The falcons of the wood are flown,
And I am left alone-alone;
Dig the grave both deep and wide,
And let us slumber side by side.

The dragons of the rock are sleeping-
Sleep that wakes not for our weeping;
Dig the grave, and make it ready,
Lay me on my true love's body.

Lay their spears and bucklers bright
By the warriors' sides aright;
Many a day the three before me
On their linkèd bucklers bore me.

Lay upon the low grave floor,

'Neath each head, the blue claymore;
Many a time the noble three
Reddened these blue blades for me.

Lay the collars, as is meet,
Of their greyhounds at their feet;
Many a time for me have they
Brought the tall red deer to bay.

In the falcon's jesses throw
Hook and arrow, line and bow;
Never again by stream or plain
Shall the gentle woodsmen go.

Sweet companions, were ye ever
Harsh to me, your sister?-never.
Woods, and wilds, and misty valleys,
Were with you as good's a palace.

Oh! to hear my true love singing,*
Sweet as sounds of trumpets ringing;
Like the sway of ocean swelling,
Rolled his deep voice round our dwelling.

Oh! to hear the echoes pealing
Round our green and fairy sheeling,
When the three, with soaring chorus,

Made the sky-lark silent o'er us.

* In the original tale, speaking of the brothers, it is said, "Sweet, in truth, was the music of the sons of Usnach. The cattle, listening to it, milked over two-thirds more than was their wont." Modern dairymen increase their cow's milk from pipes of another sort.

Erin's stay no more ye are,
Rulers of the ridge of war;
Never more 'twill be your fate
To keep the beam of battle straight.

Woe is me! by fraud and wrong,
Traitors false, and tyrants strong,
Fell Clan Usnach bought and sold,
For Barach's feast and Conor's gold.

Woe to Eman, roof and wall!
Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall!
Tenfold woe and black dishonour
To the foul and false Clan Conor.

Dig the grave both wide and deep,
Sick I am, and fain would sleep!
Dig the grave and make it ready,
Lay me on my true love's body.

THE RAKES OF MALLOW.

Air, "Sandy lent the Man his Mull."

Some hundred years ago Mallow was a fashionable watering-place, and enjoyed the title of "Irish Bath," according to Dr. Smith, who wrote about it in those days. But, to judge by the following song, the rakes of Mallow did not trouble the water much.

BEAUING, belling, dancing, drinking,
Breaking windows, damning, sinking,
Ever raking, never thinking,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

Spending faster than it comes,
Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns,
Bacchus' true begotten sons,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

One time naught but claret drinking,
Then like politicians thinking

To raise the sinking funds when sinking,
Live the rakes of Mallow.

When at home with dadda dying,
Still for Mallow-water crying;
But where there is good claret plying

Live the rakes of Mallow.

Living short but merry lives,
Going where the devil drives,

Having sweethearts, but no wives,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

Racking tenants, stewards teasing,
Swiftly spending, slowly raising,
Wishing to spend all their days in

Raking as at Mallow.

Then to end this raking life
They get sober, take a wife,
Ever after live in strife,

And wish again for Mallow.

LAST WISH.

FRANCIS DAVIS.

OH! gather me the flowers fair,
And strew them o'er my bed,
They'll soothe me, mother, while I stay,
They'll deck me when I'm dead;
But throw the white rose far away,
For Willie's brow was fair;
Nor bring the leaf of golden tint,
To tell of Willie's hair.

I drew the curls across his brow,
My heart beat quick and sore;
I gazed upon that frozen smile

Till I could gaze no more:
And when I knelt beside his grave,
Fain, fain were tears to flow;
But something whisper'd to my heart,
You'll soon be full as low.

Oh! there's a spot at Devis' foot
Where longer lies the dew,
And there are daisies purer white,
And violets deeper blue;

Look on them kindly as you pass,
But touch no flower there,

For Willie said they bloomed for him,
To twine in Annie's hair.

