Now Dermot, as old village chroniclers tell,
Between the two legions was tried pretty well ;-
They both had a pull at him.—Which did prevail
You shall see very soon-so, to finish my tale.

One winter's day, when the sea rolled black,
With a fringe of white on its foamy track,
A storm-toss'd ship by the Skelligs past,
With shattered sail and shiver'd mast;
Vainly she strives to weather the shore-
Brave ship, thy course on the ocean's o'er ;
Nor sail, nor helm, nor mariner's might,
Can save thee from being a wreck this night.

The fishermen crowd with coil and rope,

To the cliff where the doom'd ones drive; For a while on the earth and the sea was hope, But nought with the might of the storm could cope'Twas a scene that the heart might rive;

The faces of hardy fishermen paled,

And women shrieked, and children wail'd,

While the old village priest lent his hand to the toil,
Heaving the cable and casting the coil,

Cheering his flock with his voice and his blessing,
While deep invocations to Heaven addressing,
And when mortal might could no more essay,
He exhorted his children to kneel and pray."

A sight more solemn was seldom seen,
Than that on the stormy cliff, I ween:
They might not cast down to the sea a rope-
But to Heaven they could raise the holy hope!
And down they knelt in that stormy night;
The lightning's flash was the altar's light,
And they felt as they knelt on the drenched sod,
The thunder, as 'twere the voice of God.
With awful burst and solemn roll

Calling away the sinful soul;

And trembling they pray

For the castaway,

And many a bead they tell,

As over the billows madly-rolling

The screaming sea-mew circling went,

While the wailing wind was strangely blent
With the clang of the chapel bell-

Tolling, tolling, solemnly tolling

The mariners' funeral knell.

When morning dawn'd, the storm was gone,
But the thundering waves kept rolling on ;
And the eyes of the village were set on the sea,
To mark how much of the wreck might be.
Her naked ribs stand gaunt and grim,
While planks and spars in riot swim,
And, among them floating, can Dermot scan
A part of the wreck of the merchantman ;
'Twas a laden cask.-The father and son
By a glance implied what might yet be done!
"Twas wine-the rich wine of sunny Spain,'
If Dermot a cask of that wine could gain,
With the gold he should get for his stormy prize
The dream of his heart he might realise;

He then might wed Peggy !—The thought and the act

Of the father and son were as one; they track'd

Down the cliff their swift way, and as swiftly their boat
They launch through the foam, on the waves they're afloat-
Have a care how you pull !—not a stroke must you miss!
The brave buoyant boat down the wat'ry abyss
Sweeps deeply and swiftly, then up the white crest
Of the wave overhanging, she lifts her broad breast,
And casts off the foam-like a sea-bird, whose feather

Is made for the storming of hurricane weather.

High heaves the huge wine-cask! they pull might and main, As near and more near on the waif they gain,

And a coil and a grapple unerringly threw

The hand of the lover-well done, Donoghue !

The cask is secured !-How his heart bounded then!

He'd have not changed his lot with the proudest of men,

As, lashing his prize to the stern of the boat,

With a heart-wild hurrah Dermot opened his throat,
And then bent his sinewy arm to the oar,

To pull his rich prize where the tide swept on shore;
But while with fond triumph his bosom beat high,
While hope swell'd his heart and joy flashed in his eye,
He heard o'er the waters a wild wailing cry,
And he hung on the oar with a paralys'd dread :-
For the cry was a cry might have waken'd the dead,
As up rose a fragment of wreck o'er the wave,
Where a man clung for life-o'er a watery grave,
Unless Dermot row back that wild shrieker to save.

With his prize at the stern, he can't row 'gainst the storm, Where the billows surge up round the drowning man's form. O! what shall he do?-If he cling to his prize,

Then surely that poor shipwreck'd mariner dies.

If the prize he give up-then he loses a wife;
He then must abandon what's dearer than life,—
So he looked to his father, with death on his cheek,
He looked for in vain had he striven to speak;
And his father said, "Dermot, my boy, I am old,
I can bear for the rest of my life the keen cold
Of poverty's blast—but for you, darling boy,
With that rich cask of wine, there are long years of joy ;
So do what you like-save the man-or the cask-
God forgive me, if answering wrong what you ask.”

