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 , V.í^. -V-?' 
 
THE 
 
 POETS AND POETRY 
 
 OP 
 
 • MUNSTER: 
 
 ^ ScUttioit of Songs 
 
 BY THE POETS OP THE LAST CENTURY. 
 
 WITH POETICAL TEANSLATIONS 
 
 BY TUB LATB 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN, 
 
 ^nlí tíjc 0iísÍBal jíHusíc; 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL, SKETCHES OF TFIE AUTHORS; 
 
 AND IRISH TEXT REVISED BY 
 
 W. M. HENNESSEY, M.E.I.A. 
 
 Edited by C. P. MEEHAN, C.C. 
 
 FOURTH EDITION. 
 
 DUBLIN : 
 
 JAMES DUFFY AND SONS, 15 WELLINGTON QUAY, 
 And 1 Pateknostek Eow, London. 
 
/ 
 
 
 1^5859 
 
MR. BRINLEY RICHARDS 
 
 ON THE 
 
 Jrish yVLuSIC 
 
 IN THE 
 
 “POETS AND POETRY OF MUNSTER.” 
 
 4 
 
 In a letter to the Author of the Monks of Kilcrea — 
 one of the most delightful poems in the English language — 
 Mr. Brinley Eichards, the eminent composer and pianist, 
 gives the subjoined estimate of the Irish music in this 
 volume. Praise from such a Maestro of the ^‘divine art” 
 is indeed most valuable, and he will be pleased to accept 
 the publishers’ grateful acknowledgment of his kindness 
 in allowing them to print his generous critique : — 
 
 ‘'25 St. Mary Abbott’s Terrace, 
 
 Kensington, W., 
 
 October lUhy 1884. 
 
 "Dear Mr. Geoghegan, — 
 
 " With this I return you the little volume you kindly 
 lent me, and it has very greatly interested me. I have 
 
LETTER OF MR. BRINLEY RICHARDS. 
 
 copied some of the melodies as specimens of ‘ National 
 Music/ remarkable for individuality and tenderness. 
 According to modern ideas they seem 'wild/ and refuse 
 all attempts at accompaniment; indeed, the music does 
 not appear to require any, and though at first they appear 
 strange to English ears, they seem to grow into a beauty 
 peculiarly ' winning,’ and possess an eloquence that 
 requires nothing more than the simple notes of the 
 melodies. We have no Welsh airs so characteristic, with 
 the exception of one or two old songs that seem to have 
 been 'built’ on a scale entirely different from the modern 
 diatonic. I am very much obliged to you for adding 
 ' something more ’ to my collection of National music. 
 
 " With kind regards, very truly yours, 
 
 Brinley Kichards.” 
 
PEEFACE TO THIED EDITION. 
 
 0 
 
 The First and Second Edition of this volume which might 
 appositely be entitled Anthologia Celtica’’ — having been 
 many years out of print; the Messrs. Duffy purchased 
 Mr. Patrick Traynor’s interest in the copyright, and 
 thought this the opportune moment for bringing out a 
 third in bolder type and on better paper. Conscious of 
 the risk they ran in this undertaking, they resolved to 
 do all they could through this medium, for the preserva- 
 tion of the ancient language of Erin, and of many of those 
 dulcet airs which consoled our forefathers at home and in 
 exile during the darkest days of their bondage. Further- 
 more, the desire so frequently expressed to have every line 
 from the pen of the matchless translator of those lyrics 
 made accessible to all classes of readers deserved to be 
 gratified, and was another motive which induced the 
 Messrs. Duffy to present this new edition with Gaelic 
 text, carefully revised, to the student of that venerable 
 idiom, and the lovers of our native music. 
 
 It is not our intention to dwell here at any length on 
 the characteristics of the original songs or of the metrical 
 English version by one of our most gifted bards ; for 
 those acquainted with the ancient tongue have testified 
 to the multiform graces of the former, while those critics 
 whose linguistic knowledge is confined to tbe modern 
 
iv í PREFACE. 
 
 vernacular, have been loud in their praise of that grandly 
 dowered genius whose poetry may well be styled a speak- 
 ing picture, just as a picture may be called a song without 
 words. We may add, that copies of the Munster Poets 
 having become exceedingly rare, often brought at auctions 
 twenty shillings, and sometimes even more. And now 
 a few words about Mangan. 
 
 His father James, native of Shanagolden Vale, came to 
 Dublin about 1801, opened a grocer’s shop at 3 Fishamble 
 Street — like the house in which Moore first saw the light, 
 ’tis still a grocer’s — and married Catherine Smith of Kil- 
 tale, county Meath. James, their eldest son was born on 
 the 1st of May, 1803, and on the 2nd of that month 
 was baptized by the venerable Father Betagh, in the old 
 chapel of Rosemary Lane ; for the church of SS. Michael 
 and John — now the oldest of the metropolitan parochial 
 churches — was not dedicated till the 22nd December, 
 1813. The record of James’ baptism in the Parochial 
 Register runs thus, — May 2nd, James, of James Mangan 
 and Catherine Smith ; sponsors, Patrick Archbold and 
 Mary Lynch.* James had two brothers, John born in 1804, 
 and William in 1808, and a sister who died young. 
 