Then draw the curtains closer round,
And hide from me the skies;
I cannot bear that sunny blue,
So like my Willie's eyes:

And raise ye up this swimming head,
My last dear wish to crave:
Now mother, mother, mind ye
Lay me in Willie's grave!

this

THE LAMENTATION OF HUGH REYNOLDS.

A Street Ballad.

The Hugh Reynolds, who is the hero of this ballad (which is clearly genuine) was guilty of abduction. It is generally believed, in Ireland, that abduction is an offence never committed without an implied consent on the part of the woman, and sympathy always exists in favour of the criminal who is brought to justice by the woman swearing against him afterwards, on his trial, as it appears she did in this case.

My name it is Hugh Reynolds, I come of honest parents
Near Cavan I was born, as plainly you may see;

By loving of a maid, one Catherine MacCabe,

My life has been betrayed; she's a dear maid to me.

The country were bewailing my doleful situation,

But still I'd expectation this maid would set me free;
But, oh! she was ungrateful, her parents proved deceitful,
And though I loved her faithful, she's a dear maid to me.

Young men and tender maidens, throughout this Irish nation,
Who hear my lamentation, I hope you'll pray for me;
The truth I will unfold, that my precious blood she sold,
In the grave I must lie cold; she's a dear maid to me.

For now my glass is run, and the hour it is come,

And I must die for love, and the height of loyalty;
I thought it was no harm to embrace her in my arms,

Or take her from her parents; but she's a dear maid to me.

"

* This phrase must be taken idiomatically. As, if a man were killed in a fox chase, the Irish peasant would say, it was a dear hunting to him;" so Hugh says of the girl that costs him his life, "She's a dear maid to me."

Adieu my loving father, and you my tender mother,
Farewell my dearest brother, who has suffered sore for me;
With irons I'm surrounded, in grief I lie confounded,
By perjury unbounded; she's a dear maid to me.

Now, I can say no more; to the Law-board I must go,
There to take the last farewell of my friends and counterie ;
May the angels, shining bright, receive my soul this night,
And convey me into Heaven to the blessed Trinity.

I would call the English reader's attention to the triple rhymes through this ballad, and though the rhymes be not always perfect, they are sufficiently close (vowel rhymes) to ring on the ear. The word in the first line, at the cæsural point, rhymes to the final word, which is again rhymed to at the cæsural point of the second or alternate line, as thus:

"The truth I will unfold, that my precious blood she sold,
In the grave
I must lie cold; she's a dear maid to me."

If the rhymes were always as perfect as these, any one conversant with metrical structure
will see that they might be given in three separate lines with an alternate fourth and
eighth; but as that would tax the rhymer too heavily, he adopts the expedient of writing a
quatrain of which only the second and fourth lines must rhyme, of necessity, leaving him
free to rhyme as often and as closely as he can, throughout the first and third, as thus, in
the first verse :-
"By loving of a maid, one Catherine Mac Cabe

My life has been betrayed, she's a dear maid to me.'

"

It is with a view to the English reader I have made this note, and given an example (once for all) of what I have spoken of, frequently, in this volume, as a peculiarity in genuine Irish songs. The Irish reader, I hope, will not, therefore, think me guilty of an editorial intrusion, and mistake an intended courtesy for a mere impertinence.

WILLY REILLY.

This ballad has ever been a great favourite in Ireland, particularly in the North, where the incident is said to have occurred on which it is founded; and as the hero and the heroine were of different religious communions, a certain party spirit became engaged in the feelings excited by this ballad, which, doubtless, increased its popularity. But, setting aside any other cause than its own intrinsic qualities, it is no wonder it found an abiding place in the hearts of the people: it is full of tenderness, and has great dramatic power.

"OH! rise up, Willy Reilly, and come along with me, I mean for to go with you and leave this counterie,

To leave my father's dwelling-house, his houses and free land;"
And away goes Willy Reilly and his dear Coolen Bawn.*

They go by hills and mountains, and by yon lonesome plain,
Through shady groves and valleys all dangers to refrain;
But her father followed after with a well-arm'd band,
And taken was poor Reilly and his dear Coolen Bawn.
* Fair young girl.