Even among the dullest there is hardly one who has not, some time or other, inscribed

"A woful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow:"

And amongst the greatest there is abundant proof that the consciousness of possessing the "spark divine” never imparts so much pleasure to the gifted possessor as when he pours out the treasure of his thought in passionate profusion at the feet of his mistress; and enjoys a delight beyond the present in the conviction that he can' grasp the future that his spirit shall rule over generations yet unborn, and that she who awoke and rewarded his lays shall share in his immortality.

Many of the greatest names might be called in proof of this:but let the "divine Spenser" answer for all, and with prophetic passion:

"One day I wrote her name upon the strand;

But came the waves, and washèd it away :

Agayne, I wrote it with a second hand;

But came the tyde, and made my paynes his prey.
Vayne man, say'd she, that doest in vaine assay
A mortall thing so to immortalize;

For I my selve shall like to this decay,
And eke my name bee wipèd out likewise.

Not so, quod I; let baser things devize

To dy in dust, but you shall live by fame:

My verse your vertues rare shall éternize,

And in the heavens wryte your glorious name.

Where, when as death shall all the world subdew,
Our love shall live, and later life renew."

I shall not attempt a dissertation upon the peculiar qualities of

these Irish love-songs. I have no desire to coax the reader by a pathway of preliminary praise into one of those laudatory labyrinths in which both readers and editors so often lose their way, or, at least, get confused. I believe the following songs are good enough not to need any editorial encomium, and I leave the reader to discover and enjoy their beauties, uninfluenced and undisturbed by any remark of mine. It is only where a note is required in explanation of an Irish word or idiom, in each song, or where some requisite, or interesting information, or current remark properly belonging to it is given, that I put myself in the reader's way, and then, I hope, not intrusively.

Seldom runs the tide of talent so strongly through successive generations as it has done in the distinguished family of Sheridan. First springing into literary notice in the days of Swift, we see, in the witty Dean's lively correspondent, the grandfather of the illustrious Richard Brinsley Sheridan, commemorated by Thomas Moore, in his matchless monody as

"The orator, dramatist, minstrel, who ran

Thro' each mode of the lyre, and was master of all."

Through him is descended (in the sixth generation) the authoress of the two following songs. She has written many (though only two are selected here), all of great excellence but none can evoke their mirth or their tenderness with such point or pathos as the fair and noble lady herself. One might suppose she was the original Moore had in his eye, when he wrote

"Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,

But Love from the lip his true archery wings;
And she, who but feathers the shaft when she speaks,

At once sends it home to the heart when she sings."

So, my Kathleen, you're going to leave me
All alone by myself in this place,
But I'm sure you will never deceive me,
Oh no, if there's truth in that face.

Though England's a beautiful city,
Full of illigant boys, oh what then-
You wouldn't forget your poor Terence,
You'll come back to ould Ireland again.

Och, those English, deceivers by nature,
Though maybe you'd think them sincere,
They'll say you're a sweet charming creature,
But don't you believe them, my dear.
No, Kathleen, agra !* don't be minding
The flattering speeches they'll make,
Just tell them a poor boy in Ireland
Is breaking his heart for your sake.

It's a folly to keep you from going,

Though, faith, it's a mighty hard caseFor, Kathleen, you know, there's no knowing When next I shall see your sweet face. And when you come back to me, Kathleen, None the better will I be off, thenYou'll be spaking such beautiful English, Sure, I won't know my Kathleen again.

Eh, now, where's the need of this hurry—
Don't flutter me so in this way-
I've forgot 'twixt the grief and the flurry,
Every word I was maning to say;
Now just wait a minute, I bid ye,—
Can I talk if ye bother me so?
Oh, Kathleen, my blessing go wid ye,
Ev'ry inch of the way that you go,

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

LADY DUFFERIN.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride;

The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high-
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

*My love.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'ning for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.

But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest-
For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends,
But, oh! they love the better still,

The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessin' and my pride:
There's nothin' left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow—
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it, for

my

sake!

I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore-
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling!
In the land I'm goin' to;