for when do we love our country so much as when we are absent from it? Other historic evidence might be given to account for an extra, indeed almost morbid, love of country, on the part of the Irish. The Switzer (already alluded to) has been adduced as an example of patriotism by Goldsmith, who says that this land of wildness, sterility, and poverty is not the less, but the more prized, by the native, and thus accounts for it :

"And as the child, when scaring sounds molest,
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast,
So the wild torrent and the whirlwind's roar
But bind him to his native mountains more."

Now, Ireland is not sterile, but wild enough in many respects, and has been (from causes not of her own engendering and beyond her reach to cure) too long impoverished, and the physical tempest is not less potent in making the Switzer cling to "the mother's breast," than the political storm has been in similarly attaching the IrishI witnessed, once, a touching proof of the passionate love the Irish peasant bears his native land. A party of labourers had just arrived in the packet-boat from England, where they had been reaping the wheat-harvest, and crowded to the vessel's side, eager to jump ashore; and when they did so, they knelt down and kissed their mother earth.

man.

As for their gallant bearing as soldiers, the annals of England's wars are sufficient testimony-whether the Irish fought for or against her; and the recently-instituted military order-the Victoria cross of valour-gave ample evidence in its first distribution of the same still-existing valour of the Irishman on the battle-field. And here may be recorded an anecdote of an Irish regiment, so characteristic, in every way, that its appropriateness justifies me, I trust, in relating it, without my being open to the charge of national vaingloriousness. A fort was to be stormed; the day looked to for the assault was the 18th of March, but a request was forwarded to the officer in command by the Irish regiment, suggesting that operations might be a little hastened, and the assault delivered on the 17th-St. Patrick's day-in which case the whole regiment volunteered to lead the attack, as they would like "to have a bit of a skrimmage, and do something for the honour of ould Ireland on that day." The request was complied with, and at day-break on the 17th, the band of the regiment struck up "St. Patrick's Day ;" and to that lively measure away they went, with a ringing cheer, and the fort was carried "in no time." Three national elements of

success were here;-the remembrance of Ireland and desire to do something for her honour; the love of music; and that soldierly dash— that "MILITARY GLEE," which Scott recognized in his gallant heart, and recorded with his glorious pen.'

*

Can we wonder, then, that poets should be inspired with two such glorious themes, and laud the land that bore them, and glorify the sword that guards its honour? Perhaps, in doing so, they sometimes shed their ink as recklessly as the soldier sheds his blood, and in their sanguine exuberance indulge in a little exaggeration :—but, in saying this, I do not mean to imply that the Irishman is one whit more exalted in the spirit of laudation than the native of any other country.

Finally, the love of country and love of arms have been honoured in the highest, for they were held worthy of being the theme of holy writ. Yes the love of country is a holy thing, for thus saith the Psalmist

:

"By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept when we remembered thee, O Sion.

As for our harps, we hanged them up: upon the trees that are therein. For they that had led us away captive required of us there a song, and melody in our heaviness: Sing us one of the songs of Sion.

How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?

If I forget thee, O Jerusalem: let my right hand forget her cunning."

And thus the minstrel king-the smiter of the giant-the warrior poet, thanks the Lord of Hosts for the gift of a courageous manhood:

"Blessed be the Lord, my strength: who teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight."

* Vide Vision of Don Roderic.

THE IRISHMAN.

JAMES ORR. Air, "Vive la."

James Orr was one of those "Men of the North" celebrated in that remarkable volume of vigorous verse, "The Spirit of the Nation." He was a journeyman weaver. Now, weavers have been down in the market ever since the invention of looms-Shakspeare talks ironically of drawing "three souls out of one weaver." But our Ulster weaver redeemed the credit of his class by his deeds. That he wrote good verses the following lines prove; and he fought at the battle of Antrim, in 1798;-so that he had the true spirit of the old Troubadours in him, being equally ready to wield the pen or the sword. In short, he had a soul for business, a soul for poetry, and a soul for fighting, so that he may have been the very weaver Shakspeare had in his prophetic eye-" in a fine frenzy rolling"-when he spoke of drawing three souls out of one weaver.

