floods in the flat of the city, it was resolved to remove that known as North Gate Bridge, and to replace it by a one-arched bridge. The quays of Cork are solid and well-built. They are formed of cut limestone, and cost, including the expense of their construction in 1825, over £100,000. The increasing commerce of the city rendering the improvement of the channel a matter of necessity, dredging machines have been employed many years in deepening the bed of the river. This operation having rendered the foundation of the quays insecure, they have been recently sheet piled under the superintendence of Sir John Benson. 490 THE RIVER LEE. Ere we conclude, we must briefly notice the public statues of Cork. The most conspicuous of these is the equestrian statue of George II. (popularly known as George-a-horseback), in the Parade. It was cast in lead by Van Oss, a Dutch artist. This statue is perfectly unique; since both horse and rider being inclined forward considerably out of the perpendicular, a crutch was placed under his Majesty's right arm, and another beneath the belly of the charger, to prevent them from toppling over. As may be imagined, the effect is most ludicrous. A marble statue of the Earl of Chatham, and one of William III., .adorned the Mansion House. The former underwent some vicissitudes, having been mutilated, and subsequently painted in all the colours of a harlequin. Its removal from the Mansion House by one of the chief ,magistrates gave rise to a shower of witticisms from the Cork wags, who are ever prone to " fun." In the Savings' Bank there is also a fine statue by Hogan, of the late William Crawford, one of the best and most accomplished citizens that ,Cork has ever produced. The next chapter shall be devoted exclusively to the Corkonians. CHAPTER VIII. The Corkonians. " O ! long life to you, Cork, with your pepper-box steeple, Your girls, your whiskey, your curds and sweet whey; Your hill of Glanmire, and the shops where the people Get decent new clothes down beyond the Coal-quay. Long life to sweet Fair Lane, its pipers and jigs, And to sweet Sunday's Well, and the banks of the Lee; Likewise our Court House, where judges in wigs Sing, Cork is the Eden for you, love, and me !"-Cork Ballad. So much has been written on the Corkonians by persons thoroughly qualified to do them justice, that we should have regretted our rashness in undertaking to tread so beaten a path, were we not encouraged by the hope that what we have to say about their peculiarities may possess something of the charm of novelty for the majority of our readers. In sketching their characteristics, however, we give the result of our own observation, without reference to the opinions of any previous writer on the denizens of "the beautiful city." Passing through the leading thoroughfares of the city during the busiest hours of the day, the stranger will be struck with the many cheerful good-humoured faces he shall meet with in his walk. Among all classes he will see countenances rosy with health and beaming with THE RIVER LEE. 491 intelligence. This cheerfulness of aspect is conspicuous even among the working classes, who present a marked contrast to the sallow, careworn visages of the mechanics of most manufacturing towns; while even the humblest are, in general, more comfortably clad than the corresponding class in other commercial cities. As we are now treating of the externals of Cork life, the reader will please put on his hat and accompany us in a stroll through Patrick Street and the Parade-the fashionable promenades-between the hours of three and five o'clock, p.m. By what a motley and lively crowd are we not surrounded ! Ill-dressed dandies, sporting bad hats, soiled kid gloves, and flashy ties ; lovely girls, rather over-dressed, rattling away in the most musical of brogues, and with fun-flashing eyes, that make you feel very queer about the region of the heart, setting it "all of a twitter,"* chubby-faced youths of tender age, but preternaturally precocious, making futile efforts to enact the man, and looking distressingly imbecile as they leer at the girls with would-be amorous glances; raw, sun-burnt country "gents," hirsute in beard and moustache, and arrayed in sporting trim ; seedy half-pay officers, and swaggering full-pay ones ; and, finally, fat citizens with roseate gills and protuberant paunch, who roll cheerily along with the never-failing umbrella tucked under their arms. Your progress through the thoroughfares will be frequently impeded by an admiring group assembled stolidly around a ballad-singer, howling out some rude love ditty, or dismal lamentation, or by a knot of politicians, constituting a " gutter club," so absorbed in the discussion of state affairs and national politics, as to be wholly oblivious of the inconvenience they cause to pedestrians. Or, haply, you may be thrust into the kennel by women with baskets projecting far on either sidebut then it is done with so much good-humour, that the most irascible of mortals could scarcely fall out with them. Indeed, unrestricted license reigns in the streets of Cork. Boys play ball across the pathways, or at hide-and-seek around you, or drive a hoop or top between your legs with the greatest coolness, and thieves will grope in your pockets with perfect impunity; while, at rare intervals, a policeman may be seen sauntering cooly along with the air of a man who has no duty and a clear conscience. Nowhere does there seem to be a more idle or inquisitive class than are the lower orders of the population of Cork. Look up intently at * Let the most hopeless hypochondriac only encounter the glance of the Cork girls, and we warrant it he will be forthwith converted into the liveliest of men. There is a kind of mesmeric or galvanic influence in it beyond any medicament we know of. It pierces, it electrifies, it thrills, it burns, it tickles, it quickens, it flabbergasts, it bothers it-whew! we're fairly nonplussed for words to describe its magical effects. 492 THE RIVER LEE. the sky, or downward at the ground, or stare fixedly before you for a few minutes, and you will be straightway encompassed by an eager group anxiously inquiring, " What's the matter ?" Having glanced at a few of the exterior features of Cork life, we shall now turn to the characteristics of the inhabitants. The first that a stranger will detect is the general propensity (if we may use an expressive vulgarism) to humbugging. The Corkonian will humbug you with the gravest face imaginable. Every little weakness or eccentricity in another is fair game to him; and so perfect an adept is he in the art, that, although the victim may have an uneasy consciousness of being made sport of, he, nevertheless, does not know what he would be at, or where to have his tormentor. When he has fully " drawn out" his man, the successful operator withdraws, chuckling in stealthy enjoyment at the exhibition he has made of his victimised gobemouche. Should he, however, meet his match, or catch what is familiarly called "a Tartar," no whit abashed by his failure, he incontinently cracks a joke even at his own expense, and fraternises with his adversary. Hence, a thin-skinned man mixing among them will find himself in a perpetual state of ferment. He who would be proof against the Cork humbuggers must encase him in the hide of a rhinoceros. Joking is also au essential characteristic of the Corkonians. He will have his laugh at everything, short of what is most sacred. Under all circumstances, he is a jocosus peer, and is ever ready with le mot pour 9ire.