But, before I did that, sure I saw her fat sister,
Which placed in my heart quite another design:
'Tis a bit of a thing

That a body might sing,

Just to set you agoing, and season the wine.

'Tis thus I go on, ever constant and blest,
For I find I've a great store of love in my breast,
And it never grows cool, for whenever I try
To get one in my heart-I get two in my eye;
Thus to all kinds of beauties I pay my devotions,
And all sorts of liquors by turns I make mine:
So I'll finish the thing,

Now you see that I sing,

With a bumper to woman, to season our wine.

This was a favourite song of the celebrated Irish comedian familiarly known by the name of Jack Johnson, alluded to somewhere else in this volume. Though in the first verse the music is said to be "not mighty fine," the air is really a very sweet and characteristic Irish melody, to which Moore has written; and in the last edition of his works he gives an example of that care he bestowed in polishing his compositions up to the very last, a care he so much admired in others, and for which he so often praises Sheridan. In the first edition of the Melodies the song begins thus:

"This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another like waves of the deep,
Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,
Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep."

In the last general edition of his works we find this variation:

"Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows."

However, in this instance I think he sacrifices clearness to elegance; but in the last four lines of the first verse he is more successful: these are the lines as originally published :"But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy,

With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise;

Be ours the light grief that is sister to joy,

And the short brilliant folly that flashes and dies!"

Here is the variation :

"Be ours the light sorrow, half-sister to joy,

And the light brilliant folly that flashes and dies!"

The half-sister is very happy, and the line altogether improved as far as elegance of composition is concerned; but the truth is, Moore wrote the verses first for singing, and for that purpose they are better in their original form; he made the variations for reading, and for that purpose they are improved: so fine was his ear, so fastidious his taste.

In the second verse the original stands—

"When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,

Thro' fields full of sunshine, with heart full of play."

The variation is very superior

"Thro' fields full of light, and with heart full of play."

There are some more of these touches of finish, ad unguem; but I must not trespass further, however tempted by admiration. The more I think of the perfection of his songs, the more I regret there are so few of them in this volume.

THE POPE HE LEADS A HAPPY LIFE.

CHARLES LEVER. From the German.

THE Pope he leads a happy life,
He knows no cares nor marriage strife;
He drinks the best of Rhenish wine-
I would the Pope's gay lot were mine.

But yet not happy is his life-
He loves no maid or wedded wife,
Nor child hath he to cheer his hope—
I would not wish to be the Pope.

The Sultan better pleases me,
He leads a life of jollity,

Has wives as many as he will—

I would the Sultan's throne then fill.

But yet he's not a happy man-
He must obey the Alcoran :

And dares not taste one drop of wine-
I would not that his lot were mine.

So here I take my lowly stand,
I'll drink my own, my native land;
I'll kiss my maiden's lips divine,
And drink the best of Rhenish wine.

And when my maiden kisses me
I'll fancy I the Sultan be;

And when my cheering glass I tope
I'll fancy then I am the Pope.

Whether the above is a close or a free translation, I know not; but I do know it was originally written for, and sung at, the festive meetings of the "Burschen Club" of Dublin, by the author; and I cannot name that club without many a reminiscence of bright evenings, and of bright friends that made them such. Brightest among them all was my early and valued friend Charles Lever-by title "King" of the Burschenshaft, while my humbler self was honoured with the title of their "Minstrel," they having recognised in me some qualities which the world was afterwards good enough to acknowledge. Many, indeed most of the men of that club, have since become distinguished; and what songs were written for occasions by all of them! What admirable fooling of the highest class was there! In the words of Hamlet, we fooled each other to the top of our bent; but over all the wildest mirth there was a presiding good taste I never once saw violated. A distinguished old barrister, who had known much of the former bright days of Dublin, was our guest on one occasion, and he said that he never had wit

nessed anything like our festive board, since the famous "Monks of the Screw." Oh! merry times of the Burschenshaft, how often I recall you :-and yet there is sometimes a dash of sadness in the recollection. Too truly says the song

"The walks where we've roam'd without tiring,

The songs that together we've sung,

The jest, to whose merry inspiring

Our mingling of laughter hath rung;
O, trifles like these become precious,
Embalm'd in the mem'ry of years,
The smiles of the past, so remember'd-
How often they waken our tears."

THE NIGHTCAP.

This mock-heroic is supposed to have been written by a scholar of Trinity College, Dublin; and its classical allusions bear out such a supposition, while the "many-caped box-coat" indicates the period of its composition to be in the "four-in-hand" days of thirty or forty years ago. The idea is well carried out, and the imagery ingeniously sustained. I have an idea the author was a schoolfellow of mine.

