My grandaunt was niece to St. Kevin,
That's the reason my name's Mickey Free!
Priest's nieces-but sure he's in Heaven,
And his failins is nothin' to me.

And we still might get on without doctors,
If they'd let the ould island alone;
And if purplemen, priests, and tithe-proctors
Were crammed down the great gun of Athlone.

MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION.*
Air, "The Groves of Blarney."

ОCH! the Coronation! what celebration
For emulation can with it compare?
When to Westminster the Royal Spinster,
And the Duke of Leinster, all did repair!
'Twas there you'd see the New Polishemen
Making a skrimmage at half-after four,
And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss O'Gradys
All standing round before the abbey door.
Their pillows scorning, that self-same morning,
Themselves adorning, all by candle-light,
With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dillies,
And goold, and jewels, and rich di'monds bright.
And then approaches five hundred coaches,

With Gineral Dullbeak.-Och! 'twas mighty fine

To see how aisy bould Corporal Casey,

With his swoord drawn, prancing, made them keep the line.

:

Then the Gun's alarums, and the King of Arums,
All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes,
Opening the massy doors to the bould Ambassydors,
The Prince of Potboys, and great haythen Jews
"Twould have made them crazy to see Esterhazy,
All jewels from his jasey to his di'mond boots,
With Alderman Harmer, and that sweet charmer,
The female heiress, Miss Anja-ly Coutts.

And Wellington walking with his swoord drawn, talking
To Hill and Hardinge, heroes of great fame;

And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey,

(They call'd him Sowlt afore he changed his name,)
Themselves presading Lord Melbourne, lading

The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair,
And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-Mello,
The Queen of Portingal's Chargy-de-fair.

From "The Ingoldsby Legends."

Then the noble Prussians, likewise the Russians,
In fine laced jackets with their goolden cuffs,
And the Bavarians, and the proud Hungarians,
And Everythingarians all in furs and muffs.
Then Misthur Spaker, with Misthur Pays the Quaker,
All in the Gallery you might persave;

But Lord Brougham was missin', and gone a fishin',
Only crass Lord Essex would not give him lave.

There was Baron Alten himself exaltin',

And Prince Von Swartzenberg, and many more, Och! I'd be bother'd and entirely smother'd

To tell the half of 'em was to the fore;

With the sweet Peeresses, in their crowns and dresses,
And Aldermanesses, and the Board of Works;

But Mehemet Ali said, quite ginteelly,

“I'd be proud to see the likes among the Turks!"

Then the Queen, Heaven bless her! och! they did dress her
In her purple garmints, and her goolden Crown ;
Like Venus or Hebe, or the Queen of Sheby,
With eight young ladies houlding up her gown.
Sure 'twas grand to see her, also for to he-ar

The big drums bating, and the trumpets blow,
And Sir George Smart! Oh! he played a Consarto,
With his four-and-twenty fiddlers all in a row!

Then the Lord Archbishop held a goolden dish up,
For to resave her bounty and great wealth,
Saying, "Plase your Glory, great Queen Vict-ory!
Ye'll give the Clargy lave to dhrink your health!"
Then his Riverence, retrating, discoorsed the mating,
"Boys! Here's your Queen! deny it if you can!
And if any bould traitor, or infarior craythur,

Sneezes at that, I'd like to see the man!"

Then the Nobles kneeling to the Powers appealing,
"Heaven send your Majesty a glorious reign!"
And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront her,
All in his scarlet gown and goolden chain.
The great Lord May'r too, sat in his chair, too,
But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry,
For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry
Throwing the thirteens, hit him in the eye.

Then there was preachin', and good store of speechin',
With Dukes and Marquises on bended knee;

And they did splash her with raal Macasshur,

And the Queen said, "Ah! then, thank ye all for me!"

Then the trumpets brayin', and the organ playin',
And sweet trombones with their silver tones,
But Lord Rolle was rolling ;-'twas mighty consoling
To think his Lordship did not break his bones.

Then the crames and custhard, and the beef and musthard,
All on the tombstones like a poultherer's shop,
With lobsthers and white-bait, and other sweet-mate,
And wine, and nagus, and Impayrial Pop!
There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels,
With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears,

Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough,
The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs.

Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd,
Crying, "God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!"

Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,

Sure its the proudest day I've ever seen!

And now I've ended, what I pretended,

This narration splendid in sweet poe-thry,

Ye dear bewitcher just hand the pitcher,

Faith, its myself that's getting mighty dhry!

This admirable imitation of an Irish rigmarole, after the manner of "The Groves of Blarney," is from the pen of a distinguished Englishman, the late Rev. John Barham, whose facility of rhyming reminds one of that great master of rhymes, Butler. The "Ingoldsby Legends," whence the above is extracted, abound not only with rhymes of equal and even superior merit; but with strange odds and ends of queer information, given with a racy humour and felicity of expression of high mark indeed. His death caused a blank in the social circle that must long continue to be felt by all those who had the privilege of enjoying his society.

MORAL SENTIMENTAL AND
SATIRICAL SONGS

COME songs in this section might have
appeared, without question, in that
devoted to the Songs of the Affections;
for so much of sentiment occurs, of
necessity, in songs whose theme is

love, that it is not always an easy matter to discriminate between the absolute love-song and the song sentimental. The choice thus devolving on the editor often made him feel the full meaning of that phrase of which disputants sometimes avail themselves-" a distinction without a difference;" and he makes this remark to anticipate any critical objection his choice may be open to, believing, at the same time, that as long as the songs are good, no fault will be found with their location.

Among songs of sentiment are to be found, in many languages, some of the most charming productions of the lyre. The amatory strain is more obvious to, and is probably always the earliest effort of, the lyric poet;—the sentimental song requires a higher and riper power; for it may be affirmed that the feelings which awake and are awakened by a love-song, having their root in passion, are more readily excited, and therefore more within the reach of the poet than those responding to the expression of sentiment. Such feelings lie deeper, or are more mysteriously interwoven in our nature, and hence it may be predicated that the power which evokes them is more subtle.

And this power has been evinced, in a high degree, by the Irish. Moore owes his brightest fame to songs, and other writings, of the sentimental class, and though we cannot present any of them in this volume, their celebrity is sufficient to satisfy the reader that too much is not claimed in the assertion, as regards Moore; and some specimens that follow from Griffin, Mahony, and Mangan, bear most winning evidence in support of the assertion as regards Ireland. "Old Times," "The Bells of Shandon," and "Waiting for the May," are of the highest mark, in this class of composition.

I think the general reader would expect to find many satirical sallies in the works of Irish writers; but fact will not fulfil the expectation. It is commonly remarked how ready-witted are the Irish-how quick of repartee-and hence might arise the idea that they must be satirical. The truth, however, is, that Irish wit is fonder of moulding itself into mirthful than angry forms; but, if in angry mood, the Irish are fonder of sarcasm and irony than satire; of the former they are great masters; of the latter they have shown themselves capable, by cultivating the art; but it does not seem to me to be indigenous, and the few examples that follow support this view. Swift, who handled satire dexterously, lived much in England, was the intimate friend of Pope, that great master of the art, and whose power, in this respect, influenced the literary fashion of the day, to which even so powerful and original a mind as Swift's might not have been insensible. Goldsmith, who sometimes indulged in a satirical vein, was also open, for the greater part of his life and the entire of his literary career, to exterior influence and example. In later days, Moore displayed much satirical power; but satire was not his forte; and it must be confessed that personal feeling and party spirit sometimes lured him from the polished height of satire to betray him into the lampoon:-but how often are they not confounded?