* He is nearly always either eating or elaborating good things, operations between which there exists an intimate connection; for your empty stomach is but ill calculated to prompt a merry thought. In reference to this habit, an old writer remarks that their "risibility" proceeds "rather from a full belly than the provocation of a joke." This love of good cheer seems to have long been a ruling propensity of the citizens, if we are to credit the well vituperated "Bob Twiss," who, in his amusing "Tour through Ireland," in 1775, thus libels them: "But the forte of the citizens does not lie in the sciences of painting, sculpture, architecture, music, or such trifles, but in the more essential arts relative to eating and drinking, such as the slaughter of hogs, oxen, and sheep, in order to exchange the superfluous pork, beef, and mutton, for wine, &c. And, indeed, they are much in the right; for the sciences are only cultivated to enable their professors to acquire wherewith to purchase those necessaries." Coming from such a reckless vilifier, this statement must be received cum grano; but it cannot * As an instance of this pun-loving propensity, we may mention that a few years ago, it was intended to erect a handsome front on the Grand Parade to the Meat and Fish Market, and a wag at once suggested that the city motto might be advantageously changed for that site into "statio bene fide car is." TIlE RIVER LEE. 493 be denied that Cork wit shines brightest at the dinner table, and that a quantum suf.of rosy wine, or its great rival, "whiskey, drink divine," is the oil that feeds the flame. Undoubtedly, the Corkonian waxes most brilliant when the viands have been washed down by the third tumbler of Wise's or Hewett's "pot," or "patent," whiskey punch. Then, indeed, his humour corruscates in a flood of lively sallies, comic songs, and pungent witticisms, verifying in his own person the truth of Maginn's portrait of" A randy, bandy, brandy, no dandy, Rollicking jig of an Irishman." So chokefull of this spirit of fun are the Corkonians, that it exuberates even in their business transactions. Bargains are concluded with a joke, and shop assistants engage in merry chat across the counters with their customers. This poco-curantism pervades all ranks, and forms a really pleasant and peculiar feature in Cork society, as contrasted with the serious work-o'-day life of other mercantile communities. Among this glib-tongued, but quick-witted race, conversational power is the test of intellectual culture; and for their proficiency in that gift they are doubtless indebted to their propinquity to Blarney. Hence, they don't care a " thraneen " (Anglice, a jackstraw) for a taciturn man, even were he a Tully or a Cicero, as one of themselves would say; but if you have a ready tongue, plenty of money, and especially brass, you will be courted and caressed to your heart's content in "the beautiful city." The genus man is gregarious by instinct; the species Corkonian by temperament. Mercurial and fun-loving, the excitement of society is absolutely essential to him. Owing to that inexhaustible vivacity arising from his intellectual or physical organisation, our Southern Celt is a good talker; and his conversation is usually seasoned with spicy anecdotes and pleasant bits of scandal. Yet he is graced with all the social amenities, and is remarkably non-opinionative. He is no pigheaded dogmatist, who will thrust his opinion perforce down your throat. He is, on the contrary, the most plastic and impressible of mortals. Whether it be from sheer indolence or politeness, we cannot undertake to say, but, at all events, he yields his opinion with the utmost suavity to any one who chooses to question it. Argument is a serious thing, and he laughs it aside. His principle of existence is to take things easy. The Corkonians are very demonstrative, a characteristic noticeable even in the street conversations, conducted as they usually are with the emphatic warmth and lively gesticulation of the natives of a southern clime. This peculiarity enables strangers to become intimate with them 494 THE RIVER LEE. very soon. And, by the way, another trait in their multiform and( many-hued character is the marked partiality they seem to evince for strangers. Speak with an English, Scotch, or foreign accent, wear a sleek moustache-in a word, be a stranger of presentable appearance, and you will immediately have the entre to the best society in Cork. Unquestionably social as are the inhabitants of the southern metropolis, yet nowhere does class exclusiveness exist with greater intensity than in Cork society, where the esprit de caste is maintained with a Brahminical rigour. Should anybody moving within one circle or coterie venture to associate with a person in a humbler sphere, he will be immediately tabooed-" cut dead " by his own "set." In a figure borrowed from the staple trade of the city, it has been well said that all Cork is one vast weigh-house, where everyone must have his social rank duly scratched upon him. This exclusiveness exists as generally among the middle classes as among those above them. The cloth-merchant looks down on the grocer, the latter on the chandler, who snubs the publican, who, in turn, looks down on somebody else. This would be sufficiently amusing, did it not tend to estrange men whose genial qualities render them so well calculated to combine in promoting the pleasures and cultivating the amenities of social intercourse. Finally, the entree to the higher "sets" is not vouchsafed even to transcendent merit, when associated with limited means or lowly birth ; their portals resembling those doors that Tennyson says" Open but to golden keys." While, as impartial chroniclers, we have noted some of the faults of the Corkonians, we feel sincere pleasure in giving them all honour and praise for their large-handed charity. The exclusiveness we have noticed is but the ice 'encrusting the surface of their character-the living stream of goodness flowing deep and warmn beneath. To every appeal to their benevolence they respond with a princely munificence. The local charities are all well supported ; and it has been truly said that you have but to open your hand in the cause of charity in Cork, to have it filled with hundreds. The almost unbounded charities of the late Jeremiah Murphy, the late Thomas Lyons, and of the late Mr. Beamish, are splendid instances of the worth of the citizens of Cork. Cork has produced many distinguished sons and daughters. She has, however, given a more brilliant and numerous roll of names to art than to literature or science. When we consider the favourable circumstances by which her citizens are surrounded, we are surprised that she is not even more rife in artists. and poets than she is. Inhabiting