the marginal notes, though, to prevent criticism. Only mark it with a small asterism, and say, Jehu was formerly a hackney-coach

man.

Lady F. I will. You'd oblige me extremely to write notes to the whole poem.

Brisk. With all my heart and soul; and proud of the vast honour, let me perish!

Lord F. He, he, he! My dear, have you done? Won't you join with us? We were laughing at my Lady Whifler and Mr. Sneer.

Lady F. Ay, my dear, were you? Oh! filthy Mr. Sneer! he's a nauseous figure, a most fulsamic fop, pho! He spent two days together in going about Covent Garden to suit the lining of his coach with his complexion.

Lord F. Oh, silly! Yet his aunt is as fond of him as if she had brought the ape into the world herself.

Brisk. Who, my Lady Toothless? Oh! she's a mortifying spectacle; she's always chewing the cud, like an old ewe.

Lord F. Fie! Mr. Brisk, 'tis eringoes for her cough.

Lady F. Then she's always ready to laugh when Sneer offers to speak; and sits in expectation of his no jest, with her mouth open.

Brisk. Like an oyster at low ebb, egad! Ha, ha, ha!

Lady F. Then that t'other great strapping lady; I can't hit of her name; the old fat fool that paints so exorbitantly.

Brisk. I know whom you mean: but deuce take me, I can't hit of her name neither. Paints, d'ye say? Why, she lays it on with a trowel; then she has a great beard, that bristles through it, and makes her look as if she were plastered with lime and hair, let me perish.

Lady F. Oh! you made a song upon her, Mr. Brisk.

Brisk. Eh! egad! so I did. My lord can sing it. 'Tis not a song, neither. It's a sort of an epigram, or rather an epigrammatic sonnet; I don't know what to call it, but it's satire. Sing it, my lord.

SONG-LORD FROTH.

Ancient Phillis has young graces,

"Tis a strange thing, but a true one;
Shall I tell you how?

She herself makes her own faces,
And each morning wears a new one;-
Where's the wonder now?

Brisk. Short, but there's salt in it; my way of writing, egad!

EXTRACTS FROM

"THE MOURNING BRIDE."

Music has charms to sooth a savage breast,
To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd,
And, as with living souls, have been inform'd
By magic numbers and persuasive sound.

Vile and ingrate! too late thou shalt repent
The base injustice thou hast done my love:
Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past distress,
And all those ills which thou so long hast mourn'd;
Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turn'd,
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorn'd.

Seest thou how just the hand of Heav'n has been?
Let us, who through our innocence survive,
Still in the paths of honour persevere,
And not from past or present ills despair;
For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds;
And though a late, a sure reward succeeds.

[Turlough Carolan, or O'Carolan as he is more properly called, was born in the year 1670 at the village of Baile-nusah or Newton, in the county of Westmeath, and not at Nobber, as is generally, but erroneously, stated. His father was a small farmer, and his mother the daughter of a peasant in the neighbourhood. Goldsmith speaking of him says that

"he seemed by nature formed for his profession; for as he was born blind, so also he was possessed of a most astonishing memory, and a facetious turn of thinking, which gave his entertainers infinite satisfaction." As to the blindness, Goldsmith is in error, for Carolan was born with perfect eyesight, but early in life, or about his fifteenth year, an attack of

ever.

small-pox made the world dark to him for Before this he had been sent to school at Cruisetown, county Longford, and there he made the acquaintance of the Bridget Cruise whom he afterwards immortalized in one of his songs.

While still a boy Carolan moved with his father to Carrick-on-Shannon, and there he attracted the attention of a Mrs. M'DermottRoe, who admired him for his intelligence. Placing him among her own children, she had him carefully instructed in Irish, and also to some extent in English. She also caused him to learn how to play the harp, not with the view to his becoming a harper, but simply as an accomplishment. Hardiman says he afterwards "became a minstrel by accident, and continued it more through choice than necessity." Charles O'Conor-who places Carolan before us as a reduced Irish gentleman who lost his property in the troubles of the time says "he was above playing for hire; at the houses where he visited he was welcomed more as a friend than an itinerant musician." In his twenty-second year he suddenly determined to become a harper, and his benefactress providing him with a couple of horses and an attendant to carry the harp, he started on a round of visits to the neighbouring gentry, to most of whom he was already known. In his journey he did not forget to visit Cruisetown, and though he might not behold beauty of form, his mind was doubly alive to the beauty of soul which he believed existed in his old school-fellow Miss Cruise. To her he poured out song after song, and at last in plain prose acknowledged his affection and met with a refusal. However, it is said that the young lady was anything but averse to him personally, her rejection being founded chiefly on financial reasons. Leaving Cruisetown his real career as an itinerant musician began, and for years he wandered all over the country, gladly received wherever he came, and seldom forgetting to pay for his entertainment by song in praise of his host.

