GRACE NUGENT.

CAROLAN. Translated by SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A.

BRIGHTEST blossom of the spring,
Grace, the sprightly girl, I sing;
Grace who bore the palm of mind
From all the rest of womankind :
Whomsoe'er the fates decree,
Happy fate for life to be,

Day and night my Coolun* near,
Ache or pain need never fear.

Her neck outdoes the stately swan,
Her radiant face the summer dawn;
Ah, happy thrice the youth for whom
The fates design that branch of bloom!
Pleasant are your words benign,
Rich those azure eyes of thine;
Ye who see my queen beware

Those twisted links of golden hair!

Hardiman, in his "Irish Minstrelsy," remarks that "our Irish poets, like the Arabians, have delighted in description of female hair,”—and he alludes to Byron, in his "Giaour,” maintaining the Oriental character of his poem by celebrating the beauty of his heroine's hair

"Her hair in hyacinthian flow,
When left to roll its folds below;

As midst her handmaids in the hall
She stood superior to them all;
Hath swept the marble where her feet
Gleamed whiter than the mountain sleet,
Ere from the cloud that gave it birth

It fell and caught one stain of earth."

Hardiman gives a further example of his Arabian admiration by quoting a translation from the Arabic by Professor Carlyle

"Thro' midnight gloom my Leila stray'd,

Her ebon locks around her play'd;

So dark they waved-so black they curl'd,
Another night o'erspread the world."

Pretty well for dark hair!—But our Irish bards are not easily outdone; and here is one who thus celebrates the blackness of his mistress's hair, even at the risk of woundears polite:"

ing

"Your talk is so quare,

And your sweet curly hair
Is as black as the Divil."

* Coolun means a fine head of hair, and the term is often used as one of endearment. The Irish bards loved to praise fine hair (for which, by the way, the Irish are remarkable), both in poetry and music. There is a sweet Irish air, called "Nancy of the Branching Tresses."

* This "bird-voiced lady" (how sweet the epithet !) was a fair daughter of the Nugent of Castle Nugent, Columbre. By the way, I knew a certain bird-voiced lady who, in giving evidence before a magistrate on the subject of a burglary, complained that, on hearing the thieves in the house, she opened a window, and called for "the watch," but they neglected her call. "Madam," said the gallant magistrate, "I suppose they mistook your call for the voice of the nightingale."

Oh! long the dark winter
In ice chains hath bound us,
But now the fair hand

Of the spring tide is round us. *

We're glancing away,

From the height of the mountain
We're leaving our spray,

On the calm valley fountain;
Through the depth of the glen,
In the shade of the woods,
We're murmuring our music,
And mingling our floods.

We're sparkling along,
Over granite and green ;
We're heard but in song,

And in light we are seen;
The brushwood is stemming,
Our tides as they flow;

And the young flowers are gemming,
Wherever we go.

Hark to the sounds

Of our waters afar,

As they break through the bounds
Where the wild willows are!

Oh! fresh from the chain

Of the winter wind gushing,
In the beauty of spring tide,
We're rushing, we're rushing!

GLENFINNISHK.

JOSEPH O'LEARY.

GLENFINNISHK, where thy waters mix with Arraglen's wild tide, 'Tis sweet, at hush of evening, to wander by thy side!

'Tis sweet to hear the night-winds sigh along Macrona's wood, And mingle their wild music with the murmur of thy flood!

* Goethe, in "Faustus," employs a pleasing image to indicate the action of Spring in overcoming the power of Winter

"The warm and vivifying glance of Spring

Has melted the cold fetters of the brooks."

+ Glenfinnishk (the glen of the fair waters), in the county of Cork.

'Tis sweet, when in the deep blue vault the morn is shining bright,
To watch where thy clear waters are breaking into light;
To mark the starry sparks that o'er thy smoother surface gleam,
As if some fairy hand were flinging diamonds on thy stream!

Oh! if departed spirits e'er to this dark world return,
'Tis in some lonely, lovely spot like this they would sojourn ;
Whate'er their mystic rites may be, no human eye is here,
Save mine, to mark their mystery----no human voice is near.

At such an hour, in such a scene, I could forget my birth-
I could forget I e'er have been, or am, a thing of earth;
Shake off the fleshly bonds that hold my soul in thrall, and be
Even like themselves, a spirit, as boundless and as free!

Ye shadowy race! if we believe the tales of legends old,
Ye sometimes hold high converse with those of mortal mould:
Oh! come, whilst now my soul is free, and bear me in your train,
Ne'er to return to misery and this dark world again !

THE TWISTING OF THE ROPE.*

Translated from the Irish, by E. WALSH.

WHAT mortal conflict drove me here to roam,
Though many a maid I've left behind at home;
Forth from the house where dwelt my heart's dear hope
I was turned by the hag at the twisting of the rope!

If thou be mine, be mine both day and night,
If thou be mine, be mine in all men's sight,
If thou be mine, be mine o'er all beside-
And oh, that thou wert now my wedded bride!

In Sligo first I did my love behold,

In Galway town I spent with her my gold

But by this hand, if thus they me pursue,

I'll teach these dames to dance a measure new!

* This song is of no intrinsic value, but becomes interesting from the following note appended to it by the translator:

"This is said to be the original song composed to that delightful tune, 'The Twisting of the Rope.' Tradition thus speaks of its origin: A Connaught harper, having once put up at the residence of a rich farmer, began to pay such attentions to the young woman of the house as greatly displeased her mother, who instantly conceived a plan

FOR I AM DESOLATE.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

THE Christmas light* is burning bright
In many a village pane,

And many a cottage rings to-night
With many a merry strain.

Young boys and girls run laughing by,
Their hearts and eyes elate

e;

I can but think on mine, and sigh,
For I am desolate !

There's none to watch in our old cot
Beside the holy light,

No tongue to bless the silent spot
Against the parting night.+

I've closed the door, and hither come
To mourn my lonely fate;

I cannot bear my own old home,
It is so desolate !

I saw my father's eyes grow dim,
And clasp'd my mother's knee ;

I saw my mother follow him,
My husband wept with me.
My husband did not long remain,

His child was left me yet;

But now my heart's last love is slain,
And I am desolate !

for the summary ejectment of the minstrel. She provided some hay, and requested the harper to twist the rope which she set about making. As the work progressed and the rope lengthened, the harper, of course, retired backward, till he went beyond the door of the dwelling, when the crafty matron suddenly shut the door in his face, and then threw his harp out at the window. The version sung in the south of Ireland has some additional stanzas, but I give the song as it is found in Hardiman's 'Minstrelsy,' vol. i., where it is left untranslated."

* At sunset on Christmas eve, in Irish houses, a large candle is lighted, which it is a kind of impiety to snuff, touch, or use for any ordinary purpose.

† It is the custom in Irish Catholic families to sit up till midnight on Christmas eve, in order to join in the devotion of the midnight mass. One of Carleton's powerful tales is founded on this custom, and is entitled The Midnight Mass.