a picturesque old city, girdled withl. THE RIVER LEE. 495, a cincture of beauty, like Venus with her cest-breathing an atmosphere of balmy softness, through which the stars shine down with a mysterious and mellowed lustre-canopied by a sky of alternate sunshine and showers, imparting to the landscape a changeful loveliness that ever invests it with a new charm-a noble collection of casts, by which the mind is trained and elevated to the conception of the ideal : all these are conditions peculiarly calculated' to awaken the poetic and artistic faculties of the mind. These influences have been long leavening its educated classes, and, combined with the training afforded by the School of Design, cannot fail to develop the natural genius of the people, and bring it to a high degree of perfection. Indeed, one of the most peculiar and remarkable characteristics of the Corkonians generally is a blending of an ardent love of the beautiful with a vein of genuine humour. The literary reputation of Cork is also of a high order. Certainly, the Corkonians are an eminently book-loving community; and even such tall fellows as Thackeray and Lever have borne high testimony to their literary taste and ability. A genial love of reading pervades all classes, and is not restricted to the middle and upper, as in most other cities. It is this taste for literature, stimulated and nourished by the Cork Library and the Cork Institution, the diocesan and many private libraries, that has given the City such literary repute, and enabled her to produce a host of crack writers. Among her literary and scientific celebrities, we may mention Dr. Maginn, "Father Prout," Sheridan Knowles, D. O. Madden, Arthur O'Leary, Haynes Baily, Cavanagh Murphy, E. Kenealy,, F. S. Murphy, James Roche, Callanan, Millikin, M. J. Barry, Henry Hennessy, F.R.S., Mrs. Jas. Gray, Mrs. Hoare, Dr, Robert D. Lyons, William Thompson, R. Dowden, J. F. Maguire, M.P., William K. Sullivan, F. Woodly, W. Lander, D. Casey, &c. In history and antiquities also the following writers have distinguished themselves : -T. Crofton Croker, J. Windele, Roger O'Connor, John O'Driscoll, Thomas Wood, Colonel Beamish, O'Neill Daunt, John Lindsey, Richard Caulfield, R. Sainthill, Rev. J. England, W. Fagan, M.P., and Messrs. Hodder and Westropp. Notwithstanding their unquestionable love of letters, strange to say, periodical literature has never succeeded in Cork. Magazines have been started there at various periods, but all have become speedily defunct. Among the earliest of these were the "Monthly Miscellany," which flourished about 1795, and the "Casket, or Hesperian Magazine,' published by Millikin, in 1797, and which expired after having existed but one year. "Bolster's Quarterly Magazine," a more ambitious attempt, was subsequently started. It was supported by a staff of able 496 THE RIVER LEE. contributors, but went down, owing to the unwise liberality of the publisher. Many highly talented men contributed to it, including -Callanan, J. A. Shea, M. F. M'Carthy, P. J. Meagher (now the Paris Correspondent of the Times); Ven. Archdeacon O'Shea, and J. Windele. So superior were the contributions to " Bolster's Quarterly," that many Aof them have since taken a place among our standard literature. The last periodical attempted ifi Cork was the "Cork Magazine," commenced in November, 1847. Although its literary matter was characterised by considerable ability, it survived little more than twelve months. It would not be just to ascribe all these instances of failure to an apathy on the part of the Cork people for enterprises of the kind. They are clearly attributable to the inability or disinclination of their .. ditors or publishers to adequately remunerate the contributors. This e is the great error of publishers of periodicals in this country. They surely cannot expect that men of ability will undergo the severe intellectual drain required by literary labour, and the consequent loss of time that it entails, without receiving adequate compensation for both. Hence it is that our literary men, like our artists, flit across the Channel, where they receive ample remuneration, and have a far wider sphere than in their own country, in which they find but scant patronage, and a very limited range. As we are on literary matters, we may mention that there are two societies in Cork for the intellectual exercitation of some of its inhabitants. The principal of these is the Cuverian Society, founded in 1835. Its objects have a wide range, embracing every branch of literature and science; owing to which, perhaps, it has never been a flourishing institution. Save in connection with archaeology, it is scarcely heard of; and even the cultivators of this department find themselves in antagonism with their confreres, whose tastes incline them to other intellectual pursuits. The investigators of one section look down on the department of other members with the same degree of sovereign contempt with which the squabbling professors in Moliere's Bourgeois Gentlehomme regarded each other. The Cork Scientific and Literary Society holds weekly debates, and is a revival of the old " Lyceum." A fee of tenpence was charged for admission to the latter; and as a specimen of the subjects discussed there, we extract the following from an old Cork newspaper :-Question for Tuesday evening, March 21st 1811-" Which has the love of liberty or the love of woman the greater influence on the noble mind ?" Question for Saturday, March 30th 1811-" Which is the condition of men or women in these countries the happier? " Question for Saturday, April 6th 1811-" Did Pope libel the fair sex when he stated that 'every THE RIVER LEE 497 voman is at heart a rake ?"' From the nature of these questions, it is evident that women ran very much in the heads of a former generation the Corkonians. We reserve for the next chapter some other noticeable traits of the natives of the city of fun, frolic, pigs, puns, butter and blarney, brogue .and brass, charming girls and " odd fishes." ,of CHAPTER IX. The Corkonians-Contuled. " They may rail at the city where first I was born, But it's there they've the whiskey, and butter, and pork; And a neat little spot for to walk in each mornThey call it Daunt's Square, and the city is Cork. The square has two sides-why one east and one west, And convenient's the region of frolic and spree, Where salmon, drisheens, and beef-steaks are cooked best; Och ! Fishamble's the Eden for you, love, and me!"