From the Irish. Translated by SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A.

There are other translations of this fine old Irish burst of poetry, but Mr. Ferguson's is incomparably the best.

BARK that bears me through foam and squall,

You in the storm are my castle wall;

Though the sea should redden from bottom to top,
From tiller to mast she takes no drop.

On the tide top, the tide top,
Wherry aroon,* my land and store!
On the tide top, the tide top,
She is the boat can sail go-leor.+

She dresses herself, and goes gliding on,
Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn;
For God has blessed her, gunnel and wale-
And oh! if you saw her stretch out to the gale,
On the tide top, the tide top, &c.

Whillan, ahoy! old heart of stone,
Stooping so black o'er the beach alone,
Answer me well-On the bursting brine
Saw you ever a bark like mine?

On the tide top, the tide top, &c.

* "Aroon" is a term of endearment.

The Irish go-leor, in this place, may find its equivalent in the English phrase, "Enough and to spare."

The name of a rock in Blacksod Bay. This shows the poem to be of Sligo origin.

Says Whillan-Since first I was made of stone.
I have looked abroad o'er the beach alone-
But, till to-day, on the bursting brine
Saw I never a bark like thine!

On the tide top, the tide top, &c.

God of the air! the seamen shout

When they see us tossing the brine about:

Give us the shelter of strand or rock,

Or through and through us she goes with a shock !
On the tide top, the tide top, &c.

How full of spirit, how descriptive, how exulting is this fine burst, which I should suppose to belong to an early period, from the antique outline about it. The appeal to the rock, and the rock echoing, as it were, an answer nearly in the words in which it was addressed, is quite Oriental in its character, indicating the source of the Irish language. In the last verse, the fear the boat inspires in all who lie in her track, that she will go "through and through" them, partakes also of eastern hyperbole. This would have been just the boat for "Barny O'Reirdon,"—if I may be allowed to allude to him-when he cautioned all before him to "get out of his nor'-east coorse!"

SONG.

From "The Buccaneer."

Mrs. S. C. HALL.

Here, again, a poetical trifle enables the editor to enrich his pages with a name more noted in prose than in verse-a name holding a distinguished place in the literature of Ireland; and while the works of Mrs. Hall are as amusing as those of most authors, she contrives to make them useful also. Many a piece of good advice is given to the people of her native land, many an incentive to self-reliance, and industry, and prudence; but done so gently, in a spirit so sweet and womanly, that it never offends; and while she exposes errors that lie on the surface of Irish character, she never forgets to represent the many excellent qualities that lie deeper. Some of her tales of the Irish peasantry are exquisitely touching-sunny and shadowy, like the people themselves. I have already, in a previous brief allusion, spoken of Mrs. Hall as one of the most gifted of Ireland's daughters, and borne witness to her name being celebrated abroad, and beloved at home.

O'ER the clear quiet waters

My gondola glides,

And gently it wakens

The slumbering tides,

All nature is waiting

Beneath and above,

While earth and while heaven

Are breathing of love!

In vain are they breathing,
Earth-heaven-to me,

Though their beauty and calmness
Are whispers of thee,

For the bright sky must darken,
The earth must be grey,

Ere the deep gloom that saddens
My soul pass away!

But see, the last day-beam
Grows pale-ere it die,

And the dark clouds are passing
All over the sky,

I hear thy light footsteps,
Thy fair form I see-

Ah! the twilight has told thee
Who watches for thee!

THE LEAVES SO GREEN.

WHEN life hath left this senseless clay,
By all but thee forgot;

Oh! bear me, dearest, far away,

To some green lonely spot:

Where none with careless step may tread

The grass upon my grave,

But gently o'er my narrow bed

"The leaves so green" may wave.

The wild flowers, too, I loved so well,

Shall breathe their sweetness there,

While thrush and blackbird's song shall swell Amid the fragrant air.

No noisy burst of joy or woe

Will there disturb my rest,

But silent tears in secret flow

From those who loved me best.

