No. 140.]

THE CHANGELING; OR, SPORTEEN AND THE FAIRY.

INTRODUCTORY SONNET.

Of Fairyland, the rede I wish to trace !

Start not, thou mother, pressing to thy breast Thy rosy cherub. Safe within such nest Long may thy callow love-pledge find a place. And, maiden, vain the tears that in swift chace O'er thy soft cheek pursue the paling rose; Nor thou, the fiery-hearted, turn thy face, Give to thy quailing eye its old repose,

Nor mar thy lip and brow with such fierce grace. Yet Sybil, with the brow of wrinkled woes,

Thy legends of the fearful, mystic race,

Falleth not idly on our charmed ears;

Still, as a vision'd world the tale appears

Of Fairyland, the rede I wish to trace !

CHAPTER I.

THE pastoral Barrow is, perhaps, one of the most beautiful rivers in Ireland-winding in its varied course "by tower and town," through glen and glade, sweeping woodlands and rich valleys from its source to its junction with the silver Nore; and from thence, until buried in the bosom of the Haven of Waterford, its waters are said not to reflect one gloomy or barren scene. On the banks of the ancient Breba, and not far from the good town of Carlow, in the midst of his few but fruitful acres, resided James O'Callaghan and his "good woman" Judith, with a "small family" of ten children, who were all remarkably healthy, robust, and hearty, except the youngest, who, after some time, turned out a weak, squalid, ill-favoured, impish brat, far different from the rest of the children, and unlike in face and manners anything living on this earth-it was evidently cursed, or a shee-oge.*

It was a fine day in the latter end of harvest-all the farmer's family, man, woman, and child, were abroad in the fields, except Judith and the ill-thriving brat. She could not stir from himshe had him in her lap by the fire-side, alternately scolding and soothing him, and lamenting her hard hap in being obliged to stop at home to nurse him. She sought, by every means in her power-by every wile and stratagem, to calm its torments and lull it to sleep. At one time venting her impatience in calling it the most opprobrious names, then apostrophising it by the most endearing terms which the Irish language, abounding in tender epithets, could afford. Sometimes ready to burst out crying with vexation, and anon singing snatches of the beautiful song "Gentle Barrow," composed in the vernacular by a district bard, and part of which, if we may be excused attempting an humble and free translation, would flow in something like the following:

BALLAD.

Flow on gentle Barrow

Thy green banks between, Spain has her Darrow,

And proud France her Seine ; With her blue-rushing Rhone, As fleet as an arrow;

Oh! I love thee alone,
My own gentle Barrow.

Shee-oge-young fairy.

Thy melody bringeth

A soothing-a power

To hearts that grief wringeth, At evening's lone hour ;

Of days that are gone

Of ages of sorrow,

Still sadly sing on,

My own gentle Barrow.

In the isles of the east-
There the golden fruit glows,
And the bulbul sings best

To his own Persian rose ;
Where dark eyes dart love,
In bright scenes afar, oh!

I'd ne'er wish to rove

From my own gentle Barrow.

Farewell, gentle Barrow;

The sun seeks the main ; Yet his beams of the morrow

Shall bless thee again.

Thy current's not slow,

Thy green banks not narrow; Then in melody flow,

My own gentle Barrow.

VOL. 12.

"Miau! miau! miau!" still squeeled the little imp, untouched by her solicitude to give him comfort; aud, with all its might, and with an agony of pain, seemingly writhing its shrivelled features that well might inspire commiseration.

"Och! och! och! ochone !" cried the tormented mother. "The heavy sorrow may 'miau' you o' the sight o' me for one sperrit of my etarnal tormint; what 'ill I do with you at all? Am I to sit here all day undher you, and the corn shakin'? Och! what's come acrass you!-here I am, worn to a thread with the like o' you, these two long years, and no change for the betther. Och, may the sorrow whip you away from me. Well, then, no, alanna bawn (my fair darling), husht now, and I'll get goodies for my creathereen; there now, ma paustha bra (my own child for ever). Is it into the cradle you'll go, ma gra gal (my white love). Oh! that's the good child 'ill go into his own cradle for his own waher beg" (poor mother); and she attempted to incarcerate him in the wicker-basket by her side.

