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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.


The Droigheanan Dunn, literally Browu 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-einínibh d'éírííghea̸n zo h-árd,

'sa bhidhean a ceileábhár le ná chéile Kir Kon chraoibh Kmháin,

Hí már sin damh féin 's domh chéud mile zrádh,
Is fádá o n-á chéile oruinn d'eirígheán zách Iá.

Is báine í iona̸ An lile, is deise í ʼn an sgéimh,

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

Is feárr iona̸ sin uile a h-uaisleácht 2s á méinn, 'sa dhiá thá is ná fla̸ithis fuászáil dom Phéin.

An poibh tu ir An g-cárráig, no án bh-fácáidh tú mo ghnadh,

Ho An bh-pácáidh tu zile no finne no sgéimh ná mná, An bh-fácáidh tu An t-ubhall budh mhilse 's bush chúmhrá bláth,

o an bh-pácáidh tu mo bháilincín no bh-fhuil si zá claóídh már táim ?

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


Agus chondire me do bháilintín 's ní fhuil si 'z á cla̸óíðh már táir.


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.

'Hios o cháith An Aoís mé K's zur liáth mo cheánn,


my locks now look gray and my blood runs chill.

This passage may remind the reader of one of Anacreon's Odes, beginning :

ΜΗ με φύγης ορώσα
Την ωολιαν έθειραν. .

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 bo to his mistress, addresses it as follows:-


A leabhráin, is Koibhinn do thriall

2 ccionn Kindre na 3-ciabh 3-ckm;
Is truagh! gan tu K'm riocht « b-péin,
A's me-si féin «g dul <nn.

A leabhráin, is Koíbhinn duit

Do thriall, mar bh-fuil mo ghrádh;
Do chídhfir ann an folt már ór,-
Do chidhfir ann an déad bhán.

Again, on the difficulty of enumerating her charms :

Ox m-budh dubh an fhairge,
A's talamh bheith ’ná pKiper bán,
Cleitighe mine, geak,
A's <n «K bheith air. tonn <3 snámh;

DA m-bronnfa̸ídhe dám Eri K's Pásáná,

Alba̸, An Phráine 's « Spáin,

Treighthe ! mo cáilín deis,

Hí thiocfadh liom do sgriobhadh le pe«nn.

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

An uair rugadh an chuilphionn tháinic beach bín,
Le cioth meala 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 Thiá gán mé Am Abháillín,

Hó Am Kilneáinín éigin ;

Hó Am rós ánn sán ngáirdín,

Már a nznáthuigheann tú Ad Aona̸r ;
Már shúil is 30 m-bhukinfeídh dhíom
Géugáinín éizín,

Do bhiadh Azad Ad dheás-láimh
Hom-bpollach zeal do léine.

See the ripe fruit,-oh! were I such,
That mellow hangs from yonder spray;

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