Ir's little for glory I care;

Sure ambition is only a fable;
I'd as soon be myself as Lord Mayor,
With lashins of drink on the table.
I like to lie down in the sun,

And drame when my faytures is scorchin',
That when I'm too ould for more fun,
Why, I'll marry a wife with a fortune.

And in winter, with bacon and eggs,
And a place at the turf fire basking,
Sip my punch as I roasted my legs,
Oh! the devil a more I'd be asking.
For I haven't a jaynius for work—
It was never the gift of the Bradies,-
But I'd make a most illigant Turk,
For I'm fond of tobacco and ladies.

CRUISKIN LAWN.*

LET the farmer praise his grounds,
Let the huntsman praise his hounds,
The shepherd his dew-scented lawn ;
But I, more bless'd than they,
Spend each happy night and day

With my charming little cruiskin lawn.
Gra-ma-chree ma cruiskin,

Slainte geal ma vourneen,

Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn,

Gra-ma-chree ma cruiskin,

Slainte geal ma vourneen,

Gra-ma-chree a coolin, bawn, bawn, bawn,
Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn.

* Little jug. The chorus, without which this song would be as short of its honours as a Highland chieftain without "his tail on" (vide Waverley), is given, in deference to the integrity of the original, in Irish. The spelling is not quite correct, but as nearly so as the representation of the sound of the Irish will permit. I am not a Celtic scholar, but it would be easy to give the real spelling of the words, and in the Irish alphabetical character, too, if it had been thought requisite. The meaning of the chorus, in English, is something like the following

66 'My heart's love is my little jug,

Bright health to my darling!

My heart's love, her fair looks," &c.

Immortal and divine,

*

Great Bacchus, god of wine,
Create me by adoption your son,
In hope that you'll comply
That my glass shall ne'er run dry,
Nor my smiling little cruiskin lawn.
Gra-ma-chree, &c.

And when grim Death appears,
In a few but pleasant years,

To tell me that my glass has run;
I'll say begone, you knave,
For bold Bacchus gave me leave
To take another cruiskin lawn.
Gra-ma-chree, &c.

Then fill your glasses high,

Let's not part with lips adry,

Though the lark now proclaims it is dawn;
And since we can't remain,

May we shortly meet again,

To fill another cruiskin lawn.

Gra-ma-chree, &c.

OH! Larry M'Hale he had little to fear,

And never could want when the crops didn't fail ;
He'd a house and demesne and eight hundred a-year,
And the heart for to spend it, had Larry M‘Hale!

The soul of a party—the life of a feast,

And an illigant song he could sing, I'll be bail;
He would ride with the rector, and drink with the priest,
Oh! the broth of a boy was old Larry M'Hale.

It's little he cared for the judge or recorder, t
His house was as big and as strong as a jail ;

With a cruel four-pounder, he kept all in great order,
He'd murder the country, would Larry M'Hale.

* Here we have one of the numerous instances of the love of the heathen mythology on the part of the Irish. I remember a street ballad, in which the poet insinuates that whiskey was the draught divine, by the phrase

"Bacchus's still."

Burns, by the way, adopts his native phraseology, when he calls the Castalian fount"Castalia's burn, and a' that."

I forget the name of the quaint old chronicler who, speaking of the unsettled state

He'd a blunderbuss, too, of horse-pistols a pair;
But his favourite weapon was always a flail :
I wish you could see how he'd empty a fair,
For he handled it nately, did Larry M'Hale.

His ancestors was kings before Moses was born;
His mother descended from great Grana Uaile;
He laughed all the Blakes and the Frenches to scorn;
They were mushrooms compared to old Larry M'Hale.

He sat down every day to a beautiful dinner,
With cousins and uncles enough for a tail;

And, though loaded with debt, oh! the devil a thinner
Could law or the sheriff make Larry M'Hale.

With a larder supplied, and a cellar well-stored,
None lived half so well from Fair-Head to Kinsale,
And he piously said, "I've a plentiful board,

And the Lord he is good to old Larry M'Hale."

So fill up your glass, and a high bumper give him,
It's little we'd care for the tithes or repale;
For ould Erin would be a fine country to live in,
If we only had plenty, like Larry M'Hale.

of Ireland, writes, "They say the King's writ runneth not here, but to that I say nay : the King's writ doth runne-but it runneth awaye."

