There's not a mile in Ireland's isle And the snakes committed suicide Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue In soups and second courses. Where blind-worms crawling in the grass He gave them a rise, which opened their eyes Oh, success, &c. No wonder that those Irish lads No wonder that the Saint himself Since his mother kept a sheebeen shop* Oh, success, &c. Oh! was I but so fortunate As to be back in Munster, 'Tis I'd be bound, that from that ground For there St. Patrick planted turf, And plenty of the praties; With pigs galore, ma gra, ma store, † And cabbages-and ladies! Then my blessing on St. Patrick's fist, For he's the darling Saint, O! Oh, he gave the snakes and toads a twist He's a beauty without paint, O! *To the English reader it is necessary to explain that a sheebeen is a low whiskey shop. + In plenty, my love, my treasure. It is worthy of remark that the freedom of the Irish soil from all venomous reptiles, which is vulgarly attributed to St. Patrick (as alluded to in this song), is noticed as early as the year 840, by DONAT, an Irish ecclesiastic, who ultimately became an Italian bishop. The allusion is made in some laudatory Latin verses, which have been thus rendered into English :-(Vide "Specimens of the early Native Poetry of Ireland," by Henry R. Montgomery.) Far westward lies an isle of ancient fame, Her fruitful soil for ever teems with wealth; No savage bear with lawless fury roves; No rav'ning lion through her sacred groves; No poison there infects-no scaly snake Creeps though the grass, nor frogst annoy the lake ; An island worthy of its pious race, In war triumphant, and unmatched in peace. * Scotia was the name belonging exclusively to Ireland up to the third century, in the course of which the Irish colonised Argyleshire; Scotland was previously known as Caledonia and Albania. Subsequently, to distinguish the two countries, Scotland was called Scotia Minor. Spenser alludes to this in his "View of the State of Ireland," thus:"for those Scots are Scythians, arrived (as I said) in the north parts of Ireland; where some of them after passed into the next coast of Albine, now called Scotland, which, after much trouble, they possessed, and of themselves named Scotland therefore it cometh thence, that, of some writers, Ireland is called Scotia Major, and that which is now called Scotland, Scotia Minor." This distinction was well known on the continent, where the learned speak of the "Scots of Albany," and "Hibernian Scots." Bayle, in an article on an Irish ecclesiastic and poet, who flourished in the fifth century, named "Shiel”—(Latinized, as was the custom of the age, into "Sedulius")-enters into a disquisition as to whether the poet and the ecclesiastic were not distinct persons, and in that article he speaks of “L'inscription d'un excellent manuscrit de L'Abbaie de Fulde," and that inscription is, "Sedulii Scoti Hyberniensis in omnes Epistolas Pauti collectaneum." The Scotch, of recent times, are in general singularly disinclined to admit these historic facts, though their own men of mark and learning allow it to be true. Buchanan admits it. Sir Walter Scott admits the line of Scottish kings to be derived from Ireland. James I. admitted the same thing, and gave it as a reason why he should care for Ireland. But why, it may be asked, is all this old history raked up for a note in a collection of songs? Gentle reader, that is the very reason why it is raked up; for Ireland had bards as well as kings, and these bards, and their music, found their way to Scotland; and many an Irish air has Scotland claimed that she is not entitled to. Let an illustrious Scotchman speak in evidence-here are the words of Robert Burns: "Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are downright Irish. If they were like the Banks of Banna, for instance, though really Irish, yet in the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so fond of Irish music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an additional number? We could easily find this quantity of charming airs; I will take care that you shall not want songs; and I assure you you would find it the most saleable of the whole.”— BURNS to THOMSON, Sept. 1793. The passages given in Italics in this bit of evidence show, not only that the airs were Irish, but that Burns, as may be inferred, thought them superior to the Scotch; while Mr. Thomson, in a letter of his own, admits their high quality, at the same time reconciling himself to his act of spoliation, right royally, thus : "We have several true-born Irishmen on the Scottish list, but they are now naturalized, and reckoned our own good subjects." (What regal condescension!) "Indeed, we have none better."