-Cork Ballad. Resuming our sketch of the idiosyncrasies of the Corkonians, a prominent one which cannot fail to attract the notice of a sojourner amongst them, is the warm personalities that characterise the debates of the Town Council, in which respect they are scarcely surpassed by the spicy ebullitions of Yankee senators. In the discussion even of the most trifling matters, flat contradictions are usually interchanged between speakers, and when any exciting question arises-such as a bridge or a gas one-several members start up and speak together, in utter con- tempt of the authority of the chairman. Indeed, "scenes" occur so frequently in the Cork Council that they are regarded as a matter of course. These little escapades, however, are but another form of "the fun of Cork." Hard knocks are given and received in the best spirit, and those who have abused each other in the course of discussion will, as soon as it is over, be as loving as if nothing calculated to disturb their friendship had occurred. Like true Irishmen, they knock each other down from pure love. The unrestrained license of the attorneys who practise in the local police-office is another characterestic of the place. Not only do they apply very warm epithets to each other, but they often set at nought the decision of the bench, and even lecture the presiding magistrates on their duty. Noticing these peculiarities, a writer in Cork, in 1736, says, -" Attorneys have, in this city, one other confounded humour, which should be peremptorily checked by the bench, which is an attempt to worry their worships into an ill judgment by prattling them out of their 2I 498 THE RIVER LEE. apprehensions. Impertinent babblers often continue to wrangle after the case is decided, like some fellows who hold by a bond when the debt has been paid." This description applies in every point to some of the local practitioners of the present day. And, apropos, the Munster capital is blessed with a superabundance of young solicitors and medical men-a fact which may be accounted for by another-namely, that lacking a sufficiency of money, a profession is a requisite for admission to some of the select "sets" to which we have referred. Hence, parents in Cork strive, at all hazards, to give their sons professions, preferring that they should starve genteelly, rather than engage in pursuits that place them under a kind of social ban. It has been remarked that people live beyond their means at Cork. This, however, is rather a national than a local failing. There is, undoubtedly, much extravagance in the style of living, and nowhere are greater sacrifices made to " appearances " than in Cork. Hence it would be a mistake to estimate the wealth of the city by the show upon the surface of society. Generally speaking, the capital accumulated by the parent is squandered by the son. Thus, there is much glitter and flourish without any solid substratum. This unthrifty mode of living is chiefly caused by the tyranny of custom, and by the class rivalry of which we have already spoken. Unless you live " fast" in Cork, you will be nobody. One should reside there to feel the terrible force and meaning of that awful question-" What will Mrs. Grundy say? " Of late years the drama-of which the citizens were once such lovers and fastidious connoisseurs-has been at a discount in Cork. The city was once famous for its amateur histrionics. Of these the Apollo Society was the most conspicuous. Millikin actively assisted in its formation, and the society comprised most of the choice spirits of Cork. Their performances were held in the King's Theatre in Tuckey Street, now no more. The late well-known Frank Seymour (peace be with thee, "Chouse !")was one of the principal performers, and convulsed his audience both by his ranting and amusing blunders.* Among the lady performers was Miss Smithson, a very beautiful girl, who subsequently won the hearts of the Parisians at the Odeon, by the grace of her acting and the loveliness of her person. The Corkonians are passionately fond of music; and while even dramatic stars will fail "to draw," a third rate opera company will attract large audiences. In almost every house you will hear the notes of a piano; while at night the air is resonant with those of the accordion, .would * Poor Frank was one of the "characters" of Cork, and was connected with the local theatres until his death. Notwithstanding his efforts to cater for the public, he was always in difficulties. We feel bound to say that his representation of "Doctor O'Toole" was really capital. Another "Apollo," named Rogers, was a very clever actor. THE RIVER LEE. 499 played by the honest 'prentice boys of Cork, for the delectation of its music-loving public. The very urchins in the street (and clever-faced little fellows they are) will surprise you by whistling an air from a new opera with perfect taste and accuracy. This love of music would seem to be hereditary in the Corkonians. Advertitig to this taste, nearly a century ago, Dr. Smith says :-" Besides the public concerts, there are several private ones, where the performers are gentlemen and ladies, of such good skill, that one would imagine the god of music had taken a large stride from the Continent, over England, to this island." Private musical reunions, such as these, existed in Cork until within some few years past ; but, we believe, none is in being at present. Cork has produced some eminent musicians and composers. Among the latter is A. D. Roche, and among the former the late W. Forde (who was an exquisite performer on the flute), Mr. Bowden, the late Dr. Willes, the late Recorder Waggett, and W. Gillespie. The music and singing in the churches of Cork are very superior. And now a few words anent the ladies of Cork. We unhesitatingly affirm-and we do so in all sincerity-that in no city of equal population on the face of the globe are to be seen so many lovely women as within the compass of the fair Munster capital. Nowhere will you find women with such an exquisite bloom on the face, such statuesque regularity of feature, combined with ever-varying play of expression, such lithe forms and fawn-like grace of movement, such a blending of dark glancing eyes and orbs of brightest blue, of the voluptuous langour of Italy with the sprightly vivacity of France. But far better, and beyond all these charms, are their genuine goodness of heart, and graceful refinement of mind-the former lending an irresistible witchery to their smile, and the latter imparting to their conversation an ind(lefinable grace and sparkle.* Beauty prevails in an equal degree among the women of the lower classes as in those of the middle and upper ranks; but its effect is marred in the former by their untidiness. Did they but braid their magnificent tresses, which are generally uncombed or dishevelled, the women of the humbler ranks would be extremely attractive. Even as it is, there are few sights more pleasing or picturesque than a group of Cork girls assembled around a fountain, or ascending from the river-side with pitchers gracefully poised on their heads. In nothing the peculiarities of Corkonians, we should not omit their brogue. It has been mercilessly attacked by strangers. One writer SA malicious poet (evidently a crusty old bachelor) thus libels the ladies of Cork :" They don't care two potatoes for Solons or Platos, But for raw strapping boobies that stand six feet high." 500 THE RIVER LEE. compares it to "a railway whistle raised to hurricane power, trying to scream down a saw-mill at full work." It is broad enough, Heaven knows ; but this is characterising it with a vengeance ! Now, so far from being such as this prejudiced scribbler describes it, the Cork accent is soft and mellifluous-inthe mouth of a woman, it is truly music-breathing. Unctuous and mellow, it issues from the lips with a