Once upon a time it was nearly as much as a bailiff's life was worth to cross the Shannon westward with a writ. If he escaped with his life, he was sure to get rough treatment anyhow. One fine morning, for example, a bailiff returned to the solicitor who had sent him into Galway with the king's parchment, and his aspect declared discomfiture he looked singularly bilious, moreover. "I see," said the attorney, 66 you did not serve it."

"No, faith."

"Then you will return it with an affidavit that—"

"I can't return it," said the bailiff.

"Why not?"

"They cotch me and made me ate it."

"Is it eat the parchment?"

"Every scrap of it."

"And what did you do with the seal?"

"They made me eat that too, the villains!"

Let it not be imagined, however, that we had all the fun to ourselves in Ireland, or that we can even claim originality in our boluses for bailiffs; for it is recorded that a certain "Roger, Lord Clifford, who died 1327, was so obstinate and careless of the king's displeasure, as that he caused a pursuivant that served a writ upon him in the Baron's chamber, there to eat and swallow down part of the wax that the said writ was sealed with, as it were in contempt of the said king.”—Memoir of the Countess of Pembroke, MS.

MARY DRAPER.

CHARLES LEVER.

DON'T talk to me of London dames,
Nor rave about your foreign flames,
That never lived-except in drames,
Nor shone, except on paper;
I'll sing you 'bout a girl I knew,
Who lived in Ballywhackmacrew,
And, let me tell you, mighty few
Could equal Mary Draper.

Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue,
Her hair was brown of deepest hue,
Her foot was small, and neat to view,
Her waist was slight and taper;
Her voice was music to your ear,
A lovely brogue, so rich and clear,
Oh, the like I ne'er again shall hear
Ás from sweet Mary Draper.

She'd ride a wall, she'd drive a team,
Or with a fly she'd whip a stream,
Or may be sing you Rousseau's dream,"
For nothing could escape her;

66

I've seen her, too-upon my word—
At sixty yards bring down her bird-
Oh! she charmed all the Forty-third !
Did lovely Mary Draper.

And, at the spring assizes ball,

The junior bar would, one and all,

For all her fav'rite dances call,

And Harry Deane* would caper;

Lord Claret would then forget his lore;
King's counsel voting law a bore,
Were proud to figure on the floor
For love of Mary Draper.

* Harry Deane Grady, a distinguished lawyer on the Western Circuit.

+ Lord Chancellor of Ireland, celebrated for his hatred of Curran. He carried this feeling to the unjust and undignified length of always treating him with disrespect in Court, to the great injury of Curran's practice. On one occasion, when that eminent man was addressing him, Lord Clare turned to a pet dog beside him on the bench, and gave all the attention to his canine favourite which he should have bestowed on the counsel. Curran suddenly stopped. Lord Clare, observing this, said, "You may go on, Mr. Curran-I'm listening to you." "I beg pardon for my mistake, my Lord," replied Curran. "I stopped, my Lord, because I thought your Lordships were consulting."

The parson, priest, sub-sheriff too,
Were all her slaves, and so would you,
If you had only but one view

Of such a face or shape, or
Her pretty ankles-but, alone.
It's only west of old Athlone

Such girls were found-and now they're gone-
So, here's to Mary Draper !

PHELIM O'NEILE.

CAROLAN.

Translated by THOMAS FURLONG.

Ar length thy bard is steering,
To find thy gay hearth again;
Thy hand, thy voice so cheering,
Still soothes him in grief or pain:
Thy sires have shone in story,

Their fame with friendly pride we hail;

But a milder, gentler, glory

Is thine, my belov'd O'Neile !

Still cheerful have I found thee,
All changless in word or tone;
Still free when friends were round thee,
And free with thy bard alone;
Fill up the bowls-be drinking—
'Tis cheering still, in woe or weal;
Come pledge with lips unshrinking,
The dear the belov'd O'Neile!

Of blameless joy the centre,

Thy home thro' each night hath been,
There might the wanderer enter,

And there the blind bard was seen;

There wit and sport came blended
In careless song or merry tale;
But let thy praise be ended-

Who loves not my lov'd O'Neile ?

"Time has not handed down any particulars of Phelim O'Neile, here commemorated, except that he was descended from that powerful family which so long ruled Ireland with sovereign sway. The violent commotions of the seventeenth century struck to the topmost branch of this great Milesian tree."-Hardiman's Minstrelsy.