"Miau! miau! miau!" screamed the struggling wretch, kicking and twisting its old-fashioned face into a thousand different contortions of agony.

"Och! och! I wish Croagh Phadruig was down the throat of you, wid my heart and blessin'," cried the irritated woman, losing all patience, "Och, what change was it that came over you at all?-it's you that was the fine armful, out and out; and look at you now, you misforthenate shoghrawn (cast off) of misery, Thu-night and day that 'miau' is never out of your head, 'tall I'm dwindled off the face o' the earth with you. It's into the grave you'll sink me, unless some good angel whips you into the other world afore my heart's bruk entirely-och! och! och!

ochone!"

Here the sum beams, shining in the open door, were darkened; and turning round, an individual known by the mirthful sobri

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quet of the Sporteen, saluted her with a bow and a caper. He was the fashioner of the parish-a wandering tailor, who, without any known place of residence, moved about from farmer's house to cabin, wherever a frieze coat or a nate pair of corduroys" were to be made. He acquired the appellation of the Sporteen from the lightness and gaiety of his disposition. He never appeared in trouble, but ever merry, singing, and happy. All day "he cantilie ranted and sang" at his work-danced in the evening with the girls-threw a stone, or wrestled a fall with the boys, or set the young ones to play or to fight, a thing very easily done at all times. His prices were generally small; but, as he was boarded and lodged where he worked, his life was one of ease, and "hang care" was ever his motto.

"Hoo! the top of tin thousand mornin's to you, Mrs. O'Callaghan, jewel," shouted the Sporteen as he entered. "Hoo! its yourself that looks brave and comfortable, me darlin' woman, this blessed mornin'; be me sowl, you look as fresh as the day you were tied to Jemmy O'Callaghan ;-an' sure you do, and more o' the same luck to you. I'll be bail now, its a fine new big-coat he's wanting, or may be its a dacent jock or a mantle for yourself, or a pair o' small-clothes for either one or the other of you?"

"Och! the sorrow go wid you, Sporteen," replied the wearied dame, "but you started the very heart within me. Lord save us! Cloak indeed!-oh no, wurra, I'm the last that's thought of, though its breakin' my heart and losin' my sowl I'm here workin' and slavin' for him and his childher. Cloak, indeed! the sorrow cloak. No faix, it's the big coat for himself, and two or three jackets for the gossoons. Och! and this weary child is worse nor all upon me. Och, och! go sleep, you bould devil, go sleep-Husth, there then, alanna, and I won't be crass."

"Give

"Arrah; then show him to me here, Mrs. O'Callaghan," said the Sporteen, pleased at the appearance of a good job. me the darlin'. Come to me, you angel o' the world! It's a rale charmin' beauty the jewel is, and the very born picthur of yourself, Mrs. O'Callaghan, dear-if he was fat. A small morsel more of flesh 'ud do the diamon' o' the nation all the good in life -to be sure it would. Hurroo! my hearty! there you gothere's a toss for my goiant of a boy-there's a hoise! A thrifle of fat, Mrs. O'Callaghan, 'ud make an oncommon improvement in the posey o' the counthry-be my sowl it would. Hurroo ! ma bouchel (my boy) you wor-another hoise and another toss for the pride of ould Eirien," and he commenced capering and tossing the child about the house. "Hurroo! my fiue bouncin' fellow you wor-there you go

Up to the collar beam, Down to the floor, Out on the windee, and In on the door.

Be me sowl it's a rale Sporteen you'll be, if you live-Hoo! it's a rattlin' big bully fellow you'll be-be me sowl you will, if you stand it another year. Hoo! it's the flower o' the County Carlow you'll be next spring, if you don't happen to lie out this winther. Won't you be a tailyur, or a carnell in the army, or a fine big fat bishop with a jolly red nose-be me sowl you will, if you can, and why not?" And perceiving the withered features of the imp relax into something like a grin of pleasure, "Look there, Mrs. O'Callaghan-look at the beauty, how killin' delightful he smiles at you. It's all exercise he wants-the phaynix is killed for want of the amusement-there wouldn't be the likes of him in the seven counties if he had the exercise. Hurroo! my fine fellow, indeed there wouldn't. Hurroo! again. Och, if we had a tchune on the pipes now, it's we that 'ud put some of them on their best steps and thribles-we'd show them the fun-we'd put them through their facin's-to be sure would-Hurroo !" and the little ugly toad fairly laughed out into the face of the bantering tailor.

