mary ejectment of the minstrel. She provided some hay, and requested the harper to twist the rope which she set about making. As the work progressed and the rope lengthened, the harper, of course, retired backward, till he went beyond the door of the dwelling, when the crafty matron suddenly shut the door in his face, and then threw his harp out at the window. The version sung in the south of Ireland has some additional stanzas, but I give the song as it is found in Hardiman's 'Minstrelsy,' vol. i., where it is left untranslated."

FOR I AM DESOLATE,

GERALD GRIFFIN,

THE Christmas light* is burning bright
In many a village pane,
And many a cottage rings to-night
With many a merry strain.

Young boys and girls run laughing by,
Their hearts and eyes elate;

I can but think on mine, and sigh,
For I am desolate!

There's none to watch in our old cot
Beside the holy light,

No tongue to bless the silent spot
Against the parting night.†

I've closed the door, and hither come
To mourn my lonely fate;

I cannot bear my own old home,
It is so desolate !

I saw my father's eyes grow dim,
And clasp'd my mother's knee;

I saw my mother follow him,
My husband wept with me.
My husband did not long remain,

His child was left me yet;

But now my heart's last love is slain,
And I am desolate!

* At sunset on Christmas eve, in Irish houses, a large candle is lighted, which it is a kind of impiety to snuff, touch, or use for any ordinary purpose.

+ It is the custom in Irish Catholic families to sit up till midnight on Christmas eve, in order to join in the devotion of the midnight mass. One of Carleton's powerful tales is founded on this custom, and is entitled The Midnight Mass.

From the Irish. Translated by SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A.

There are other translations of this fine old Irish burst of poetry, but Mr. Ferguson's is incomparably the best.

BARK that bears me through foam and squall,
You in the storm are my castle wall;

Though the sea should redden from bottom to top,
From tiller to mast she takes no drop.

On the tide top, the tide top,

Wherry aroon,* my land and store!
On the tide top, the tide top,
She is the boat can sail go-leor.†

She dresses herself, and goes gliding on,
Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn;
For God has blessed her, gunnel and wale-
And oh! if you saw her stretch out to the gale,
On the tide top, the tide top, &c.

Whillan, ahoy! old heart of stone,
Stooping so black o'er the beach alone,
Answer me well-On the bursting brine
Saw you ever a bark like mine?

On the tide top, the tide top, &c.

*"Aroon" is a term of endearment.

+ The Irish go-leor, in this place, may find its equivalent in the English phrase, "Enough and to spare."

The name of a rock in Blacksod Bay. This shows the poem to be of Sligo origin,

Y

Says Whillan-Since first I was made of stone,
I have looked abroad o'er the beach alone-
But, till to-day, on the bursting brine
Saw I never a bark like thine!

On the tide top, the tide top, &c.

God of the air! the seamen shout

When they see us tossing the brine about:

Give us the shelter of strand or rock,

Or through and through us she goes with a shock!
On the tide top, the tide top, &c.

How full of spirit, how descriptive, how exulting is this fine burst, which I should suppose to belong to an early period, from the antique outline about it. The appeal to the rock-and the rock echoing, as it were, an answer nearly in the words in which it was addressed-is quite oriental in its character, indicating the source of the Irish language. In the last verse, the fear the boat inspires in all who lie in her track, that she will go "through and through" them, partakes also of eastern hyperbole. This would have been just the boat for "Barny O'Reirdon,"—if I may be allowed to allude to him-when he cautioned all before him to "get out of his nor'east coorse!"

SONG.

From "The Bucaneer.'

Mrs. S. C. HALL.

Here, again, a poetical trifle enables the editor to enrich his pages with a name more noted in prose than verse; a name holding a distinguished place in the literature of Ireland; and while the works of Mrs. Hall are as amusing as those of most authors, she contrives to make them useful also. Many a piece of good advice is given to the people of her native land, many an incentive to self-reliance, and industry, and prudence; but done so gently, in a spirit so sweet and womanly, that it never offends; and while she exposes errors that lie on the surface of Irish character, she never forgets to represent the many excellent qualities that lie deeper. Some of her tales of the Irish peasantry are exquisitely touching sunny and shadowy, like the people themselves. I have already, in a previous brief allusion, spoken of Mrs. Hall as one of the most gifted of Ireland's daughters, and borne witness to her name being celebrated abroad and beloved at home.

