the borderers; or while he seeks but some flower characteristic of the soil, he may wake some serpent under it he would rather should lie sleeping. And these are the difficulties that pre-eminently exist in dealing with the political songs of Ireland, as political strife has existed there, in an aggravated form, longer and later than in any other part of the United Kingdom. Hence it is that this section is more barren than I could wish-more barren than it might have been under more favourable circumstances; but, however incomplete, it was felt that in a volume where specimens of all other classes of lyric poetry of Ireland were given, this class of composition must not be totally overlooked, however limited in its range, however guarded a circumspection might be required in its execution.

With respect to the historical songs of Ireland, few exist, that I know of, written in English, and most of the translations that I have seen from the Irish are somewhat tedious, and often rather a special lament for, or glorification of, some chieftain, than a general treatment of the subject. Moore, it is true, sometimes made historic allusions, in his Irish Melodies; but it is equally true that, though such of his songs were worthy of his fame, they never became popular, with the exception of "The harp that once through Tara's hall " and "Rich and rare were the gems she wore." All of his historical and political pieces would be welcome and valuable additions in the following section, but their proprietors forbid their use. Even the historical songs that are treated in the following selection are mostly by modern hands; and it may be observed that, when the authorship of such belongs to the time of the event recorded, the execution is very rough indeed; as in "The Boyne Water" and "Siege of Carrickfergus," which are only interesting as cotemporaneous verifications of salient points of history, with occasional touches of local precision and record of names, which impart that sort of interest to them which documentary papers, with all their dryness, often possess. Exception to this remark may be made, however, regarding one of the historical songs that follow, and that a translation from the Irish-"John O'Dwyer of the Glen," which, I think, will be acknowledged to possess much poetic merit.

Respecting the political pieces, the specimens given, while sufficiently characteristic of their time, have no present sting; for, as more than half a century has passed away since most of them had temporary interest or significance, it is hoped they cannot be offensive to any, but may be looked upon merely as literary remnants of eventful times.

To treat of any Irish political subject, without offence, was always difficult enough any time for the last five-and-twenty years, but the difficulty has been much increased by the somewhat recent doings of a small party whose fatal self-esteem too often hurried them into acts of presumption—whether it was to instruct the veteran O'Connell, as a politician, or criticise the accomplished Thomas Moore, as a bard.

Of their doings, as politicians, it is not my desire, nor is this the place, to enlarge, but one significant remark may be made, that their total, it may be said ludicrous, failure, was the most convincing proof of their incapacity. But respecting their conduct to Moore, I will not be silent; and no fitter place than this could be found to expose the injustice and ingratitude with which he was treated.

Moore undoubtedly did more for Ireland than all her other bards put together. His winning lay insinuated a sympathy for Ireland into bosoms impervious to open assault. The cold circle of prejudice that had hitherto guarded many a heart in high places was opened to the magic of his song, and, for the first time, the harp of Ireland became more than an emblem of her fame-it was turned to an instrument for her good.

And what was the return Moore had at the hands of the Young Ireland party for this?—They "cautioned" the people of Ireland that Moore had "corrupted” their melodies. That was the wordcorrupted. Careful patriots!!—But they also begged to assure the world they had no desire to "run down Mr. Moore." The phrase might move indignation, were it not more provocative of laughter.

As to the corruption of melodies, a word may be said on that subject, en passant. It is well known, by those conversant with the subject, that different sets (or varieties) of the same melody are to be found in different counties-or even in the same county from different singers or players. Which is the genuine? Who is to pronounce judgment? Who is entitled to fling in any one's teeth that ugly word "corruption ?"

Judging from their works, the aggressors in this case are not entitled to arbitrate. Their own volumes of song, with musical settings, under the modest name of "The spirit of the Nation," gives sufficient proof of this. There they may sometimes be seen incapable of accomplishing that which they were so rashly-ready to criticise. As a special example of this, one song may be named from that collection adapted to the exquisite air of "The Wheelwright"-an air soaring and musical as a lark; and yet to this brilliant air a woeful ditty is written, beginning, "Oh! weep those

days, those penal days." A more signal failure in literary and musical combination could scarcely be made; yet the very author of this poor attempt had the presumption to caution Ireland against Moore.

At last they attempted to usurp the rights of Omnipotence-to supersede Nature herself in one of her divinest offices-by issuing general instructions for the making of POETS-PROPER for Ireland, forgetting the Latin adage, that poets are born-not made. But their proposed manufactory of poets proved as barren a speculation as the rest of their schemes. No child of song was ground out of their mill; Nature would not be hurried in her process of poetbirth; and having given Moore to the present century, she thinks, perhaps, Ireland may be content for a while, and wait.

One of the self-elected law-givers in this new temple of The Muses goes so far as to "fix arbitrarily" the number of lines of which a song shall consist; he even goes the length of limiting the number of syllables that should constitute a certain composition he calls by the affected name of "Songlet." This gentleman may be called the bedmaker of The Young Ireland College of Criticism; but he makes his bed after the fashion of Procrustes, and cuts to the proper measure all that he would consign to eternal sleep under his wet blanket.

