Andrew Cherry was born in Limerick, January 11, 1762. He received a respectable education at a grammar school there was intended for holy orders, but his father meeting with misfortunes, Cherry was bound to a printer. He went on the stage, and, after all the vicissitudes attending a stroller's life, made reputation, and graduated from the provinces up to Dublin, and thence to London, and was received with much applause. He became manager of the Swansea theatre, and there, in my boyhood, I saw Edmund Kean perform before he made his great name in London. Cherry produced ten dramatic pieces, of which the incidental songs are of fair average merit; but the one that follows is not only Cherry's best, but among the very best of its class, possessing a tenderness of sentiment rare in this class of composition, and touching the feelings after a manner that reminds us of that other celebrated sporting song, "The High-mettled Racer," of Dibdin. You all knew Tom Moody, the whipper-in, well; Through a country well known to him fifty miles round. No hound ever open'd with Tom near the wood, But he'd challenge the tone, and could tell if 'twere good; And all with attention would eagerly mark, When he cheer'd up the pack, "Hark! to Rookwood, hark! hark! High!-wind him! and cross him; Six crafty earth-stoppers, in hunter's green drest, With "High over! Tally-ho!--Tally-ho!" Thus Tom spoke his friends ere he gave up his breath, HE WAS FAMED FOR DEEDS OF ARMS. ANDREW CHERRY. Here is another specimen of Cherry's muse, by no means equal to the former, but it gave the opportunity of effect in being sung, and hence, was a favourite song of the late Mr. Braham, that great English singer, who has left no equal behind him. HE was famed for deeds of arms, One pure flame pervades both hearts; Love to conquest, now, must yield— Battle, now, with fury glows; She pressed her hero to her heart; And, now, the trumpet sounds to arms; Amid the clash of rude alarms Sweet maid, he cries, again I'll come to thee, When the glad trumpet sounds a victory! He with love and conquest burns, Rushed, and caught him in her arms! THE BAY OF BISCAY. ANDREW CHERRY. Here is a third song of Cherry's, which has, at least, the merit of being graphic-and to that may be attributed most likely its great popularity, assisted, no doubt, by Davy's pleasing and effective music. This was also one of Braham's favourites, and one of the very few sea-songs of Irish origin. LOUD roar'd the dreadful thunder, The rain a deluge showers, Now dash'd upon the billow, At length the wish'd-for morrow Each heav'd a bitter sigh; In the Bay of Biscay, O! Her yielding timbers sever, We hail her with three cheers: From the Bay of Biscay, O! DEIRDRE. From the Irish. Deirdre, the daughter of Felimy, the son of Dall, was exquisitely beautiful. At her birth, it was prophesied she should prove the ruin of Ulster. The king, Connor MacNessa, caused her to be educated with great care, and in guarded seclusion, intending to make her his queen: but Deirdre preferred the young Naisi, one of the sons of Usnach, to the old king, and, snatching a favourable opportunity, threw a rose to Naisi, which, according to the custom of that day, bound him in honour to marry her; and though he anticipated ruin from the abduction of the king's intended wife, he said to his brothers-who also dreaded the consequences of the act-that he would "rather live in misfortune than in dishonour," and that he should be "disgraced before the men of Erin for ever, if he did not take her, after that which she had done." The three brothers-all great warriors-fled from Ireland to Alba (Scotland), and found safety on the banks of Loch Etive. The absence of such distinguished heroes was felt to be a national loss, and the king sent a messenger to them, promising forgiveness to all. Naisi trusted in the king's word; but Deirdre feared treachery, and before leaving their sylvan retreat, the only safe and happy one in Deirdre's belief, she is supposed to utter this passionate farewell: FAREWELL to fair Alba* high house of the sun; Glen Vashan! Glen Vashan! where roebucks run free, Glendaro! Glendaro! where birchen boughs weep, * It will be observed that there is no mention of Scotland throughout the entire of this antique romance, prose or verse. The country is called Alba :-its ancient name. Glenurchy! Glenurchy! where loudly and long, Glen Etive! Glen Etive! where dappled does roam, Farewell to Inch Draynagh; adieu to the roar "Son of the rock." The echo.-How charmingly fanciful! She calls Glen Etive Bally-Graine, or "Suntown." On arriving in Ireland, they are conducted to Emania, and lodged in the house of the Red Branch. King Connor inquires if Deirdre be still lovely, "if her beauty yet lives upon her?" and a messenger tells him she is still "the fairest woman on the ridge of the world." The house is then surrounded by the soldiers of the king, while Naisi and Deirdre are playing at chess. The brothers, finding they are betrayed, rush out, and do prodigies of valour. Ardan slays "three-hundred men of might," Ainli kills twice as many, and then Naisi joins the fray, which is thus described:-"Till the sands of the sea, the dewdrops of the meadows, the leaves of the forest, or the stars of heaven be counted, it is not possible to tell the numbers of heads and hands and lopped limbs of heroes that there lay bare and red from the hands of Naisi and his brothers of the plain,"-they then spread the links of their joined bucklers round Deirdre, and bounding forth "like three eagles," swept down on the troops of Connor, making tremendous havoc, until Cathbad, the druid, throws a spell over them, "like a sea of thick gums, that clogged their limbs," and the sons of Usnach are then put to death, and Deirdre, standing over their grave, sings the funeral song, and then flings herself into the grave and expires. The prophecy was fulfilled, for Connor's treachery and murderous act alienated all hearts from him, and the downfall of his house was accomplished. Such is a very brief outline of this story, which, as Mr. Ferguson remarks, "has possessed an extraordinary charm for the people of Ireland for better than a thousand years." Here is the funeral wail, over the loved and the brave, by the beautiful and fatal Deirdre. DEIRDRE'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF USNACH. Translated from the Irish by S. FERGUSON, M.R.I.A. THE lions of the hill are gone, And I am left alone-alone; Dig the grave both wide and deep, For I am sick, and fain would sleep. |