peculiar richness of intonation far more agreeable to our unprejudiced ear than the harsh grating of the northern or the shrill tones of the Dublin accent. We may add that it is strongly suggestive of blarney. Another peculiarity of the Corkonians is the spirit of tuft-hunting and toadyism that prevails amongst them. There was some excuse for their frantic fit of loyalty during the Queen's visit, when almost every man in Cork was insane ;* but what can we say of a people who prostrated themselves in the mud before a Lord Lieutenant, and baptised a lunatic asylum with his name ! Their love of titles has, however, been gratified of late years ; for the honour of knighthood has been so plentifully scattered among its citizens, that, as one of its "jokers" would say, Cork is as distinguished for its knights as Algiers was for its Deys. A writer on Cork observes that its gentlemen are remarkable for wearing bad hats. Another notable characteristic of the Corkonians is a contempt for street-crossings, and a tendency to make short cuts by a kind of triangulation. We must now give a glance at two quaint districts of the city, which are worthy of notice-the North Main Street, and that known as Ballythomas. The former was once, and is to a great extent still, the Alsatia of the city, The narrow closes that branch off from it teem with disreputable and disorderly characters of all kinds. Here, in fine weather, groups of women squat on the pathways, and gossip away, utterly regardless of the inconvenience caused thereby in a narrow and crowded thoroughfare. One of these lanes is celebrated as having been formerly the region of Cork fun and frolic. In Fishamble Lane, some of the choicest spirits of the city, as well as its merriest roisterers, held jovial suppers, seasoned by the most brilliant wit and rare scholarship. Here Millikin, Maginn, Tolekin, Boyle, and the other members of the * In reference to this loyal furore, Thackeray wrote the folliwing lines in Punch:" Like crathurs mad run, the Cork boys glad run, To see the squadhron sthame up the Lee ! And I'm bound to mintion the condescinsion And great attintion of her Majesty." Although not quite in point, we cannot forbear quoting the following additional verse:- " Cork's illigant sthructures and manufacthurs Wid satisfaction the Queen survey'd, And the height of curiosity and ginerosity Widout hanimosity to all display'd." THE RIVER LEE. 501 Deipnosophists, enjoyed " the flow of soul," and pushed their revels far into the night. Tolekin has celebrated the spot in a song full of racy humour, entitled "Judy M'Carthy, of Fishamble Lane." It was famous also for its oysters, beefsteaks and drisheens.* To this day the soul of the hungry visitor is ravished by the divine afflatus which, distilled from its cellars and shops, burdens the surrounding atmosphere with a fragrance more delightful than all the gums and spices of "Araby the blest." The population of Ballythomas (which is posited on the heights at the northern side of the city) is altogether peculiar and original. In this district you will see "nature undisguised by art." They are a merry-in-the-midst-of-poverty race, and of belligerent and excitable natures, withal. What a picture do two of its beldames, engaged in a scolding match, present ! Now they advance with arms "akimbo," pouring forth a torrent of abuse the while, until their noses almost touch; they then recede to give two or three frenzied prances; anon they smack their palms defiantly till they ring again. What passionfraught gestures !-what ire-rousing words !-and what a strange vocabulary they use ! But we must let Mr. Windele describe it. " It is a jargon," he says, " whose principal characteristics appear in the pronunciation of th, as exemplified .indis, dat, den, de: this, that, then, they; and in the dovetailing of words, as kum our ish, for " come out of this. "t Ballythomas was once characterised by distinctive customs and usages ; but the march of innovation has swept many of them away. They are, in sooth, a right hearty race, true as steel, and game to the backbone. Another primitive district in this quarter of the city is Blackpool, which is well described in the following verse of a genuine Cork ballad: " Blackpool is another sweet place in that city, Where pigs, twigs, and weavers, they all grow together, With its smart little tanyards-och, more is the pity, To strip the poor beasts to convert them to leather!" This spot was the inspiration of that famous song, " De groves o' (lde Pool," composed by Millikin, from which we subjoin two verses, that will give some idea of its raciness : * delicious edible, peculiar to Cork. It is composed of sheep's puddings, and is A manufactured in Ballythomas, which region is entitled to the gratitude and reverence of epicures for this delectable production. Charles Lamb has immortalised the delights of roast pig-would that we had another "Ellia" to celebrate those of drisheen ! t As illustrative of this peculiar dialect, and of the simple character of those who use it, we will instance a conversation a friend happened to overhear between two crones of the locality. Talking of some person recently deceased, one asked the otherlie "Eh, den, Judy, allanah, iv what did he die, now?" "Ayeh, den," replied Judy, " died is a Tuesday, I'm tould." 502 THE RIVER LEE. " Oh, sure, dere's no nation in Munster Wid de Groves of de Pool can compare, Where dose heroes were all edicated, And de nymphs are so comely and fair. Wid the gardens around enthertaining, Wid sweet purty posies so full, Dat is worn by dose comely young craturs Dat walks in de Groves of de Pool. Ri fol, &c. " Oh ! many's de time, late and early, Dat I wished I was landed again, Where I'd see de sweet Watercourse flowing, Where de skinners deir glory maintain. Likewise dat divine habitation,* Where dose babbies are all sent to school, Dat never had fader nor moder, But were found in de Groves of de Pool. Ri fol, &c." Another peculiarity of Cork cannot fail to excite the astonishment of strangers-namely, the wholly unprotected state of the streets at night. The safety of the city is then intrusted to a few decrepit old men, armed with poles surmounted by rusty bayonets. In leaving their lives and property thus exposed, the people of Cork evince a beautiful reliance on Providence, most affecting to contemplate in a distrustful and sophisticated age like ours. The nightly " guardians " of the city, when they do not happen to be drunk or asleep in doorways, cry the hour in a manner which renders it impossible to understand them. They make use of a peculiar howl which baffles all description. The following attempt to analyse it may convey some faint notion of the song used by one of these " Hoarse unfeathered nightingales of time." Commencing in a key between a whine and an ullagone, his voice gradually swells into the following outlandish cry :-" Aw pa-haast alicavan a koolohawk, a fay-hay-hay-hay-hay hair noight, haw-hawhaw-haw-hawl's weigh-haw,"-terminating the whole with a vicious yell, extremely startling, and even terrifying to nervous people who may happen to be awake, or be awakened by it. And now we have done