NED OF THE HILL.

From "Songs and Ballads," by SAMUEL LOVER.

Many legends are extant of this romantic minstrel freebooter, whose predatory achievements sometimes extended to the hearts of the gentle sex.

DARK is the evening, and silent the hour,
Who is the minstrel by yonder lone tower?
His harp all so tenderly touching with skill;
Oh, who should it be, but Ned of the Hill?
Who sings, "Lady love, come to me now,
Come and live merrily under the bough,
And I'll pillow thy head,

Where the fairies tread,

If thou wilt but wed with Ned of the Hill!"

Ned of the Hill has no castle nor hall,
Nor spearmen nor bowmen to come at his call;
But one little archer, of exquisite skill,
Has shot a bright shaft for Ned of the Hill,
Who sings, "Lady love, come to me now,
Come and live merrily under the bough,
And I'll pillow thy head,
Where the fairies tread,

If thou wilt but wed with Ned of the hill!"

'Tis hard to escape from that fair lady's bower,
For high is the window, and guarded the tower;
"But there's always a way where there is a will,”
So Ellen is off with Ned of the Hill!

Who sings, "Lady love, thou art mine now!
We will live merrily under the bough,

And I'll pillow thy head,
Where the fairies tread,

For Ellen is wed to Ned of the Hill!"

I am sorry to say the termination of the love suit, pictured in this ballad, was not so happy as imagination framed it. After the warmth of fiction, here is the coldness of reality. Edmond O'Ryan was the name of this minstrel outlaw, familiarly known as "Ned of the Hill." His memory is still affectionately cherished by the Irish peasant, in song and legend. He has a double claim to the affections of a warm-hearted and imaginative people-he was a martyr and a minstrel. He lost his property by following the fortunes of the Stuarts, and became an outlaw chieftain ; and it would seem that upon this change of fortune he was forsaken by the lady of his love, if we may judge from a passionate strain of complaint he pours forth in his own native Irish. But in all this plaint, and a long one too, he never laments his loss of property. No; the loss of that false woman's heart was his only regret there is something excessively touching in this. The original Irish poem is called "Edmond O'Ryan's Love Elegy," and has been admirably translated by Miss Brooke; but, though every verse is beauti

ful, it is too long for insertion at length here, and only a few lines and verses are given. One stanza justifies my own line

"We will live merrily under the bough."

For Edmond himself says, more elaborately, that if his love were with him

"Sweet would seem the holly shade,

Bright the clustering berries growing;
And, in scented bloom array'd,

Apple blossoms * round us blowing."

He thus passionately describes his feelings upon being deserted

"O, sickness past all medicine's art,

O sorrow every grief exceeding,
O wound that in my breaking heart,
Cureless, deep, to death art bleeding."

He then apostrophises the nightingale, and exclaims

"Mine, O hapless bird, thy fate!

The plunder'd nest, the lonely sorrow!

The lost, the lov'd harmonius mate!

The wailing night-the cheerless morrow!"

This, I think, must be acknowledged as very pathetic, particularly in the second linethere is something almost painfully expressive of bereavement and desolation in

"The plunder'd nest-the lonely sorrow."

Finally, notwithstanding his wrongs, he says, with a devotedness that deserved a better requital

"Still my heart its faith shall prove,

And its last sigh shall breathe to bless thee!"

THE DAWNING OF THE DAY.

AT early dawn I once had been
Where Lene's + blue waters flow,
When summer bid the groves be green,
The lamp of light to glow-

As on by bower, and town, and tower,
And wide-spread fields I stray,

I meet a maid in the greenwood shade,
At the dawning of the day.

Her feet and beauteous head were bare,
No mantle fair she wore,

But down her waist fell golden hair
That swept the tall grass o'er ;
With milking-pail she sought the vale,
And bright her charms' display,
Outshining far the morning star,

At the dawning of the day.

* The frequency of allusion to the apple blossom is remarkable in the poetry of the

native Irish.

Lene, Killarney.