 After thriving for a while in Fishamble Street, Mangan’s 
 father and family removed to Charlemont Street, where he 
 began to invest whatever capital he had acquired in the 
 purchase of old houses, which, in a brief interval left him- 
 
 * Clarence ” was Mangan’s nom de Flume, 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 V 
 
 self and family all but homeless, and brought him to an 
 early grave. 
 
 Mangan’s uncle by the mother’s side, now took charge 
 of James and his brothers, and when the former had 
 reached his seventh year, sent him to the school opened 
 by the celebrated Jesuit F. Austin, about the year 1760, 
 in Saul’s Court,* off Fishamble Street, and subsequently 
 
 ♦ Saul’s Court has its history : the late Most Rev. Dr. Murray, Arch- 
 bishop of Dublin, received his primary education there, and so did many 
 other ecclesiastics of that eminent prelate’s period. But there are 
 other associations attaching to that cul de sac^ once the Arcadia of 
 Catholic students, which may fittingly find a place here. 
 
 “ Saul’s Court, on the eastern side of Fishamble-street, takes its name 
 from Laurence Saul, a wealthy Roman Catholic distiller, who resided 
 there at the sign of the ‘ Golden Key,’ in the early part of the last cen- 
 tury. — About 1759 Laurence Saul was prosecuted for having harboured 
 a young lady named O’Toole, who had sought refuge in his house to avoid 
 being compelled by her friends to conform to the Established Church ; 
 and the Chancellor,* on. this trial, made the famous declaration, that the 
 law did not presume that an Irish Papist existed in the kingdom. In a 
 letter to Charles O’Conor, who had advised him to summon a meeting 
 of the Catholic Committee, for the purpose of making a tender of 
 their service and allegiance to Government, Saul wrote as follows : — 
 ‘ Since there is not the least prospect of such a relaxation of the penal 
 laws, as would induce one Roman Catholic to tarry in this house of 
 bondage, who can purchase a settlement in some other land, 'where 
 treedom and security of property can be obtained, will you condemn me 
 for saying, that if I cannot be one of the first, I will not be one of the 
 last, to take fiight from a country, where I have not the least expecta* 
 
 * Nomine Bowes 
 
yi 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 directed by Father Betagh and his reverend colleagues, 
 iv’ith the connivance of the Irish executive, which, at that 
 time, looked askance at anything in the shape of a popish 
 seminary.’’ Michael Courtneyf was then one of Dr. 
 Betagh’s ushers, and ’twas he who taught Mangan the 
 first rudiments. Delighted with the boy’s proficiency, 
 Michael Blake, t successor to F. Betagh, grew fond of him. 
 
 tion of encouragement, to enable me to carry on my manufactures, to 
 any considerable extent ? ‘ Heu, fuge crudeles terras, fuge littus avarupi ?' 
 ■ — But how I will be able to bear, at this time of life, when nature if 
 far advanced in its decline, and my constitution, by constant exercise 
 of mind, very much impaired, the fatal necessity of quitting for ever my 
 friends, relatives, and ancient patrimony, my natale solum^ to retire 
 perhaps to some dreary inauspicious clime, there to play the schoolboy 
 again, to learn the language, laws, and institutions of the country ; to 
 make new friends and acquaintances ; in short, to begin the world anew. 
 How this separation, I say, from every thing dear in this sublunary 
 world would afflict me I cannot say, but with an agitated and throbbing 
 heart. But when Religion dictates, and Prudence points the only 
 way to preserve posterity from temptation and perdition, I feel this 
 consideration predominating over all others. I am resolved, as soon as 
 possible, to sell out, and to expatriate ; and I must content myself with 
 the melancholy satisfaction of treasuring up in my memory the kind- 
 nesses and affection of my friends.’ Saul soon after quitted his native 
 land and retired to France, where he died in October 1768.” — Gilbert's 
 Kistory of Dublin. 
 
 t In 1809, Michael Courtney was nominal proprietor of the school in 
 Saul’s Court. In 1812 he opened an academy at 23 Aungier Street, but 
 he never kept school in Derby Square. 
 