-THOMSON to BURNS, Feb. 5th, 1796. Verdict for the plaintiff-the case being proved by the defendant's witnesses. For a special case of a defeated Scotch claim, see page 38 in this volume. + It is said by Mr. Henry R. Montgomery, in his most interesting volume already quoted, that frogs were really unknown in Ireland until propagated from spawn introduced as an experiment by a Fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, What a strange taste for experiments this old gentleman must have had! Perhaps there is sympathy between frogs and Fellows-every freshman knows that, in the examination-hall, at least, Fellows are rather given to croaking. It is a curious fact, too, that this very university was represented in Parliament some forty years ago by the Right Hon, John Wilson Croker. INSPIRING FOUNT OF CHEERING WINE. A close translation from the Irish. Air, "Tiagharna Mhaighe-eo" (Lord Mayo). INSPIRING fount of cheering wine! Mayo, whose valour sweeps the field And swells the trump of fame. May Heaven's high power the champion shield, Of glory's sons, oh, thou the heir Thou branch of honour's root! Oh! bid thy exiled bard return,— No more in absence let him mourn, And every good supply! Thy death his days would quickly close Who lives but in thy grace; And ne'er on earth can taste repose 'Till thou shalt seal his peace! This song is the production of an humble dependant of Lord Mayo, named David Murphy, his harper, who having got into disgrace, hid himself in Lord Mayo's hall on a certain Christmas eve after nightfall; and, in the hope of winning back forgiveness, made a twin outpouring of music and verse. The verse is nothing particular, but is about as good as mere laudatory verses can be, and may be considered remarkable as the production of an uneducated man. But it is the music which has made this song so celebrated. It is a most noble melody. Bunting calls it "one of the finest productions that ever did honour to any country." For the story, see "Walker's Irish Bards." SMALILOU. in the It is among my earliest recollections hearing this queer old song very well sung county Westmeath. It may be given as representing a certain class of song once popular in Ireland, love-making the staple of all such; if with a spice of difficulty, good;-if of difficulty overcome, better. Though not of much literary merit, there is some fun in it: so far, at least, it is Irish. THERE was an Irish lad Who loved a cloister'd nun, For what was to be done? He thought it a big shame, That she could not get out at all And he could not get in: Yet he went every day, as he could do no more— Yet he went every day unto the convent door; And he sung sweetly, Smalilou, smalilou, smalilou! And he sung sweetly, Smalilou, gra-ma-chree, and Paddy-whack. To catch a glimpse of her He play'd a thousand tricks; The bolts he tried to stir, And he gave the walls some kicks; He stamp'd and rav'd, and sigh'd and pray'd, The divil twist the iron bolts The divil burn the door. Yet he went every day, he made it quite a rule, Yet he went every day-and look'd very like a fool Though he sung sweetly, &c. One morn she left her bed, Because she could not sleep, And to the window sped To take a little peep: And what did she do then ? I'm sure you'll think it right She bade the honest lad good day, She bade the nuns good night: Tenderly she listen'd to all he had to say, Then jump'd into his arms, and so they ran away! And they sung sweetly, Smalilou, smalilou, smalilou! And they sung sweetly, Smalilou, gra-ma-chree, and Paddy-whack. The refrain of this song is open to the same censure as a large class of the songs of the period-it is utterly senseless-mere gibberish, but supposed to be Irish because it winds up with "Paddy-whack." Fortunately we know better now, THE MONKS OF THE ORDER OF ST. PATRICK, COMMONLY CALLED THE MONKS OF THE SCREW. Right Hon. JOHN PHILPOT CUrran. This celebrated Society was partly political and partly convivial; it consisted of two partsprofessed and lay brothers. As the latter had no privileges except that of commons in the refectory, they are unnoticed here. The professed (by the constitution) consisted of members of either house of Parliament, and barristers, with the addition from the other learned professions of any numbers not exceeding a third of the whole. They assembled every Saturday in Convent,* during termtime, and commonly held a chapter before commons, at which the Abbot presided, or in his (very rare) absence, the Prior, or senior officer present. Upon such occasions all the members appeared in the habit of the order, a black tabinet domino. Temperance and Sobriety always prevailed. Mr. Curran (who was Prior of the order) being asked one day to sing a song, after commons, said he would give them one of his own, and sang the following, which was adopted at once as the charter song of the Society, and was called "The Monks of the Screw." WHEN St. Patrick this order established. He called us the "Monks of the Screw;" That the fountain should never run dry. Each year, when your octaves approach, Leave your favourite temptation behind you. Unless on a festival found; And, this rule to enforce, I ordain it My brethren, be chaste, till you're tempted; Yet, in honour of fasting, one lean face If the Abbot should please, he may wear it, If not, let it come to the Prior.† The Convent was in St. Kevin Street, Dublin. + William Doyle (Master in Chancery) the Abbot, had a remarkably large full face. Mr. Curran's was the very reverse. |