When approaching middle life, Carolan went on a pilgrimage to what is called St. Patrick's Purgatory, a cave in an island on Lough Dearg in county Donegal. While standing on the shore he began to assist some of his fellowpilgrims into a boat, and, chancing to take hold of a lady's hand, he suddenly exclaimed, "By the hand of my gossip! this is the hand of Bridget Cruise." So it was; but the fair one was still deaf to his suit, and soon

after he solaced himself for her loss by marrying Miss Mary Maguire, a young lady of good family. With her he lived very happily and learned to love her tenderly, though she was haughty and extravagant. On his marriage he built a neat house at Moshill in county Leitrim, and there entertained his friends with more liberality than prudence. The income of his little farm was soon swallowed up, and he fell into embarrassments which haunted him the rest of his life. On this he took to his wanderings again, while his wife stayed at home, and busied herself with the education of their rather numerous family. In 1733, however, she was removed by death, and a melancholy fell upon him which remained till the end. When the first agony of his grief was past he composed a monody on her death, a composition which we quote, and which in the original Irish is peculiarly plaintive and pathetic.

Carolan did not survive his wife long. In 1738, in the sixty-eighth year of his age, he paid a visit to the house of his early benefactress, Mrs. M'Dermott-Roe, and there he fell ill and died of a disease, brought on it is said by overindulgence in drink.

Carolan was, as Goldsmith says, "at once a poet, a musician, and a composer, and sung his own verses to his harp." Goldsmith also says that of all the bards Ireland produced, "the last and the greatest was Carolan the blind." With a single exception of no importance all his songs, which numbered over two hundred, were written in the Irish language, in which also they appear to most advantage. The style of his music may be best studied in the air to "Bumper Squire Jones," which Carolan originally composed to words of his own. Though essentially Gaelic, his style has also something of Italian in its manner. It was much admired by a great contemporary, Geminiani, who declared Carolan was endued with il genio vero della musica.

It is a great pity so few, and these not the best, of Carolan's compositions are extant. For this state of things we may thank an unfilial son, who in 1747 published a collection of his father's music, but omitted from it most of the best compositions. However, what we have is still of high merit, and deserves to be cherished by every true musician, as well as by every lover of the scattered reliques of poetry and music left us of the time when Ireland was indeed the "Land of Song."

We append an elegy on the death of Caro

GENTLE BRIDEEN.

(GEORGE SIGERSON, M.D., TRANSLATOR.)

O gentle fair maiden, thou hast left me in sadness; My bosom is pierced with Love's arrow so keen; For thy mien it is graceful, thy glances are glad

ness,

And thousands thy lovers, O gentle Brideen!

1 M'Cabe, says Miss Brooke, was rather of a humorous than a sentimental turn; he was a wit, but not a poet. It was therefore his grief and not his muse that inspired him on the present occasion.

The circumstances which gave rise to this elegy are striking and extremely affecting. M'Cabe had been an unusual length of time without seeing his friend, and went to pay him a visit. As he approached near the end of his journey, in passing by a church-yard, he was met by a peasant, of whom he inquired for Carolan. The peasant pointed to his grave and wept. M'Cabe, shocked and astonished, was for some time unable to speak; his frame shook, his knees trembled, he had just power to totter to the grave of his friend, and then sunk to the ground. A flood of tears at last came to his relief, and, still further to disburden his mind, he vented its anguish in the following lines. In the original they are simple and unadorned,

beauty in composition extremely difficult to transfuse into any other language. I do not pretend in this to have entirely succeeded, but I hope the effort will not be unacceptable; much of the simplicity is unavoidably lost; the pathos which remains may, perhaps, in some measure atone for it.

I came, with friendship's face, to glad my heart,
But sad and sorrowful my steps depart!