JOLLY Phœbus his car to the coach-house had driven,

And unharnessed his high-mettled horses of light;

He gave them a feed from the manger of heaven,

And rubbed them, and littered them down for the night.

Then off to the kitchen he leisurely strode,

Where Thetis, the housemaid, was sipping her tea;
He swore he was tired with that rough up-hill road,
He'd have none of her slops nor hot water, not he.

So she took from the corner a little cruiskeen

Well filled with the nectar Apollo loves best-
From the neat Bog of Allen, some pretty poteen—
And he tippled his quantum and staggered to rest.

His many-caped box-coat around him he threw,

For his bed, faith, 'twas dampish, and none of the best;

All above him the clouds their bright fringed curtains drew,
And the tuft of his nightcap lay red in the west.

* "Giving a feed" reminds me of an admirable jeu d'esprit of Hood's in the form of an ode to railway companies (then recently established) by an ex-hostler of a coaching establishment broken up. The hostler, looking upon the locomotive (the iron-horse) with spite exclaims

"May thieving hostlers steal their coals, and give

Their blackguard hanimals a feed o' slates!"

I'M A RANTING, ROVING BLADE.

The Guide's song. From the Drama of "The White Horse of the Peppers."

SAMUEL LOVER.

WHOO! I'm a ranting, roving blade,

Of never a thing was I ever afraid;

I'm a gintleman born, and I scorn a thrade,
And I'd be a rich man if my debts was paid.

But my debts is worth something; this truth they instil,—
That pride makes us fall all against our will;

For 'twas pride that broke me--I was happy until

I was ruined all out by my tailor's bill.*

I'm the finest guide you ever did see,
I know ev'ry place of curosity

From Thig-á-na Vauragh to Donaghadee;

And if you're for sport come along wid me.

I'll lade you sporting round about

We've wild ducks and widgeon, and snipe, and throut;
And I know where they are and what they're about,
And if they're not at home, then I'm sure they're out.

The miles in this counthry much longer be—
But that is a saving of time d'you see,
For two of our miles is aiqual to three,
Which shortens the road in a great degree.

And the roads in this place is so plenty, we say
That you've nothing to do but to find your way;
If you're hurry's not great, and you've time to delay,
You can go the short cut that's the longest way.

And I'll show you heaps of good drinkin' too,
For I know the place where the whiskey grew;
A bottle is good when it's not too new,
And I'm fond of one, but I'd die for two.

Thruth is scarce when liars is near,

But squeeling is plenty when pigs you shear,
And mutton is high when cows is dear,

And rint it is scarce four times a-year.

* This is a joke that tells to the eye in the drama where Gerald Pepper, in his disguise, appears in rags. Without this explanation the line is as little satisfactory as any other tailor's bill.

Such a country for growing you ne'er did behowld,

We grow rich when we're poor, we grow hot when we're cowld;
And the girls they know bashfulness makes us grow bowld;
We grow young when we like, but we never grow owld.

And the sivin small sinses grows natural here,
For praties has eyes, and can see quite clear;
And the kittles is singing with scalding tears,
And the corn-fields is listening with all their ears.

But along with sivin sinses we have one more-
Of which I forgot for to tell you before-
'Tis nonsense, spontaneously gracing our shore,
And I'll tell you the rest when I think of more.

THE SONG OF THE GLASS.

JOHN F. WALLER, LL.D.

The lyric literature of Ireland is indebted to Mr. Waller for some most admirable examples; and in whatever mode he chooses to indulge, he displays a rare power of execution. His songs illustrative of Irish custom, character, and feeling, are truly "racy of the soil," while his amatory and convivial effusions abound with happy graces and brilliant fancies. The songs of "Dance light, for my heart it is under your feet, love," and "Leave us a lock of your hair,"* uphold his fame in the former particular; while the admirable lyric that follows affords brilliant proof of his power in the latter. Most ingeniously and gracefully has the poet wrought out a singularly happy thought.

COME, push round the flagon, each brother,
But fill bumper-high ere it pass;

And while you hob-knob one another,
I'll sing you "The Song of the Glass."

Once Genius, and Beauty, and Pleasure
Sought the goddess of Art in ber shrine,
And prayed her to fashion a treasure,

The brightest her skill could combine.
Said the goddess, well pleased at the notion,
"Most gladly I'll work your behest;
From the margin of yonder blue ocean,
Let each bring the gift that seems best."
Chorus-Then push round the flagon, &c.

Beauty fetched from her own ocean-water
The sea-wraik that lay on the strand,
And Pleasure the golden sands brought her
That he stole from Time's tremulous hand.

* These songs will be found elsewhere in this volume.

K