with the city. With all their faults (and they have many, but not grave ones), we say from our heart-all honour to the fine race who inhabit it ! For no more generous, hospitable, and kindly, can be found anywhere else. Proudly does he who traces these lines own himself to be a son of the Queen of the South-of the City of Genius, a designation to which she is clearly entitled from the many brilliant names she has given to almost every walk of human genius. And still among her children numerous glowing spirits and stout hearts SA Foundling Hospital. THE RIVER LEE. 503 are at work, bravely bent on winning, either within or without her walls, additional chaplets of fame wherewith to deck the fair brow of the dear old city. CHAPTER X. From Cork to the Harbour-conclusion. Issuing from the city, by its eastern termination, on board one of the well-appointed river steamers, the handsome office of the St. George's Steam Packet Company is seen to the left, and immediately adjoining, appear the terminus and extensive buildings of the Great Southern and Western Railway Company. A large portion of their ground here has been appropriated for docks, whose basin occupies an area of five acres, ,and will be capable of holding several vessels. A bridge of a peculiar :construction, connecting the Glanmire Road with Penrose's Quay, has been just completed by the Company. The framework is composed of iron, and the bridge itself moves on a central pivot, constructed on the same principle as the turning table of a locomotive. The pivot is supported by a solid mass of masonry, rising midway between the grooves, in which the extremities of the bridge fit when in its proper position. The bridge is light, elegant, and simple, and can be moved with ease by two men. On the opposite side, the river is skirted by the New Wall, a delight. ful and much frequented promenade, recently planted with a double row of elms, by Professor Murphy, of the Queen's College. The New Wall, which will be soon connected with Blackrock, borders the treeless " Park," the latter containing about 240 acres, on which crops are grown by the Professor. A little below the Cork and Passage Railway terminus, a scene of panoramic beauty opens on the view. To the left arises the richly wooded hill overhanging the Glanmire Road, dotted with handsome detached villas, beautified by thick shrubberies, trim gardens, " And many a shadow-chequered lawn Full of the city's stilly sound." or snug cottages, the very ideal of suburban comfort, cosily nestled in embowering trees. On the right, the banks spread away in gentle undulations, covered by sombre groves, through which peer occasionally the pointed gables of antiquated residences and the broad-eaved roofs modern villas. ;of Of the residences on the north side of the river, Woodhill, the seat of 504 THE RIVER LEE. Mr. C. Penrose, is invested with a peculiar interest, owing to the circumstances of poor Emmet's betrothed, Miss Curran, having been married there to Captain Sturgeon. But time has robbed it of this romantic charm, and it is no longer regarded as "a sainted shrine." Below Woodhill are Tivoli, the residence of J. Morgan, Esq., Lota, Lota-more, and other elegant villas, whose appearance attests the affluence of their inhabitants. On the south side appear Sans Souci, Feltrim (the seat of Mr. Fagan, one of the representatives of the city), Clifton, Maryville, and Dundanion, the seat of Sir Thomas Deane. About midway between the villages of Ballintemple and Blackrock is situated the pretty church of St. Michael. This church is adorned with one of the most beautiful productions of Hogan's chisel. It is a monument in alto relievo to the memory of W. Beamish, Esq., of Beaumont, representing the resurrection. Above is an angel, with outspread wings, blowing the dread summons, the right hand grasping the trumpet, and the left gracefully extended. Over the whole figure is flung such an air of motion that it appears to fly ; while the eyes are half-closed, as if to veil the celestial resplendence with which they seem to beam. Beneath the angel is a cherub with clasped hands and up-turned face. Below, and occupying the base of the slab, are the two principal figures of the group. One represents the body rising from the tomb. The cerements still cling to the limbs, which, while yet retaining somewhat of the rigidity of death, are thrilling with the glow and vigour of a new existence. The body is half-raised, and the face veiled by the shroud, which, with one hand, it strives to remove, as eager to behold the glory about to be revealed to it. The muscles are wrought out with an anatomical truth, such as a true artist alone can achieve; while the drapery is arranged with such artistic skill around the limbs as to bring out in relief the soft and rounded contour of the flesh; an effect to which the angular fragments of the shattered tomb also contribute. Immediately above this figure is an angel, whose right hand points towards Heaven, and whose countenance-" breathing Paradise "-is illuminated with a mingled expression of encouragement and consolation. Every detail of this beautiful group is most elaborately finished, and its slightest accessories pregnant with meaning. All that is painful and repulsive in death disappears, and there is present alone-elevating but awe-inspiring-the sublime triumph of immortality over the perishable clay, of Eternity over Time. The great artist who carved this monument has just passed from amongst us; but his spirit is present in the marble, whence it shall speak with silent, but eloquent utterance, to generations yet to come. 0 divine and wondrous spell of genius! that can lift our drooping THE RIVER LEE. 505 spirits from out the pretty cares and contracted views of our daily existence, aloft into the starry realms of the ideal, where the mental vision meets with naught but lovely forms, and the soul is filled with pure and noble thoughts.* Pursuing our course down the Lee, the eye is gladdened with a rapid succession of charming views. The most prominent object in the scene is Blackrock Castle, built on the spur of a wooded promontory, at the south side of the river. From its admirable position, as well as the beauty of its design, the castle has a highly picturesque effect. It consists of a large circular tower, with crenelated battlements, and of a smaller cylindrical turret, rising behind, in which a light is burned for the guidance of shipping-the whole surmounted by a flagstaff. The former castle was burned down in 1727, sometime after which the present structure was erected. Courts of Admiralty were formerly held there to preserve the rights of the corporation; a custom which has been long superseded by the far more imposing ceremony of shooting a silver arrow outside the harbour. On the opposite bank, at a commanding elevation, rise the tall and slender turrets of the Mathew Tower, erected by Mr. Connor in memory of the Apostle of Temperance. Nearer the margin of the river extend the sylvan glades of Dunkettle, adjoining which appear the castellated walls of North-Esk, the seat of James Carnegie, Esq. Between the verdure-robed hills in front of