Och! you, and only you, And for this I was true to you, In love they'll never shake, THE TRIUMPHS OF O'NEILL. W. H. MAXWELL. Among the essayists, sketchers, story-tellers, and novelists, Maxwell's name shines brightly. The soldier, the sportsman, and the man of the world, formed a triumvirate in his person which gave a racy variety to his works; and his "Stories of Waterloo," his "Wild Sports of the West," and that stirring and most amusing tale, "My Life," display that triplicity. His pen was prolific-or I should rather say his pencil; for it is a fact, within my own knowledge, that he dashed off his copy for the press with a black-lead pencil, which he declared was a much pleasanter and more facile mode of rapid writing than pen and ink. He held a prebend in the Established Church of Ireland, but the exuberance of his animal spirits hurried him, sometimes, beyond the usual limits of clerical phraseology. Let us remember, however, he had been a soldier in early life, as a plea in extenuation. There is an old slang mode of expression employed, when a man who has been educated for the Church goes into the army-they say, in such case, that "the lobster has been boiled;" that is to say, black has been turned red. But, in the reverse of the case, when a retired soldier turns clergyman, I fear it is very hard to unboil him-turn red into black. Maxwell seldom indulged in verse; his highest gifts of authorship were exhibited in his prose. THE song is hushed in Bala's hall, The day will come, the day will come, When vengeance, bursting from her trance, THE BOYS OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. Mrs. GORE. This lively song was written, by the fair and gifted authoress who has favoured the world with so many clever novels, for a dramatic piece she produced for the lamented Power, entitled "King O'Neill." The scene is laid in Paris in the time of Louis XV. O'Neill is an exiled Irishman, an officer in the famous Irish Brigade, who, whenever he is over-excited by wine, fancies himself possessed of all the regal power his ancestors once enjoyed; and hence much amusement arises. It is in a scene at the mess of the Brigade the following song is sung, where O'Neill is floating himself up, upon claret, to the summit-level of his regal delusion. WHAT for should I sing you of Roman or Greek, For Ajax, and Hector, and bold Agamemnon But the rollicking boys, for war, ladies and noise, What for should I sing you of Helen of Troy, By the rollicking boys, for war, ladies and noise,— What for should I sing you of classical fun, Or of games, whether Grecian or Persian? Sure the Curragh's* the place where the knowing one's done, And Mallow that flogs for diversion. For fighting, for drinking, for ladies and all, No time like our times e'er were made, O, By the rollicking boys, for war, ladies and noise,— The myth of Venus and Mars (already alluded to in the introduction to this section) was but the emblematising of a sentiment that has pervaded the world since its creation. A woman likes and lauds a soldier—not for his handsome dress, as some people have unworthily hinted; no-it is because his noble profession implies courage. Fielding says, with his usual acuteness, that as a woman is by nature timid, she values that most highly which she does not possess herself; and, therefore. no quality in man she so much admires as courage. Hence, we opine, the fair authoress's laudatory lyric of "The Boys of the Brigade." * The Curragh is an extensive plain in the county of Kildare, whereon is the finest racecourse in the United Kingdom. † See "The Rakes of Mallow" in this collection. And when with years and honours crowned, That spoke the trumpet's warning; To meet the French in the morning. We'll have the hand-or toe, From a bowld sojer boy! There's not a town we march through, While up the street, Each girl you meet, With look so sly, Will cry "My eye! Oh! isn't he a darling-the bowld sojer boy!" For the world is all before us, But chalk us up with joy ; We taste her tap, We tear her cap, "Oh, that's the chap For me," Says she, "Oh, isn't he a darling-the bowld sojer boy." The glory of his corps, like a bowld sojer boy! THE BANSHEE'S WAIL. Mrs. DowNING. THY life was like the mountain stream, Who, now, shall bid the clansmen speed |