Yet tis better to run To the fate we can't shun To strive, for What cannot be won. What ye Gods have I done Is so treated And hated For Loving but one? Moore, in the seventh number of the Irish Melodies, makes a note to his song of "When cold in the earth," written to this beautiful "Irish Tune:" "Our right to this fine air (the 'Lochaber' of the Scotch) will, I fear, be disputed; but as it has been long connected with Irish words, and is confidently claimed for us by Mr. Bunting and others, I thought I should not be authorised in leaving it out of this collection." How pleased Moore would have been could he have seen the proof, given in the note above, establishing beyond all doubt that the air is Irish. I confess it is a great pleasure to me-not that I ever doubted the air was Irish, for its own internal evidence is quite enough for any musician conversant with the character of the music of the two countries; but it is a pleasure to me, I say, to give so conclusive a proof to others, that this exquisite melody is an "IRISH TUNE." In the fly-leaf of the volume whence the above song is taken, there is written, in a firm hand, "Nar Luttrell. His Book. 1679-80." So that, most likely, it belonged to that Narcissus Luttrell whose copious diary has lately issued from the Oxford University press. COME ALL YOU PALE LOVERS. THOMAS DUFFETT, 1676. Here is another song by Duffett. He was of sufficient note to have his name recorded in Lempriere's Universal Biography; but there is little information given about him except that he "flourished in the 17th century." That he was Irish, his name vouches for, and the rapid recurrence of rhymes in the foregoing song is also characteristic of his country; it may be remarked, also, that the rhyme "hated" is given to answer "treated"-which implies an Irish pronunciation (trated) on the part of the writer. There is a good deal of vivacity in many of Duffett's songs; but they are tainted with the licentious spirit of the age in which he wrote, making them, like many better ones of the same date, unfit for selection. The following, however, is unexceptionable; and the 'take-it-easy' style in which he satisfies himself with his imaginary fair one is very Irish in its humour. It has not any head line, for title, but is given as under; and in this, as in the foregoing song, the typographical peculiarities are copied. Song set by Mr. MARSH junior. Come all you pale Lovers that sigh and complain, To be happy and free, In spight of Inconstancy, Pride or Disdain. I see and I Love, and the Bliss I enjoy, My Mistress so fair is, no Language or Art, With such ease she can kill : Each look with new passion she captives my heart. No rival, &c. Her smiles, the kind message of Love from her eyes, I convert to delight, As the Bee gathers Honey where ever he flies. I see, &c., No rival, &c. My vows she receives from her Lover unknown, If our Hearts did agree Since already I find so much Pleasure alone. I see, and I love, and the Bliss I enjoy, ODE TO THE MINSTREL O'CONNELLAN. BORN, 1640. Translated from the Irish, by SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A. Having occasion to mention the name of O'Connellan in the leading note to "Since Coelia's my foe," wherein it is stated he was called "The Great Harper," I think this is a fitting place to insert the following ode in his honour; for though the ode does not properly come within the range of this section, yet, in connection with the note alluded to, the place is not inappropriate, and it may be inferred with what a charm his execution invested the lovely Irish air he introduced into Scotland. ENCHANTER, who reignest Supreme o'er the North, In vain Europe's minstrels When thy swift, slender fingers Go forth on the wire. There is no heart's desire Enchanter, I say, For thy magical skill Who hear thee, they praise thee, And weep while they praise, For, charmer, thou stealest Thy strain from the fays! There are three versions of this beautiful ode. MOLLY ASTORE. Rt. Hon. GEORGE OGLE. Born, 1739. Died, 1814. Esteemed both in private and public, Mr. Ogle represented the city of Dublin in 1799, and voted against the Union. And here a little anecdote on the subject of voting for the Union may not be inappropriate. It is well known that bribery to an enormous amount was employed to secure a majority on that occasion. Places and pensions, and "ready money down," too, were given so freely, that some greedy jobbers opened their mouths very wide indeed, and, knowing how narrow the majority must be, one gentleman, towards the close of the negotiation (not Mr. Ogle), put such an enormous price on his adhesion to the Government that his terms could not be complied with. Consequently, he voted in the minority with the opposition, though it was well known he had been trafficking with the other side; and when, the next day, he was seen walk. ing about with a very melancholy expression of countenance, one of the uncom promising Hibernian members said to another, "What do you think of our patriotic friend there?" as he pointed him out. "I think he's a sorry patriot," was the answer. And now, revenons à nos moutons. This charming pastoral was addressed, it is supposed, to a certain Miss Moore, whom the author afterwards married. Lucky dog! Would to heaven all plaintive poets had a similar reward-though it is not quite certain that they'd never complain after. "Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine A sad, sour, sober beverage-by time Is sharpened from its high celestial flavour But I think I hear the ladies say, "Oh, fie!" so I'll "leave my damnable faces" (after the vinegar) and let the song begin. As down by Banna's banks I strayed, One evening in May, The little birds, in blithest notes, They sung their little notes of love, The daisy pied, and all the sweets Ah, gra-ma-chree, ma colleen oge, I laid me down upon a bank, Bewailing my sad fate, That doomed me thus the slave of love, And cruel Molly's hate; How can she break the honest heart That wears her in its core ? Ah, gra-ma-chree, ma colleen oge, My Molly astore. You said you loved me, Molly dear ! Ah! why did I believe ! Yet who could think such tender words Were meant but to deceive ? * Which may be translated thus:-"Love of my heart-my young girl, Molly my treasure!" That love was all I asked on earth- Oh! had I all the flocks that graze Or lowed for me the numerous herds Two turtle doves, above my head I envied them their happiness, To see them bill and coo. Such fondness once for me was shown, But now, alas ! 'tis o'er. Ah, gra-ma-chree, ma colleen oge. My Molly astore. Then fare thee well, my Molly dear! Thy loss I e'er shall moan, Whilst life remains in this fond heart, "Twill beat for thee alone; Though thou art false, may Heaven on thee Its choicest blessings pour. Ah, gra-ma-chree, ma colleen oge. My Molly astore. This song had a great popularity, a popularity increased by the great beauty of the music-one of the finest of our Irish airs—and it is still popular in Ireland. But a dangerous rival to it appeared, from the pen of Sheridan, a song in "The Duenna," under the title, "Had I a heart for falsehood framed,"—and that most charming song divided the sway in Ireland with its predecessor, and seized the crown altogether in England. But a lyrical Alexander afterwards appeared, who deposed all the old kings of song, and the beautiful air of "Molly Astore," which already inspired the writing of two admirable lyrics, had a triple glory added in the noble song of "The harp that once thro' Tara's hall," by Moore, and I will venture on a prediction in a parody The force of conquest can no further go! |