Blackrock Castle flows the lovely Glanmire river, through a romantic district of hill and dale, glen and dingle, pasture and woodland. A little below the mouth of the Glanmire river the shores sweep away on either side, enclosing a noble expanse of water, called Lough Mahon, from an old fortress of the Mahonies in the vicinity. On fine summer evenings the surface of the lough, studded with the white sails of pleasure-boats, and gleaming with the flash of oars, presents a gay and animated aspect. Jutting far into the waters of Lough Mahon, on the northern shores, is seen the Little Island, so called to distinguish it from the Great Island, sometime known as Cove. Below the Little Island, the shores trend away on either side, between which the Lee expands into a broad and noble stream. The banks are fringed with trees, through which gleam verdant lawns and uplands of tenderest green now alight with sunshine, and glimmering anon in softest shadow. Rembrandt would have loved to study the broad lights and shades that are ever flitting over the * The fame of the illustrious sculptor belongs to his country, to which it has lent an additional renown. To the pride and gratitude of that country he has bequeathed his family, and it is the sacred duty of Irishmen to place them beyond the reach of want. His native city should honour its greatest artist by erecting a public monument to his memory. 506 THE RIVER LEE. scenery of the Lee, whose waters appear frequently tinted with various dyes. Here a dull leaden colour, there black as a thundercloud-in this place violet, in that a pale, golden hue, while another part of its surface flashes with a dazzling effulgence. The scene is frequently enlivened by the rush of the Cork and Passage Railway train, and the plash of the river steamers speeding up and down the stream. Rounding the promontory of Horse Head, we come in sight of the town of Passage on the southern bank. It is well situated, and derives considerable advantages from the railway that connects it witl Cork. The shallowness of the channel precludes vessels of large tonnage from ascending higher than the roadstead in front of the town. The most important establishment connected with Passage is the Victoria Dock, the property of Mr. William Brown, which was built at the cost of about £100,000. It is worked by floating gates, and is capable of holding four vessels of the largest size. Passage has been celebrated in a witty song, of which a version, by "'Father Prout," has been recently published in Lover's "Irish Lyrics." The opening verse is as follows :-" The town of Passage 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 and take a dipping, Forenint the shipping that at anchor ride; Or in a wherry cross o'er the ferry, To Carrigaloe on the other side.* The town is chiefly remarkable for its dirt and offensive odours; but it is to be hoped that the inhabitants will submit ere long to the purging and sanitary provisions of the Towns' Improvement Act, and thereby considerably promote the welfare of this otherwise agreeable wateringplace. A little below Passage are the Victoria Baths, a very handsome and effective building, with tapering minarets in the Moresque style. The proprietor has erected a Turkish Bath, which will be an additional inducement to the citizens of Cork to visit this charming locality. Behind the Victoria Baths is visible Carrigmahon, Dr. Curtin's hydropathic establishment (which also possesses a Turkish Bath) charmingly posited on the crest of a wooded and verdant height. The road beneath winds A love song, entitled " The Maid of Passage," is scarcely less celebrated than the above. We quote a verse as a specimen:"Oh! fair maid of Passage, As plump as a sausage, And as mild as a kitten Those eyes in your faceYerrah ! pity my case, For poor Dermuid is smitten!" THE RIVER LEE. 507 beside the river, through a mass of steep rocks that rise, in a series of distinct ledges, to a considerable height above the water. A legend affirms that these rocks were piled up by an Irish giant, named Mahony, whence their designation, "The Giant's Stairs." Monkstown is one of the most picturesque localities on the river. It occupies the gorge of a romantic glen, and the pretty detached cottages and handsome terraces of which it is composed are spread along the slope of a gently rising acclivity. About midway on the ascent tapers the graceful spire of the church; and a little to the east of it, embosomed in a girdle of verdure, arise the walls of the old castle, " Grey with the frost of hoar antiquity." It is a quadrangular building, flanked by square towers, and was built in 1636, at the cost of a groat ! So saith tradition, which gives this solution of the problem. Mrs. Anastatia Archdekan, while her husband was absent in a foreign land, determined to afford him "an agreeable surprise," by presenting him on his return with a castle of her own erection. Having engaged workmen, she made an agreement with them that they should purchase food and clothing solely from herself. The thrifty lady then laid in a good store of these necessaries, charging the workmen a commission on the sales. When the edifice was completed, on balancing her amount of receipts and expenditure, she found that the latter exceeded the former by the sum of fourpence. The JCastle, however, was not long in the possession of the Archdekans, since, being adherents of the Stuarts, they forfeited in 1688. Doubling the angle of Reenmeen, on the opposite shore, we enter the splendid estuary of Cork Harbour. Passing the naval depot of Haulbowline, with its ranges of spacious stores, and the islet of Rocky, Queenstown breaks on the view, occupying a large portion of the southern shore of the harbour, and ascending in terraces along the side of the hill. The noble facade of the Queen's Hotel-one of the finest in the kingdomand the handsome range of stately houses that extends from the Market Square to the foot of Spy Hill, have a truly imposing effect when seen from the water. It is Of late years Queenstown has been considerably improved. only within the last twelve months that the Towns' Improvement Act has been introduced with very beneficial effects. The greater part of the town is now illumined by gas, and a Water Company provide the inhabitants with an abundant supply of that necessary liquor. These improvements render the place far more attractive to pleasure-seekers and invalids than it had hitherto been, and thus its denizens will reap additional benefits from these reforms. 508 THE RIVER LEE. In 1848, Lord Middleton erected a splendid limestone quay, which extends over a mile from the town, as far as Whitepoint. This is now a favourite promenade. From any of the surrounding heights beautiful views can be obtained of the noble basin, with its verdant shores sweeping away in the distance-the emerald frame of a sapphire mirror ; while far outside the harbour gleams the white tower of the lighthouse, whose base is lashed by the foam of the broad Atlantic. It is needless for us to loiter over attractions so well known as those possessed by Queenstown. Its regattas are famed-so is its Yacht Club; its advantages, as a sojourn for invalids, are known all over Europe. For the history of the town and the island we refer our readers to the local chroniclers.