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Mayo! the flower of chiefs thou art,
Lord of the free and open heart-
Bold is thy bearing in the strife,

Where foes before thee sink subdued-
Blest be thy days and long thy life,
Shield of the friendless multitude.
Spurn not thy minstrel's homage now,
Branch of the old and stately tree!
Oh! hear his song and mark his vow-
By every saint or sacred thing
He swears-till life's last hour to cling
In steadiness to thee-

Tracing thy footsteps faithfully,

Till his dark eye-balls earth shall cover,
And thought and feeling both be over.

'BROWN THORN.

The Droigheanan Dunn, literally Brown Thorn, is one of our most popular ballads, and deservedly so. The words are sweet and simple, and the air is one of those tender plaintive strains which find their way to the innermost folds of the human heart, where they seldom fail to make a lasting impression. The provinces of Munster and Connaught contend for this song; but the latter, where it is known and sung in every hamlet, has, as far as I can ascertain, the best claim. It is a composition of considerable antiquity. John Bernard Trotter, who had been private secretary to the celebrated Charles James Fox, and who made a pedestrian tour through Ireland, says, in a small tract on Irish Music,-" It had been conjectured that the era of Drionan Don, was before the introduction of christianity; that it was composed for the celebration of the Baal Thinne, or the midsummer fire, in which

the thorn was particularly burnt. Be this as it may," he adds, "it is justly celebrated as one of our sweetest melodies; and, whatever be the era of its composition, is an intrinsic proof that we possessed at the earliest periods, a style as peculiar and excellent in music, as our round towers prove we did in architecture. The origin of both has perished, but the things themselves remain as incontestible memorials."

Some years since, travelling through the plains of the great western county of Mayo, in a poor cabin near Lough Con, the writer accidentally heard a peasant girl sing the Droigheanan Dunn, in a strain still remembered with feelings of pleasure. Among other songs which she was prevailed on to sing, was one to the sweet old Irish air, the "Maid in Bedlam," beginning

"One morning very early, one morning in the spring,
I heard a maid in Bedlam most mournfully sing."

Struck with the exquisite beauty and simplicity of the stanzas, I transcribed them on the spot, from her dictation, and hope, the same reason may serve as an excuse for introducing them here. I do not know a sweeter song in any language, and I think it impossible to translate it.

Hach Koibhín do na h-einímibh d'éíríghean zo h-árd,
'sa bhídhean a ceileabhar le na chéile Air Kon chrKoibh
Amháin,

Hí már sin dámh féin 'r domh cheud mile gradh,
Is fádá o n-á chéile oruinn d'eirígheán zách IK.

Is báine í iona An lile, is deise í 'n an sgéimh,

Is binne í 'n An bheidhlinn 's is soillseíche í ná án ghréin,

Is feárr 10ná sin uile a h-uáisleácht 's á méinn,

'Y A dhiá thú is ná fla̸ithis fuásgáil dom Phéin.

An roibh tu Air An g-ca̸rráig, no án bh-fácáidh tú mo ghrádh,

Yo An bh-fácáidh tu zile no finne no sgéimh ná mná, An bh-packidh tu án t-ubhall budh mhilse 'r bush chúmhrá bláth,

Yo an bh-fácáidh tu mo bháilintín no bh-fhuil s 3 á claóídh már táim ?

bhidh me Air An g-cÁrráig K's chondire me do ghrádh, Chonnáific me zile Kzus finne Kgus sgéimh ná mná, Chonaire me An t-ubhAll budh milse 's budh chúmhrá

bláth,

Agus chonáirc me do bhkilintín 's ní fhuil si 'z á cláóích már táir.

CASHEL OF MUNSTER, OR CLAR BOG DEAL.

If the foregoing ballad has been conceded to Conaught, the present cannot be denied to Munster, whose right is proved by internal evidence. The words and air are equally sweet and simple, and both are of considerable antiquity.

'ios o cháith an Aoís mé á's zur liáth mo cheann,

Tho' my locks now look gray and my blood runs chill.

This passage may

Odes, beginning:

remind the reader of one of Anacreon's

ΜΗ με φύγης ὁρῶσα

Τὴν πολιὰν ἔθειραν.

Our bards appear not only to have been well acquainted with the works of Anacreon, but to have admired, and in many instances, imitated their beauties. One of them sending a book to his mistress, addresses it as follows:

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A lea̸bhráin, is Koibhinn do thrill

A ccionn Kindre ná g-ciábh g-cám ;

Is truagh! gán tú K'm riocht A b-péin,
A's me-si féin ag dul Ann.

A leabhráin, is Koíbhinn duit

Do thriall, már A bh-fuil mo ghrádh ;
Do chídhrin Ann An folt már ór,—
Do chídhxir Ann an déad bhán.

Again, on the difficulty of enumerating her charms :

da m-budh dubh an fhairge,

A's talamh bheith 'ná páiper bán,

Cleitighe mine, gekla,

A's An Ala bheith Air A tonn Ag snámh ;

da m-bronnfa̸ídhe dám Eri K's sa̸sana,
Alba, An Phráine 's á Spáin,

Treighthe ! mo cailín deis,

i thiоcpadh liom do sgriobhadh le penn.

Another bard tells us, that when his mistress was born, a bee came with a shower of honey, which fell on her lips :

An uáir rugadh an chuilphionn tháinic beách bín,
Le cioth meál míne Air A ca̸ér-bheol.

The following fragments, translated by Mr. D'Alton, have been thought worthy of preservation. The first, is evidently an imitation of one of Anacreon's odes, the twenty-second in Mr. Moore's translation; or, perhaps, it bears a closer resemblance to the Epigram of Dionysius, translated in the same fascinating work.

A Chia zán mé Am Abháillín,

Hó Km Kilneáinín éigin ;

Hó Am rós ánn sán nga̸irdín,

Már K ngnáthúízheánn tú Ad Konu̸p ;
Már shúil is 30 m-bhukinfeídh dhíom

Géuzáinín éizín,

Do bhiadh Azad Ad dheás-láimh

Yo « m-brollach zeal do léine.

See the ripe fruit,-oh! were I such,

That mellow hangs from yonder spray;

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