O! could you have seen the dark look of despair
Young Donoghue cast on his prize safely there,
While he hears the shrill cry of the fast-sinking sailor,
And pale as his cheek was just then it grew paler!
Fierce, fierce was the struggle the foul fiend had nigh
Made Donoghue deaf to the drowning man's cry,

But Heaven heard the short prayer the young fisherman made
To aid him—and swiftly he drew forth his blade,
And the rough-handled knife of a fisherman wrought
A victory more glorious than sword ever fought;
A victory o'er self, and a victory o'er love-
That passion all passions supremely above—
He cut the strong lashings that held his rich prize,
He was deaf to the calls of his own heart's wild cries,
While the cry of another that noble heart heeds-
O! talk not of laurel-crown'd conquerors' deeds,
Compared with this fisherman's feat of the ocean,
This single-soul'd triumph of Christian devotion !

High heaven is not slow in rewarding the good.
When Dermot the drowning man saved from the flood,
How his heart in its generous virtue grew brave,

When he found 'twas his brother he'd snatch'd from the wave!
His brother-who long had been absent at sea

In a war-ship, and prize-money plenty made he;

The money was safe with the agent on shore

Let the wine-cask be lost in the breakers' wild roar,

As the prize-money freely was shar'd with poor Dermot,
And Hymen gave thirsty young Cupid a permit,
For Peggy was married to brave Donoghue,
The loving, unselfish, and manly and true;
And, to end, as tales ended in my boyish day,
"If they didn't live happy, that you and I may !"

This story, like the foregoing, is founded on fact, and exhibits a trial of patience that one wonders human nature could support. Passive endurance we know is more difficult than active; and that which is recorded in the following tale is strictly true. The main facts were communicated to me many years ago, in the course of one of many pleasant rambles through my native land, by a gentleman of the highest character, whose courtesy and store of anecdote rendered a visit to his house memorable-I speak of the late Christopher Bellew, Esq., of Mount Bellew, County of Galway.

FATHER Roach was a good Irish priest,

Who stood in his stocking-feet, six feet, at least.
I don't mean to say he'd six feet in his stockings;
He only had two-so leave off with your mockings-

I know that you think I was making a blunder:
If Paddy says lightning, you think he means thunder:
So I'll say, in his boots, Father Roach stood to view
A fine comely man, of six feet two.

O, a pattern was he of a true Irish priest,

To carve the big goose at the big wedding feast,8
To peel the big pratie, and take the big can,
(With a very big picture upon it of "Dan,")9
To pour out the punch for the bridegroom and bride,
Who sat smiling and blushing on either side,

While their health went around—and an innocent glee
Rang merrily under the old roof-tree.

Father Roach had a very big parish,

By the very big name of Knockdundherumdharish,
With plenty of bog, and with plenty of mountain-
The miles he'd to travel would throuble you countin'.
The duties were heavy to go through them all;

Of the wedding and christ'ning, the mass, and sick-call—
Up early, down late, was the good parish pastor-
Few ponies than his were obliged to go faster.

He'd a big pair o' boots, and a purty big pony,

The boots greased with fat-but the baste was but bony;
For the pride of the flesh was so far from the pastor,
That the baste thought it manners to copy his master;
And, in this imitation, the baste, by degrees,
Would sometimes attempt to go down on his knees;
But in this too-great freedom the Father soon stopp'd him
With a dig of the spurs, or, if need be, he whopp'd him.

And Father Roach had a very big stick,

Which could make very thin any crowd he found thick ;
In a fair he would rush through the heat of the action,
And scatter, like chaff to the wind, ev'ry faction.
If the leaders escaped from the strong holy man,

He made sure to be down on the heads of the clan,

And the Blackfoot who courted each foeman's approach,

Faith, 'tis hot-foot he'd fly from the stout Father Roach."

Father Roach had a very big mouth,

For the brave broad brogue of the beautiful South;

In saying the mass, sure his fine voice was famous,

It would do your heart good just to hear his "OREMUS,"

Which brought down the broad-shoulder'd boys to their knees,

As aisy as winter shakes leaves from the trees :

But the rude blast of winter could never approach,

The power of the sweet voice of good Father Roach.