beauty and deformity, and a congenial train of humorous or gloomy sentiment. Of C. Lamb himself I would say that he is not great, yet eminent; not profound, yet penetrating; not passionate, yet gentle, tender, and sympathizing. For genuine Anglicism, which amongst all other essentials of excellence in our native literature, is now recovering itself from the leaden mace of the Rambler, he is quite a study: his prose is absolutely perfect; it conveys thought, without smothering it in blankets. I have no business to meddle with any man's private life; yet, if the tree may be known by its fruits, does it not speak highly for the excellence of a school, if such it may be called, that it is all Christian-Christian in thought, word, and deed? It is, indeed, amazing how a poet can be a materialist. But of this hereafter-for the Adieu ! present, MUSE O'CONNORIANÆ. G. M. LETTER FROM PATRICK O'CONNOR, ESQ. Inclosing Metrical Versions in the Greek and Latin Tongues. DEAR MR. COURTENAY,-It is both a shame and a sin that no attempt is made to perpetuate the memory of those excellent ballads with which the languages of Ireland, England, and Scotland abound. For whereas the said languages are allowed by all men of real taste to be gothic and semi-barbarous, it is incumbent upon us to endeavour to preserve whatever good they do contain by putting it into another dress. You know Mr. O'Doherty has preceded me in this praiseworthy attempt by his admirable version of Chevy-Chace," Persaus ex Northumbria," &c., which I have compared with the English ballad so often, that I can hardly tell which is the original. When about to exercise my talents in this line, I held much question with myself whether I should assimilate my metre to that of my original, as is the case in the above-mentioned admirable work, or embody the ideas of my author in the rhythm of the ancient Greeks. For of the former design I do not consider myself altogether incapable; in proof of which I inclose a brief specimen of my abilities in this line; viz.-a Song from a MS. collection of Poems in the possession of John Jackson, Esq.; rendered by Patrick O'Connor, with all the original rhymes miraculously preserved. "I weep Girl, before ye, I kneel to adore ye, My bosom is torn asunder, To a pipe of tobacco, Passions and flames knock under; With lots of the Deady ;- Premore dolore, Uror amore, Victa tabaco, Victaque Baccho, Flamma mi fit moribunda ; Venerem et te Di abolo Rosamunda. I trust this sample will be sufficient to convince you, that when I turn my talents to the Monkish style which the author above alluded to has chosen, I shall come very little behind my prototype. For the present, however, I have judged that the Metres of antiquity are more classical, and consequently more worthy of a place in "The Etonian." With regard to the poem itself, it is not, I believe, generally understood that Looney, the hero of it, is the descendant of the celebrated Phelim Mac Twolter, who, in the year 1750, A. D. fought that celebrated pugilistic encounter with Patrick Mac Nevis, which is the subject of admiration and encomium in the sporting circles of Carrickfergus. It is gratifying to me to be able to notice this genuine son of Hibernia, because the Boxiana of modern criticism, dwelling with delight upon the minor glories of a Corcoran, a Randall, or a Donnelly, have by some strange neglect omitted all mention of the surpassing brilliancy of the merits of Phelim Mac Twolter. This is the more remarkable as the above-mentioned fight was made the subject of a stanzaic heroic Poem, remarkable for the animation and geniality which is preserved throughout. Mac Nevis, who it seems was little better than a Braggadocia, gave the challenge. This is described with great force and simplicity. The landlord's daughter of the Shamrock public-house, who is said to have had a penchant for little Phelim, had been boasting of her lover's pugilistic fame. Mac Nevis leap'd up from his seat, And made his bow, and told her, "Kathleen, I'll fight for your dear sake Along with fierce Mac Twolter." Surgebat Mac Nevisius, Cum fero Mac Tuoltro." Does not this remind us strongly of Homer's Paris? Αυταρ ἐμ' ἐν μεσσῳ καὶ ἀρηιφιλον Μενελαον The address of Mac Nevis to his antagonist upon meeting him in the ring is conceived in the same style of ferocious grandeur. He sees him applying himself to the bottle, and exclaims: While you can see blue ruin, joy! Pull deeper yet and deeper; By George! you shall return from hence, Without an open peeper. Frater, dum tibi manet lux, Observe that the expression "blue ruin" is very poetical, but my version of it is also prophetical;—a charm unknown to the original. Phelim's reply is beautiful: Don't tip me now, my lad of wax, Your blarney and locution, Och! sure you ar❜n't a giant yet, Ne sis, O cerâ mollior, Grandiloquus et vanus ; Heus bone! nos es gigas tu, Et non sum ego nanus. Here again the author, of course, had Homer in his eye, Μητε μεν, ήντε παιδος αφαυρε, πειρητίζει And again, Πηλείδη, μηδη με έπεσσι γε, νηπντιον ώς, The contest, which, it is possible, I may by-and-by transmit to you at length, is described with a minuteness which far exceeds Virgil's Dares and Entellus, or even the "Pugilism" of the Sporting Magazine. The modest Mac Twolter is, as he deserves to be, the victor. The Poem concludes in a high strain of triumph : So Victory to Phelim gave A wife of fair renown; Victoria dedit Phelimo Uxorem valde bonam; I must now cease to comment upon this fascinating character, and proceed, without further delay, to the celebration of the amour of his descendant. Looney Mac Twolter is well known to you, as you have frequently heard the identical ballad from the lips of Frederick Golightly. I shall therefore give you my promised Translation of it, without note or preface. Give it a classical name," an Eclogue," or "an Idyll," or "an an Elegy," or what or what you will. I. Oh, whack Cupid's a mannikin, Smack on my heart he hit me a polter Dearly she loves nate Looney Mac Twolter. For her father sells beer; He keeps the sign of the cow and the snuffers; From my heart I cannot bolt her. Oh, whack, Judy O'Flannikin ! II. Oh hone! good news I need a bit! We'd correspond, but larning would choak her. Judy can't tell a pen from a poker. Judy's so constant,. I'll never forsake her; She's true as the moon; Only one afternoon, I caught her asleep with a humpbacked shoemaker. Αλαλη τι μικρον έσιν á. ὁ πατηρ γαρ, ἐν τοδ ̓ ὀιδα, Χαρίεσσα δ' ἡ πεφηνε |