'Tis there the courtier
He may transport her
Into some fort, or

All under ground.

For 'tis there's a cave where
No daylight enters,
But cats and badgers

Are for ever bred;

Being mossed by nature,
That makes it sweeter
Than a coach and six,

Or a feather bed.
'Tis there the lake is,
Well stored with perches,
And comely eels in

The verdant mud;
Besides the leeches,
And groves of beeches,
Standing in order

For to guard the flood.

There's statues gracing
This noble place in-
All heathen gods

And nymphs so fair:
Bold Neptune, Plutarch,
And Nicodemus,
All standing naked

In the open air!
So now to finish
This brave narration,
Which my poor geni
Could not entwine;
But were I Homer,
Or Nebuchadnezzar,
'Tis in every feature

I would make it shine.

In the "Reliques of Father Prout,"-that most diverting divine-an additional verse to this song is given, which no editor could omit without deserving to be hung up to dry on his own lines. Besides, a chief feature of "The Groves"-the "Blarney Stone," -which it is strange Milliken left unsung, is eulogised, with a force of illustration that must strike every M.P., and to which no lover could be insensible.

There is a stone there,

That whoever kisses,
Oh! he never misses

To grow eloquent;

F

"FATHER PROUT." Air, "Groves of Blarney."

So great was the popularity of the "Groves of Blarney" (the foregoing), that several songs have since appeared, written after the same fashion, of different degrees of merit indicating what a "floating capital" of ability must exist in a country when such things appear anonymously, "hit off" for an occasion, or to enliven the social circle, or merely as a safety-valve to the boiling mirth of the Irish temperament. Hamlet prays that he may not "burst in ignorance,”—these merry Irish dogs would certainly burst in silence. But amongst all such songs the following stands supreme:

THE town of Passage +

Is both large and spacious,
And situated

Upon the say;

'Tis nate and dacent,
And quite adjacent,
To come from Cork
On a summer's day.
There you may slip in,
To take a dippin'
Forenent the shippin'
That at anchor ride;
Or in a wherry
Cross o'er the ferry
To Carrigaloe

On the other side.

* An English friend of mine was much amused by an answer he received from a peasant at Blarney, when he inquired what was the particular virtue of the Blarney Stone. "Sure, it taiches you policy," says Pat. "What do you mean by policy?" asked my friend. "Why saying one thing, and mayning another." This definition of policy I offer as a tribute to the shade of Talleyrand, and make a present of to diplommatists in general.

+ Now called Queenstown, in commemeration of her Majesty's visit to the noble harbour of Cork.

Mud cabins swarm in
This place so charmin'
With sailors' garments
Hung out to dry;
And each abode is
Snug and commodious,
With pigs melodious,

In their straw-built sty.
'Tis there the turf is,
And lots of murphies *
Dead sprats and herrings,
And oyster-shells;
Nor any lack, oh!
Of good tobacco,

Though what is smuggled

By far excels.

There are ships from Cadiz,

And from Barbadoes,

But the leading trade is
In whiskey-punch;
And you may go in
Where one Molly Bowen
Keeps a nate hotel
For a quiet lunch.
But land or deck on,
You may safely reckon,
Whatsoever country

You come hither from,

On an invitation

To a jollification

With a parish priest,

That's called "Father Tom."

Of ships there's one fixt
For lodging convicts-
A floating"stone jug"
Of amazing bulk;
The hake and salmon,
Playing at bagammon,
Swim for divarsion

All round this hulk;
There "Saxon" jailors
Keep brave repailers,
Who soon with sailors
Must anchor weigh

* Potatoes.

From th' Em'rald Island,
Ne'er to see dry land
Until they spy land

In sweet Bot'ny Bay.*

THE BLARNEY.

S. C. HALL.

In a dramatic piece entitled "The Groves of Blarney," written for the lamented Tyrone Power (that admirable actor) by Mrs. S. C. Hall, the following song was sung. It was written by her husband, the descendant of an English gentleman, who, having visited Ireland, settled there, won by the attractions of the country (like many a one before and since), and that attachment to Ireland has increased in the son-and with good reason; for he won to wife one of the most gifted of Ireland's daughters, whose touching tales of her country, and sunny and shadowy sketches of its peasantry, have made her name celebrated and admired abroad, and beloved at home.

Он, when a young bachelor woos a young maid
Who's eager to go and yet willing to stay,
She sighs and she blushes, and looks half afraid,
Yet loses no word that her lover can say,
What is it she hears but the Blarney?
Oh, a perilous thing is this Blarney!

To all that he tells her she gives no reply,

Or murmurs and whispers so gentle and low;
And though he has asked her when nobody's by,
She dare not say 66 yes," and she cannot say "no."
She knows what she hears is the Blarney,
Oh, a perilous thing is the Blarney!

"

*To the present generation it may not be unnecessary to state, that Botany Bay is the old name for the place of "transportation beyond the seas.' "Australia" is a name coined since the early days of repeal. In Cook's Voyages of Discovery, it is stated that the name Botany Bay was given to the place in consequence of the number of strange plants and flowers found there by Dr. Solander (if I remember rightly). To give an instance of the playful spirit in which the Irish treat the most serious matters, I am tempted to trespass on the space usually allowed to a note; but redundancy is better than baldness. A gentleman issuing from the court where the Judge was delivering a somewhat lengthy address to some prisoners he was sentencing to transportation, was accosted by a friend, who asked what was going on inside-" Oh," says he, "Lord became so scientific that I got tired and came away." "How, scientific?" said the other. "Oh," answered he, "he is delivering a lecture on Botany." I remember, too, when a new pile of building was added to the Trinity College, Dublin, for additional chambers for the students, that they, in consequence of its being in a somewhat out-ofthe-way place, called it "Botany Bay." Oh, merry Ireland! Fun presides in all your temples-those of the Muse and Justice included.

But people get used to a perilous thing,

And fancy the sweet words of lovers are true;
So, let all their Blarney be passed through a ring,
The charm will prevent all the ill it can do,

And maids have no fear of the Blarney,
Nor the peril that lies in the Blarney!

THE BLARNEY.

SAMUEL LOVER. Air, "Kate Kearney."

Truly the gift of language, to which tradition holds the "Blarney Stone" entitled, seems not to be given for nothing, if we may judge from all the words that have been spent upon it. Here is another lyric in celebration of its powers. To those conversant with Irish songs it will be seen that it is almost a parody on that old favourite, written by Lady Morgan, commencing

"Oh, did you ne'er hear of Kate Kearney,
Who lived on the banks of Killarney?"

Он, did you ne'er hear of the Blarney,
That's found near the banks of Killarney?
Believe it from me,

No girl's heart is free,

Once she hears the sweet sound of the Blarney.

For the Blarney's so great a desaiver,

That a girl thinks you're there-tho' you leave her,
And never finds out

All the thricks you're about,

Till she's quite gone herself, with your Blarney.

Oh, say, would you find this same Blarney,
There's a castle, not far from Killarney,
On the top of the wall—

But take care you don't fall—

There's a stone that contains all this Blarney.

Like a magnet, it's influence such is,

That attraction it gives all it touches,

If you kiss it, they say,

That from that blessed day,

You may kiss whom you plaze, with your Blarney.

Blarney Castle has been a fertile theme for poets of all degrees. I have seen a queer anonymous song lamenting its destruction by Oliver Cromwell, on whom the national poets always pour out their vials of wrath; and, indeed, no wonder, notwithstanding