Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe.
The widow'd dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turned a lettered page;
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork or paper ball,
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch
The ends of ravell'd skein to catch.
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.

Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the wit of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways;
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Doth rouse him from his moody dream,
Feels as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart with pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find
That joins him still to living kind.

Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss,
The magic power to charm us thus ?
Is it, that in thy glaring eye,
And rapid movements, we descry,
While we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimney corner snugly fill,
A lion, darting on the prey,
A tiger, at his ruthless play?
Or, is it that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem view'd with kindred eye,
Of tricky, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lightly sportive child,
Who hath, like thee, our wits beguil'd,
To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown.

Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,
When thou becom'st a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chid roughly from the tempting board.
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favoured playmate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove,
When time hath spoil'd thee of our love;
Still be thou deem'd, by housewife fat,
A comely, careful, mousing cat,
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenish'd oft with sav'ry food.

Nor when thy span of life is past,
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast,
But gently borne on good man's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid,

And children show, with glist'ning eyes.
The place where poor old Pussy lies.

THE

CAT-FIGHT.

JEMMY O'KAIN, [1] and PAT M'HONE were cronies, And sturdy warriors to their very tongues' ends;

Note from Jemmy O'Kain.

[1] It will be allowed by all critics, that this poetical effusion, although not divided into Books, or Cantos, is of an epic cast; it is proper, therefore, to determine, in limine, who may be considered as the hero of it. That neither of the combatants, whose encounter forms the grand Cat-astrophe of the story, can be entitled to that pre-eminence, is very clear, as neither of them excelled the other in point of skill, valour, or success in battle. Between them, there was no survivorship in the field of honour: fate had ordained the utter annihilation of both (by a singular process it must be confessed) at the same moment, and even Jove was unable to decide which should be victorious. We may therefore with great propriety, reject all pretensions on behalf of either, and place the wreath of epic immortality upon the brows of James O'Kain, whom the author has first introduced to our acquaintance. Notwithstanding the opinion that Pat M'Hone was equally redoubted" in slaying of the slain," it will be easy to perceive, that in all the requisites for "cutting a figure" in this world, he was but a secondary personage, a shadow of a shade,' ," in comparison with O'Kain; and admitting that both "were sturdy warriors to their very tongues' ends," it will still be allowed that O'Kain was an overmatch for him in this war of words. M'Hone, it is true, begins the encounter with a pretty brisk fire; but let the reader mark how immediately he is silenced, when O'Kain opens his battery upon him: how the latter dazzles

1

As hath in Greek, or Hebrew song, been sung since
The days of Nimrod [2]-some say Pat M'Hone is

and astounds him, "crazes his brain" with the glittering
array
of his historical, classical, poetical, and mythological
lore, and finally, how he gives the coup de grace to his facul-
ties, when he developes the nature and result of the affray
which took place "upon the Mole"-in other words, when
he lets the cats out of the bag. It is moreover an item in
favour of O'Kain's pretensions, that he was personally pre-
sent on this hard-fought field-he "boldly stood, and saw it
all"-as pregnant an expression as the modest "quorum pars
magna fui" of Eneas. And let it not be charged against
him, that he has made an unbecoming boast of his own man-
hood, in witnessing such a conflict, since "there is not," as
Bottom says,
a more fearful wild fowl living than your
lion," and if the reader has but half as much skill in natural
history as that renowned Athenian had, he must know that
generically speaking, your cat is only a smaller species of the
same order of wild fowl.

But, to be more serious. To those who properly understand, and have a relish for the eccentricities of the Irish character, OʻKain's manner of telling his story must afford a treat. It will tickle them, inwardly; which is, after all, the best test of a good story, whether it be read, or listened to. Although the author has perhaps gone to the very verge of nature, in the character which we are to gather of O'Kain from his own words, he has not in truth overstepped it. It may be difficult indeed for one whose intercourse with the natives of Ireland has been limited, to view it in any other light than that of a caricature, but such a supposition will not do justice either to the abilities of the author, or to the native genius of the people, of whom he has put before us a specimen.

That the Irish, as a people, are brave, generous, and eloquent, is pretty generally acknowledged. Indeed, it may be said, they have forced the world into this admission, by having manifested those qualities in an eminent degree, under circumstances of hardship and prejudice, which were never combined to weigh down the people of any other Christian nation. Oppressed by that government, of which

The most redoubted-others think O'Kain
Should equal crowns and diadems obtain;
His true compeer in slaying of the slain. [3]

Ireland is unfortunately a dependency, her sons, by their talents alone, have in many instances forced the oppressors of their native country to be her debtors. Ungracious as the obligation may be for England, she is nevertheless beholden to that people, for the ablest men, who have led her armies and directed her councils in the present age-at least she thought them so. At the bar, in the pulpit, in every walk of literature, Ireland has produced a greater number of eminent men, in proportion to her population, (to say nothing of political disqualifications,) than any other country upon earth; and there is hardly a civilized country in which her sons have not distinguished themselves, and that, by the mere force of talent, unaided by friends or fortune. If any one should doubt, or be at a loss to discover the causes of this faculty of attaining distinction, let him go through Ireland, and mix with her inhabitants-he will find the elements of it pervading every class of society, in a greater or less degree; and if he be a philanthropist, he will deplore the degraded state of that people, upon whom Nature has bestowed her choicest gifts.

It has been charged against the Irish, that they are addicted to boasting, and in a certain sense this may be true; but it is not that vain, ridiculous, and unmeaning boasting, which in one nation has been termed gasconading, and in another, rhodomontade. There is nothing palpable or disgusting in it-it is in fact no more than that spirit of exaggeration, which is natural to all mankind, but which the chastening severities of education, and the formalities of society, teach men to repress. It is the offspring of courage, patriotism, and open-heartedness; imagination is its nurse, and eloquence its companion and conductor; and however much a display of it may disparage a man's judgment in the opinion of cold-hearted, calculating, and suspicious people, a liberal and unprejudiced observer of mankind may easily discover its affinity to some of the most estimable qualities of our

nature.

Admitting, however, this propensity in the Irish to exag