In my friend's stead-a spot of earth was shown,
And on his grave my woe-struck eyes were thrown!
No more to their distracted sight remained,
But the cold clay that all they lov'd contained.
And there his last and narrow bed was made,
And the drear tombstone for its covering laid.
Alas! for this my aged heart is wrung,
Grief chokes my voice, and trembles on my tongue,
Lonely and desolate I mourn the dead,
The friend with whom my every comfort fled!
There is no anguish can with this compare!
No pains, diseases, suffering, or despair,
Like that I feel, while such a loss I mourn,
My heart's companion from its fondness torn!
Oh, insupportable, distracting grief!
Woe, that through life can never hope relief!
Sweet-singing harp-thy melody is o'er!
Sweet friendship's voice-I hear thy sound no more!
My bliss, my wealth of poetry is fled,
And every joy, with him I loved, is dead!
Alas! what wonder (while my heart drops blood
Upon the woes that drain its vital flood)

If maddening grief no longer can be borne,
And frenzy fill the breast, with anguish torn!

2 The present Marquis of Sligo is descended from this inspirer of Carolan's muse.

This fond heart throbs for thee alone

Oh! leave me not to languish; Look on these eyes, whence sleep hath flown, Bethink thee of my anguish: My hopes, my thoughts, my destinyAll dwell, all rest, sweet girl, on thee.

Young bud of beauty, for ever bright,
The proudest must bow before thee:
Source of my sorrow and my delight-

Oh! must I in vain adore thee?
Where, where, through earth's extended round,
Where may such loveliness be found?

Talk not of fair ones known of yore; Speak not of Deirdre the renowned

She whose gay glance each minstrel hail'd; Nor she whom the daring Dardan bore From her fond husband's longing arms; Name not the dame whose fatal charms,

When weighed against a world, prevail'd; To each might blooming beauty fall,

Lovely, thrice lovely, might they be; But the gifts and graces of each and all Are mingled, sweet maid, in thee!

How the entranc'd ear fondly lingers

On the turns of thy thrilling song!

How brightens each eye as thy fair white fingers
O'er the chords fly gently along!

The noble, the learn'd, the ag'd, the vain,
Gaze on the songstress, and bless the strain.

How winning, dear girl, is thine air,
How glossy thy golden hair!

Oh! lov'd one, come back again,

With thy train of adorers about thee

Oh! come, for in grief and in gloom we remain Life is not life without thee.

My memory wanders-my thoughts have stray'd-
My gathering sorrows oppress me-
Oh! look on thy victim, bright peerless maid,
Say one kind word to bless me.

Why, why on thy beauty must I dwell,

When each tortur'd heart knows its power too well? Or why need I say that favour'd and bless'd

Must be the proud land that bore thee? Oh! dull is the eye and cold the breast That remains unmov'd before thee.

I've not a cravat-to save my throat,
Yet I pardon you all, my sparkling doat,

If you'd cheer me again in the morning!
Whisky replies-

When you've heard prayers on Sunday next,
With a sermon beside, or at least the text,
Come down to the alehouse-however you're vexed,
And though thousands of cares assault you,
You'll find tippling there-till morals mend,
A cock shall be placed in the barrel's end,
The jar shall be near you, and I'll be your friend,
And give you a "Kead mille faulté."

The Bard resumes his address

You're my soul and my treasure, without and within,

My sister and cousin and all my kin;
'Tis unlucky to wed such a prodigal sin,-

But all other enjoyment is vain, love!
My barley ricks all turn to you—
My tillage-my plough-and my horses too-
My cows and my sheep they have-bid me adieu,
I care not while you remain, love!
Come, vein of my heart! then come in haste,
You're like Ambrosia, my liquor and feast,
My forefathers all had the very same taste-
For the genuine dew of the mountain.
Oh! Usquebaugh! I love its kiss!—
My guardian spirit, I think it is.

Had my christening bowl been filled with this,
I'd have swallowed it-were it a fountain.

Many's the quarrel and fight we've had,
And many a time you made me mad,
But while I've a heart-it can never be sad,

When you smile at me full on the table;
Surely you are my wife and brother-
My only child-my father and mother—
My outside coat-I have no other!

Oh! I'll stand by you-while I am able.
If family pride can aught avail,
I've the sprightliest kin of all the Gael-
Brandy and Usquebaugh, and Ale!

But Claret untasted may pass us;
To clash with the clergy were sore amiss,
So, for righteousness sake, I leave them this,
For Claret the gownsman's comfort is,

When they've saved us with matins and

masses.

WHY, LIQUOR OF LIFE?
(TRANSLATED BY JOHN D'ALTON, M.R.I.A.)

