PEGGY BROWNE.*

CAROLAN. Translated by THOMAS FURLONG.

Он, dark, sweetest girl, are my days doomed to be,
While my heart bleeds in silence and sorrow for thee:
In the green spring of life, to the grave I go down,
Oh! shield me, and save me, my lov'd Peggy Browne.

I dreamt that at evening my footsteps were bound
To yon deep spreading wood where the shades fall around,
I sought, 'midst new scenes, all my sorrows to drown,
But the cure of my grief rests with thee Peggy Browne.

'Tis soothing, sweet maiden, thy accents to hear,
For, like wild fairy music, they melt on the ear,
Thy breast is as fair as the swan's clothed in down;
Oh, peerless, and perfect's my own Peggy Browne.

Dear, dear is the bark to its own cherished tree,
But dearer, far dearer, is my lov'd one to me :†
In my dreams I draw near her, uncheck'd by a frown,
But
my arms spread in vain to embrace Peggy Browne.

'BE N-EIRINN I.‡

From the Irish.

IN Druid vale alone I lay,

Oppressed with care, to weep the day---
My death I ow'd one sylph-like she,

Of witchery rare, 'be n-Eirinn i !

* Daughter of George Browne, of Brownestown, County of Mayo. The noble houses of Sligo and Kilmain, and the families of Castlemagarat and Brownestown, in Mayo, are now among the principal of the name.-Note from Hardiman's Minstrelsy.

+ Carolan anticipates Burns in this image; and how forcible the image is, for the bark is not only closely attached to, but is essential to the very life of the tree. The image is employed by Burns in his admirable song, "My Tocher's the jewel," but not so pleasantly nor so happily as by Carolan.

"Ye're like the timmer o' yon rotten wood,

Ye're like the bark o' yon rotten tree."

The tautology weakens the effect.

Meaning "Whoe'er she be in Ireland."

The spouse of Naisi,* Erin's woe-
The dame that laid proud Ilium low,

Their charms would fade, their fame would flee,
Match'd with my fair, 'be n-Eirinn i !

Behold her tresses unconfin'd,

In wanton ringlets woo the wind, t
Or sweep the sparkling dew-drops free,
My heart's dear maid, 'be n-Eirinn i !

Fierce passion's slave, from hope exil'd,
Weak, wounded, weary, woful, wild—
Some magic spell she wove for me,
That peerless maid, 'be n-Eirinn i!

But O! one noon I clomb a hill,

To sigh alone—to weep my fill,

And there Heaven's mercy brought to me
My treasure rare, 'be n-Eirinn i!

ANNIE DEAR.

THOMAS DAVIS. Born, 1814. Died, 1845.

Mr. Davis's verses are always imbued with the spirit befitting the subject he treats of. Appreciation of beauty, and depth of tenderness, are in his love songs, and a passionate enthusiasm in his patriotic, sometimes bordering on fierceness, which many thought marred their usefulness, and which often precludes their quotation.

OUR mountain brooks were rushing,

Annie, dear,

The Autumn eve was flushing,

Reminding us of Byron's couplet in his address to the "Maid of Athens: "

"By those tresses unconfin'd

Woo'd by the Egean wind."

*

CAN I AGAIN THAT LOOK RECALL.

MOORE.

CAN I again that look recall

Which once could make me die for thee?

No, no, the eye that burns on all

Shall never more be prized by me.

Can I again that form caress,

Or on that lip in joy recline?

No, no, the lip that all may press

Shall never more be press'd by mine.

Honeymoon. The rhyme will indicate that the sound of the letter e is nearly lost Be it observed, also, the first letter of the Irish alphabet has a

in the word "meala.

broad sound.

This alludes to the year 1798, when the yeomanry were held in great detestation by the people; indeed, except for external defence, yeomanry is now considered a bad military enginery. In civil embroilment they carry party passion instead of duty into the office of the soldier, and serve rather to increase than suppress commotion. This is the feeling in England as well as in Ireland. Witness the affair of "Peterloo" (or St. Peter's Field), at Manchester, A.D. 1819.

A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that, when a child smiles in its sleep, it is "talking with the angels."

A BABY was sleeping,

Its mother was weeping,

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea,

And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling,

And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me.'

Her beads while she numbered,
The baby still slumbered,

And smil'd in her face, as she bended her knee;
"Oh! bless'd be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

And while they are keeping
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Oh, pray to them softly my baby, with me,
And say thou would'st rather

They'd watch o'er thy father!

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.
The dawn of the morning
Saw Dermot returning,

And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see,
And closely caressing

Her child, with a blessing,

Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

I have abstained from inserting many of my own songs in this collection, to avoid the suspicion of parental preference. I give only those (with very few exceptions) which, having attained popularity, are thus guaranteed by the highest seal that can substantiate their right to appear in a collection of Irish songs. The song given above was written to an old Irish air (one of the few Moore left untouched) entitled, "Mary do you fancy me?" Words had been written to it in "Holden's Periodical Irish Melodies," but they were ineffective, and left the air still in oblivion, while mine had better fortune, and made this charming melody widely known; and I think it may be allowed to be pardonably pleasing to an author that it is now known by the name of "The Angel's Whisper." The works of Moore have shown how much the musician may be indebted to the poet, and I have entered more extensively into that question, in a note to "The Boys of Kilkenny," to which I beg to refer the reader.

YOUNG KATE OF KILCUMMER.

THERE are flowers in the valley,

And fruit on the hill,
Sweet-scented and smiling,

Resort where you will;
But the sweetest and brightest
In spring-time or summer,

Is the girl of my heart,

The young Kate of Kilcummer.

Oh! I'd wander from daybreak
Till night's gloomy fall,
Full sure such another

I'd ne'er meet at all—

As the rose to the bee,

As the sunshine to summer,

So welcome to me

Is young Kate of Kilcummer.

Kilcummer is in the County of Cork, on the east side of the river Awbeg. It has been asserted this song is a translation from the Irish, but I agree with T. C. Croker in doubting it.