"Och! the sorrow be from you, for one Sporteen," cried the mother, delighted to see the least glimpse of gladness on its features. "It's you that can do anything, I believe, as well as make a breeches. The dickens be wid him but I'm at him this live-long day, and couldn't get him to stop the miau for oue minit, if I was to kick in the fits for it, barrin' I was to choke him, and there now you have him burstin' laughin'. Well-well; the old Puck himself can't beat you out."

"Och! be me sowl, the jewil 'ill laugh with the Sporteen," replied the tailor, proud to get so far into the good graces of the mistress, for it was his general maxim, keep in favour with the "woman of the house," and you need not fear the master. "Won't you laugh with the Sporteen, ma bouchel? Look at that now-Hurroo! There, now; won't you go into the cradle, avick? (my son) to be sure you will for your own Sporteen. Hushohusho-husho;" and placing the child in the cradle without its crying out, much to the astonishment of the farmer's wife, he sat down beside it, and began to rock and sing the old croon that women used to lull their children to sleep.

The Sporteen commenced business next day, and continued at his work during the ensuing week. Sometimes employed sewing the jackets for the children; sometimes nursing and pleasing the young imp; but as often as he could courting Bridget, the farmer's eldest daughter, a bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, pleasant. smiling colleen dhas (young girl). The farmer, after fitting on his "big coat," swore that "there was not such a taylur 'ithin the four wide walls of the world as the Sporteen." Judith, his wife, declared" that the sorrow take his match as a nurse she ever kem acrass;" while Bridget vowed "she didn't know what to make of him, he was so teasin' and tormenting'-the dickens the like of him ever she met."

The courtship of the Sporteen was quite characteristic-seated on the kitchen table, before the small four-paned window, "he worked and sung from morn till night," and ever as Bridget came past in her household avocations, he saluted her with a home thrust of his needle that made her bounce, though she prudently made no noise, for she well could interpret the merry tailor's winks and leers, and was not displeased with his tricks; yet she dreaded any one else should understand them.

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Why, then, the dickens take you Sporteen," said she one day, when her mother's back was turned, "what do you mane by stickin' your devil of a needle into me? That I mayn't do an ill turn, the Lord bless and keep us, but it's sore all round I am, the way you do be gettin' on."

"It's just to put you in mind of confirmation, Bridget, you darlint-the way you'd be thinkin' o' me, you bloomin' rose o' the wildherness-for I love you with all the vains o' me heartbe me sowl I do-aud I want to take you out o' hardship, and a dirty farmer's house, and make a dacent tradesman's wife of you; and them two sparklin' dimens in the head o' you put me through my work ontirely, the way I do be lookin' at you—they make me set two stitches instead of one!—Och, the Lord betwane us and harm, them eyes weren't med for the good of your sowl or the Christians any how-Och, 'twas the unlucky day I ever kem to sow a stitch to Jemmy O'Callaghan. Och, Sporteen, if the good forthen doesn't befriend you to soften the tindher heart of the raal Dianya, you're the undone ninth part of a man. But, Bridget, gul he cugger, amourneen bawn, (come here, whisper my fair darling,) I have something or another to tell you this evening -I don't know well what it is yet-but meet me in the haggard ; will you? Just slip round when you milk the cows."

Maybe I would, Sporteen," replied the rosy girl, "but the goodness pursarve me, what 'ud become of me if my mother or any of the boys 'ud see us."

"The devil a danger," cried the Sporteen, "be me safe self there's not a shaddy of fear for it. Och, the darlin' Vaynus of the world you wor-the Phaynix of creation you wor," and he nimbly leapt from the table, threw his arm around her milkwhite neck, and kissed her budding lips to the echo, while a shrill cackling laugh from the cradle made the "rafters' dirl."