The Bard addresses whisky
Why, liquor of life! do I love you so;
When in all our encounters you lay me low?
More stupid and senseless I every day grow,

What a hint if I'd mend by the warning! Tatter'd and torn you've left my coat,

ON THE DEATH OF MARY MAGUIRE. (FROM WALKER'S "IRISH BARDS.")

Were mine the choice of intellectual fame,
Of spelful song, and eloquence divine,

1 A thousand welcomes.

Painting's sweet power, Philosophy's pure flame, And Homer's lyre, and Ossian's harp were mine, The splendid arts of Erin, Greece, and Rome,

In Mary lost, would lose their wonted grace; All would I give to snatch her from the tomb, Again to fold her in my fond embrace.

Desponding, sick, exhausted with my grief, Awhile the founts of sorrow cease to flow; In vain! I rest not-sleep brings no relief; Cheerless, companionless, I wake to woe. Nor birth, nor beauty, shall again allure, Nor fortune win me to another bride; Alone I'll wander, and alone endure,

'Till death restore me to my dear one's side.

Once ev'ry thought and ev'ry scene was gay, Friends, mirth, and music all my hours employ'd,

Now doom'd to mourn my last sad years away,
My life a solitude!-my heart a void!
Alas, the change!—to change again no more!
For ev'ry comfort is with Mary fled :
And ceaseless anguish shall her loss deplore,
Till age and sorrow join me with the dead.

Adieu each gift of nature and of art,

That erst adorn'd me in life's early prime !The cloudless temper, and the social heart, The soul ethereal, and the flights sublime! Thy loss, my Mary, chas'd them from my breast! Thy sweetness cheers, thy judgment aids no

more:

The muse deserts a heart with grief opprestAnd flown is ev'ry joy that charm'd before.

SONG FOR GRACEY NUGENT.

(TRANSLATED BY MISS BROOKE.)

Of Gracey's charms enraptured will I sing!
Fragrant and fair, as blossoms of the spring!
To her sweet manners and accomplish'd mind
Each rival fair the palm of love resigned.

How blest her sweet society to share!
To mark the ringlets of her flowing hair;
Her gentle accents-her complacent mien!
Supreme in charms, she looks-she reigns a queen!

That alabaster form, that graceful neck,
How do the cygnet's down and whiteness deck!
How does that aspect shame the cheer of day,
When summer suns their brightest beams display!

Blest is the youth whom fav'ring fates ordain
The treasure of her love and charms to gain!
The fragrant branch, with curling tendrils bound,
With breathing odours-blooming beauty crown'd.

Sweet is the cheer her sprightly wit supplies!
Bright is the sparkling azure of her eyes!
Soft o'er her neck her lovely tresses flow!
Warm in her praise the tongues of rapture glow!

Hers is the voice tun'd by harmonious love,
Soft as the songs that warble through the grove!
Oh! sweeter joys her converse can impart!
Sweet to the sense and grateful to the heart!

Gay pleasures dance where'er her footsteps bend; And smiles and rapture round the fair attend: Wit forms her speech, and wisdom fills her mind. And sight and soul in her their object find.

Her pearly teeth in beauteous order plac'd;
Her neck with bright and curling tresses grac'd:
But ah, so fair!-in wit and charms supreme,
Unequal song must quit its darling theme.

Here break I off;-let sparkling goblets flow,
And my full heart its cordial wishes show:
To her dear health this friendly draught I pour,
Long be her life, and blest its every hour!

SONG FOR MABEL KELLY.

(TRANSLATED BY MISS BROOKE.)

The youth whom fav'ring Heavens decree
To join his fate, my fair! with thee,
And see that lovely head of thine
With fondness on his arm recline:

No thought but joy can fill his mind,
Nor any care can entrance find,
Nor sickness hurt, nor terror shake,-
And death will spare him for thy sake!

For the bright flowing of thy hair,
That decks a face so heavenly fair;
And a fair form to match that face,
The rival of the cygnet's grace

When with calm dignity she moves
Where the clear stream her hue improves;
Where she her snowy bosom laves,
And floats majestic on the waves.

Grace gave thy form in beauty gay, And rang'd thy teeth in bright array; All tongues with joy thy praises tell, And love delights with thee to dwell.

To thee harmonious powers belong,
That add to verse the charms of song!
Soft melody to numbers join,
And make the poet half divine.