I have only to observe, in conclusion, that the following pieces are arranged in chronological order, where it could be observed, and throughout the whole section the audi alteram partem, that golden rule, has been kept in view. Each party speaks for itselfsometimes with sufficient spirit—sometimes with sufficient bitterness. If it be noticed that one of these parties has been allowed a larger space than the other—the greater share of speech-let me not be accused of unfairness, but be it remembered, that those who struggle against power have been always more prolific in bardic effusion than its supporters; that the generous spirit of minstrelsy has always shown a chivalrous preference for the weaker side. While the Jacobite songs of Scotland furnished brilliant proof of the heroic spirit and poetic power of the partisans of James, the Georges had few to sing their praises. If the pen had been the only instrument of warfare, the result of the battle had been different; but experience has not been flattering to the poet; the course of events establishes the fact, that the ". paper pellets of the brain” are fearfully counterbalanced by those of lead, and that nimble Pegasus is overmatched by heavy dragoons.

THE BATTLE OF DUNDALK.

Mr Henry R. Montgomery, in his interesting volume entitled "Specimens of the Early Native Poetry of Ireland," thus speaks of this battle :

"A naval engagement is recorded as having taken place at Dundalgin, the present Dundalk, in the tenth century, with the Danes and Northmen, under the command of Magnus, Sitric, and Tor, in which the invaders were completely routed."

The following translation of an Irish song written in commemoration of this naval victory appeared anonymously in the Belfast Chronicle:

Now sheathed is the sword, and the battle is o'er,
The shouts of the victors have ceased on the shore,—
With blood, O Dundalgin, thy billows are dyed,
O'er the mighty of Lochlin thy deep waters glide.

O fierce was the conflict our warriors maintain'd,
But bright is the triumph their valour has gain'd ;
Long Erin her tears and her praises shall give,
For life they resigned that her glory might live.

Though no cairns do the bones of the valiant enclose,
On the sands of the ocean though deep they repose,
The patriot shall turn from the high-trophied grave,
And seek, O Dundalgin, thy sanctified wave.

There, in grateful remembrance, their fame shall recall,
Exult in their glory, and envy their fall,

Who each in his death-grasp encircled a foe,
And plung'd with his prize in the billows below.*

COULIN.

CAROLL MALONE.

In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII., an act was made respecting the habits and dress in general of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing glibbes, or Coulins (long locks) on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired.-Walker, as quoted in Moore's Melodies

It so happens, however, on turning to the above statute, that no mention is to be found therein of the Coulin. But in the year 1295 a Parliament was held in Dublin, and then an act was passed which more than expressly names the Coulin, and minutely

* Reminding us of the two Mexicans who attempted to make CORTEZ share their fate in the famous death-plunge from the Great Tower.

describes it for its more effectual prohibition. This, the only statute made in Ireland that names the Coulin, was passed two hundred and forty-two years before the act cited by Mr. Moore; and, in consequence of it, some of the Irish chieftains who lived near the seat of English government, or wished to keep up intercourse with the English districts, did, in or soon after that year, 1295, cut off their Coulins, and a distinct memorial of the event was made in writing by the officers of the Crown. It was on this occasion that the bard, ever adhesive to national habits, endeavoured to fire the patriotism of a conforming chieftain; and, in the character of some favourite virgin, declares her preference for her lover with the Coulin, before him who complaisantly assumed the adornments of foreign fashion.-Dublin Penny Journal.

THE last time she looked in the face of her dear,
She breathed not a sigh, and she shed not a tear;
But she took up his harp, and she kissed his cold cheek-
""Tis the first and the last for thy Norah to seek."

For beauty and bravery Cathan was known,
And the long flowing coulin he wore in Tyrone;
The sweetest of singers and harpers was he,
All over the North, from the Bann to the sea.

O'er the marshes of Dublin he often would rove,
To the glens of O'Toole, where he met with his love;
And at parting they pledged that, next Midsummer's day,
He would come for the last time and bear her away.

The king had forbidden the men of O'Neal,
With the coulin adorned, to come o'er the pale ;
But Norah was Irish, and said, in her pride,

"If he wear not his coulin, I'll ne'er be his bride."

The bride has grown pale as the robe that she wears,
For the Lammas is come, and no bridegroom appears;
And she harkens and gazes, when all are at rest,
For the sound of his harp and the sheen of his vest.

Her palfrey is pillioned, and she has gone forth
On the long rugged road that leads down to the North;
Where Eblana's strong castle frowns darkly and drear,
Is the head of her Cathan upraised on a spear.

*

The Lords of the Castle had murdered him there,
And all for the wearing that poor lock of hair:
For the word she had spoken in mirth or in pride,
Her lover, too fond and too faithful, had died.

"Twas then that she looked in the face of her dear,
She breathed not a sigh, and she dropped not a tear;
She took up his harp, and she kissed his cold cheek:
"Farewell! 'tis the first for thy Norah to seek."

* Eblana, Dublin.