THE savage loves his native shore,

Though rude the soil, and chill the air;

Then well may Erin's sons adore

Their isle which nature formed so fair.

What flood reflects a shore so sweet

As Shannon great, or pastoral Bann?
Or who a friend or foe can meet
So generous as an Irishman?

His hand is rash, his heart is warm,
But honesty is still his guide;
None more repents a deed of harm,
And none forgives with nobler pride:
He
may be duped, but won't be dared--
More fit to practise than to plan;
He dearly earns his poor reward,
And spends it like an Irishman.

If strange or poor, for you he'll pay,
And guide to where you safe may be ;*
If you're his guest, while e'er you stay
His cottage holds a jubilee.

His inmost soul he will unlock,

And if he may your secrets scan,

Your confidence he scorns to mock

For faithful is an Irishman.

*Many a traveller in Ireland has proved the truth of this. If a stranger loses his way and inquires it of an Irish peasant, the peasant will turn back for miles out of his own way to put the stranger securely into his.

By honour bound in woe or weal,
Whate'er she bids he dares to do;
Try him with bribes-they won't prevail;
Prove him in fire-you'll find him true.
He seeks not safety, let his post

Be where it ought,-in danger's van;
And if the field of fame be lost,

It won't be by an Irishman.

Erin! loved land! from age to age

Be thou more great, more famed, and free; May peace be thine, or, shouldst thou wage Defensive war-cheap victory.

May plenty bloom in every field
Which gentle breezes softly fan,
And cheerful smiles serenely gild
The home of every Irishman!

THE PLAINT OF THE EXILE.

JOHN O'DONOGHUE.

As I stood on the shore of the stranger,
When day was at rest-

And the sun was declining in gold,
To his throne in the west-
Dear Erin! I wept, as I gazed

On the splendour-paved sea,

And I panted to trace that high road
Of glory, to thee!

Tho' far, far away from the scenes

Of my childhood I roam

Oh! can I forget thee one moment,

My dear happy home!

Had I but thy pinions, bright planet,

How swift would I flee,

For an instant to gaze, though 'twere death,

My loved Erin, on thee!

Shall I ever behold thee again?

Will the future restore

One glimpse of thy valleys and hills

Ere my sorrows are o'er?

Kind Heaven! give me but one look
Ere my pilgrimage cease-

And death shall come o'er the last throb

Of my spirit in peace.

These lines, though of no great literary merit, have the redeeming grace of a strong love of native land in them, and find a place here for that reason. The entire of the first verse is too obviously imitated from Moore's exquisite lines

"How dear to me the hour when day-light dies,

And sunbeams melt along the silent sea;

For then sweet dreams of other days arise,

And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

"And as I watch the line of light that plays

Along the smooth wave tow'rd the burning west,

I long to tread that golden path of rays,

And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest."

THE IRISH DRAGOON.

CHARLES LEVER. Air, "Sprig of Shillelah."

OH, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon,
In battle, in bivouac, or in saloon-

From the tip of his spur to his bright sabertasche.
With his soldierly gait and his bearing so high,
His gay laughing look and his light speaking eye,
He frowns at his rival, he ogles his wench,
He springs on his saddle and chasses the French-
With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche.

His spirits are high and he little knows care,
Whether sipping his claret or charging a square-
With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche.
As ready to sing or to skirmish he's found,
To take off his wine or to take up his ground;
When the bugle may call him how little he fears
To charge forth in column and beat the Mounseers—
With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche.

When the battle is over he gaily rides back
To cheer every soul in the night bivouac-

With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche.
Oh! there you may see him in full glory crown'd,
And he sits 'mid his friends on the hardly-won ground,
And hear with what feeling the toast he will give,
As he drinks to the land where all Irishmen live-
With his jingling spur and his bright sabertasche.