O'ER the clear quiet waters

My gondola glides,

And gently it wakens

The slumbering tides,

All nature is waiting

Beneath and above,

While earth and while heaven

Are breathing of love!

In vain are they breathing,
Earth-heaven-to me,

Though their beauty and calmness
Are whispers of thee,

For the bright sky must darken,
The earth must be grey,

Ere the deep gloom that saddens
My soul pass away!

But see, the last day-beam
Grows pale-ere it die,

And the dark clouds are passing
All over the sky,

I hear thy light footsteps,
Thy fair form I see-

Ah! the twilight has told thee
Who watches for thee!

THE LEAVES SO GREEN.

WHEN life hath left this senseless clay,
By all but thee forgot;

Oh! bear me, dearest, far away,

To some green lonely spot:

Where none with careless step may tread

The grass upon my grave,

But gently o'er my narrow bed

"The leaves so green" may wave.

The wild flowers, too, I loved so well,

Shall breathe their sweetness there,

While thrush and blackbird's songs shall swell Amid the fragrant air.

No noisy burst of joy or woe

Will there disturb my rest, But silent tears in secret flow

From those who loved me best.

The crowded town and haunts of men

I never loved to tread,

To sheltered vale or lonely glen

My weary spirit fled.

There lay me, dearest, far away,

By other eyes unseen,

Where gleams of sunshine rarely stray,

Beneath "the leaves so green."

NED OF THE HILL.

From "Songs and Ballads," by SAMUEL LOVER,

Many legends are extant of this romantic minstrel freebooter, whose predatory achievements sometimes extended to the hearts of the gentle sex.

DARK is the evening, and silent the hour,
Who is the minstrel by yonder lone tower?
His harp all so tenderly touching with skill;
Oh, who should it be, but Ned of the Hill?
Who sings, "lady love, come to me now,
Come and live merrily under the bough,
And I'll pillow thy head,

Where the fairies tread,

If thou wilt but wed with Ned of the Hill!"

Ned of the Hill has no castle nor hall,
Nor spearmen nor bowmen to come at his call;
But one little archer, of exquisite skill,
Has shot a bright shaft for Ned of the Hill,
Who sings, "lady love, come to me now,
Come and live merrily under the bough,
And I'll pillow thy head,

Where the fairies tread,

If thou wilt but wed with Ned of the Hill!"

"Tis hard to escape from that fair lady's bower,
For high is the window, and guarded the tower;
"But there's always a way where there is a will,"
So Ellen is off with Ned of the Hill!

Who sings, “lady love, thou art mine now!
We will live merrily under the bough,

And I'll pillow thy head,

Where the fairies tread,

For Ellen is wed to Ned of the Hill!"

I am sorry to say the termination of the love suit, pictured in this ballad, was not so happy as imagination framed it. After the warmth of fiction, here is the coldness of reality. Edmond O'Ryan was the name of this minstrel outlaw, familiarly known as "Ned of the Hill." His memory is still affectionately cherished by the Irish peasant, in song and legend. He has a double claim to the affections of a warm-hearted and imaginative people:he was a martyr and a minstrel. He lost his property by following the fortunes of the Stuarts, and became an outlaw chieftain; and it would seem that upon this change of fortune, he was forsaken by the lady of his love, if we may judge from a passionate strain of complaint he pours forth in his own native Irish. But in all this plaint, and a long one too, he never laments his loss of property. No; the loss of that false woman's heart was his only regret there is something excessively touching in this. The original Irish poem is called "Edmond O'Ryan's Love Elegy," and has been admirably translated by Miss Brooke ;