* Hastening onwards to our goal, we shall merely remark that in the ancient churchyard of Clonmel, in the interior of the island, sleeps the dust of the Rev. Charles Wolfe, the author of the immortal lines on the death of Sir John Moore, and of Tobin, scarcely less celebrated by his comedy of "The Honeymoon." The former died there of consumption in 1823. Directly in front of Queenstown is Spike Island, which, from its position, forms a natural and admirable breakwater. It is used as a convict depot, and holds at present about 800 malefactors, who are chiefly employed on the fortifications which are now in a very effective and formidable condition. Near the south-eastern extremity of the harbour is the embouchure of a stream which leads through beautiful scenery to the East Ferry, Ballinacurra, and Midleton. At the opposite side are the rich plantations of Aghada, containing Rostellan, lately the seat of the Marquis of Thomond. The O'Briens of Thomond were among the first of the native princes who espoused the English interests, and their estates were gifts made by the crown of the lands of the more patriotic chieftains who refused to yield, and were driven into exile. By a strange revolution in the wheel of fate, these estates, after the lapse of three centuries, have come once more into the ownership of some of the lineal descendants of the original proprietors in the County of Clare. The fine estate of Rostellan was recently sold in the Encumbered Estates Court, and was within an ace of being purchased by John Arnott, Esq., a benevolent and highly esteemed citizen of Cork.t SItwill suffice to mention here that the Great Island belonged formerly to the family of the Hodnetts, and passed into the possession of the Barrys in the fourteenth century, whence it was styled Barrymore. The latter sept built the strong castles of Barry's Court and Belvelly, whose remains, in tolerable preservation, are still visible on the island. It is seven miles in length, and nearly four in breadth, containing in all about 13,000 acres. t The Encumbered Estates Court has effected a complete social revolution in Ireland, the effects of which are already beginning to be felt. To give an idea of the extent of its operations we transcribe the following interesting particulars from the North American Review for last January:-" From the statistics of the new court, recently published, THE RIVER LEE. 509 A legend records that the proprietor who erected the mansion of Rostellan, having built it on the site of a graveyard, from which the bones were removed for the purpose, was so terrified on taking possession of the house by the unearthly noises made by the spirits of those whose mortal remains he had disturbed, that he fled from it, and never inhabited it after. There is also a stone in the dernesne, said to possess the magical property, when removed, of returning to its original position. A short distance from Aghada appears the neat village of Whitegate, on the margin of a bay formed by the semicircular sweep of the shore. Opposite is the wood-robed headland of Curraghbinny, at the mouth of the Carrigaline river, the final tributary of the Lee. At its entrance is the fishing hamlet of Crosshaven, and further in, Drake's Pool, so called to perpetuate the escape of Sir Francis Drake from the Spanish fleet, which sought for him in the harbour outside, while he was safely hidden in the pool that bears his name. Ascending the river, a region -of enchantment is unfolded to the view. The estuary is enclosed by hills clothed from summit to base with magnificent trees, and, winding in its course, forms a number of apparently land-lodked lakes, presenting the appearance of a miniature Rhine. Situated on its banks are the fine demesnes of Coolmore and Hoddersfield, the favourite resorts of pic-nic parties from the "beautiful city." The once impregnable "Castle of Carrigaline rose on an elevation near the village; but not a vestige of it remains. The ruins of Aghamarta Castle, formerly a keep of the Desmnonds, are still visible on the banks of the river. Emerging from the Awnabuoy, we arrive in a few moments at the mouth of the harbour. The bold headlands on either side of it are crowned by the forts of Camden and Carlisle, the former to the right, the latter to the left, as you issue from the port. Standing on one of these heights, let us give one parting glance at the scene outspread before us. On one side extends the magnificent basin of the harbour, glassing its many islands, and the numberless shipping, gay with the bunting of various lands, on its sheeny bosom. Numerous fine yachts glide gracefully over the water, enlivening the scene with their swan-like sails; while, in the distance, the terraced slopes of Queenstown glitter in the sunshine. Thence spreads away the eastern shore, rich with verdure, we learn that from the 25th of October, 1849, to the 25th of May, 1857, 4,109 petitions for the sale, partition, and exchange of land had been presented to the Commissioners. Of those, 1,195 originated with the embarrassed owners, and 2,914 with the creditors. On the whole, 3,195 orders for sale were given, and the property was promptly sold in 11,123 lots to 7,216 purchasers, of whom 6,902 were Irish, the remainder English, Scotch, and Foreigners. The estates already sold have brought £20,194,201, of which amount-immense when we consider the poverty of the country-£18,000,000 has been distributed to the parties interested. 510 THE RIVER LEE. and studded with gentlemen's seats; and on the western side of the harbour are seen the verdant borders of the Barony of Kerrikurrihy, on which is situated the beautiful demesne of Ballybricken. Turning oceanwards, we see the rocky shores spreading away as far as Trabolgan, the seat of Lord Fermoy, on the one side, and to Ringabella Bay on the other. At some distance the lighthouse rises boldly on a projecting rock, and beyond it heaves the glittering bosom of the mighty Atlantic. Our pleasant task is done. The tranquil river whose course we have so imperfectly traced, flows past us as we write, flushed with the roseate hues of the westering sun. A thousand memories throng upon us of happy hours-never more to return-spent upon its banks. From out the darkling mists of the past loving eyes, now quenched for ever, seem to beam upon us once more, and warm hands, long crumbled into dust, to grasp our own with responsive pressure. But away with dreamsthe time has come, dear reader, when we must shake your hand at parting. We would fain defer the moment, but we are forced, at length, to utter, for a time, that painful word-farewell ! FINIS. This book is a preservation facsimile produced for the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. It is made in compliance with copyright law and produced on acid-free archival 60# book weight paper which meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (permanence of paper). Preservation facsimile printing and binding by Northern Micrographics Brookhaven Bindery La Crosse, Wisconsin 2009