 J He restored the Irish College, Rome ; built St. Andrew's, Westland 
 Row, and died Bishop of Dromore, 1854. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Vll 
 
 and placed him under the special guidance of Father 
 Graham, a learned grammarian and classical scholar, who 
 had just returned from Salamanca and Palermo, after 
 completing his studies, and before going back to his native 
 diocese attached himself to the Saul’s Court School, in which 
 he replaced Courtney. Fr. Graham found Mangan an apt 
 pupil, and taught him the rudiments of Latin, French, 
 Italian, and Spanish, his knowledge of which stood him 
 in good stead when composing the beautiful ‘‘Lays o 
 Many Lands.” Years after Fr. Graham departed this 
 life, Mangan often repeated for me — the tears streaming 
 from his eyes — that pathetic Elegy in which the exiled 
 Ovid writes to his wife that the sea-shore shells were out- 
 numbered by the sorrows he had to dree among the bar- 
 barous Scythians. I never can forget the broken and 
 tender tones in which he used to read those mournful 
 strophes,* all the more so to him, because, as he told me, 
 they were among the first in which Fr. Graham tested his 
 proficiency, and also because they reflected his own trials 
 and misfortunes — some of the former imaginary or 
 exaggerated, and most of the latter his own making. 
 I do not recollect, although he told me, what time he 
 finished his schooling, but I well remember that he, many 
 years afterwards, made the acquaintance of Father 
 
 ♦ “ Littora quot conchas, quot amoena rosaria flores, 
 qnotve soporiferum grana papaver habet ; 
 silva feras quot alit, quot piscibus unda natatur, 
 quot tenerum pennis aera pulsat avis ; 
 tot premor adversis.” 
 
Vlll 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Villaneuva, a learned Spanish priest, who enlarged his 
 knowledge of the Cancioneros and Romanceros of the 
 Peninsula.* 
 
 And now, as a conclusion to this glance at Mangan’s 
 youth tide, we may inform our readers that he never 
 learnt Gaelic, Persian, Hindustani, Romaic, and Coptic, 
 and that his affected translations from these idioms 
 are the outcome of his own all hut oriental imagi- 
 nation. As for German, he made himself thoroughly 
 master of it, so much so that he set about teaching 
 it to a young ladyt — long since gone to heaven — 
 
 * D. F. MacCarthy had his first lessons in Spanish from Father 
 MuUock, O.S.F., who was a priest in the Franciscan Convent, Merchant’s 
 Quay, and died Bishop of St. John’s, Newfoundland, 
 
 + Catherine was the Christian name of Mangan’s mother, and of the 
 young lady alluded to. To Catrina,” Camoens addressed one of his 
 
 sweetest poems ; and Mangan’s lament for Miss H , who died in 
 
 October, 1832, is not less pathetic : — 
 
 “I stood aloof, I dared not to behold 
 Thy relics covered over with the mould ; 
 
 I shed no tear, I uttered not a groan, 
 
 But yet I felt heart-broken and alone. 
 
 The fairy visions of my childhood’s fancy. 
 
 The mind’s young mysteries, nature’s necromancy, 
 
 Haunt not my memory now, it can but borrow 
 From your lost glories, aliment for sorrow. 
 
 Yet if it be that God himself removes 
 From pain and contagion those he loves. 
 
 I’ll weep no more, but strew with freshest rosesf 
 The hallowed mound where Innocence reposes 
 
PKEFACE. 
 
 IX 
 
 for whom he penned a series of exercises, one of which is 
 now before the writer. The late Mr. O’Daly turned the 
 Gaelic songs in this volume into literal English prose, and 
 Mangan transfused the spirit of their authors as no other 
 could. 
 
 Anxious to assist his parents, brothers and sister, 
 Mangan thought the róle of a scrivenei might help him to 
 realize his project, but he had hardly set out on life’s journey, 
 when he discovered that he had fallen into the society 
 of grovelling companions who flouted the temperate cup, 
 and made him ever afterwards an irresolute victim to 
 alcohol. His description of the canaille with whom he 
 tells in his autobiography, he had to consort, is not, I 
 believe, overcoloured, nor is the sentiment of his own 
 debasement exaggerated. He best could paint the latter, 
 because he felt it : — 
 
 “ As men by bond, and shackle trammel 
 The overloaded horse or camel, 
 
 So is my spirit bound with chains, 
 
 And girt with troubles till ’tis wonder 
 A single spark of soul remains, 
 
 Not altogether trampled under.” 
 
 It must, however, be admitted that out of a miserable 
 wage he did what he could for his parents, during the 
 Jong years he spent as a law-clerk, in the office of Mr. 
 L , and subsequently in the more congenial employ- 
 
 ment given him by Dr. Todd, in the splendid library of 
 
X 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Trinity College. But the one passion claimed him exclu- 
 sively its own, rendering him misanthropical and eccentric, 
 for the smallest amount of spirit seriously aiffected his 
 finely strung nerves and delicate fibre. But there were 
 intervals in which, when freed from that influence, 
 he proved himself a genial companion, and delightful 
 conversationalist ever ready to make or enjoy a joke.^’^ 
 He was gentle and unassuming, modest as a child, 
 and one would think wholly unconscious of his splendid 
 genius. As for opium, I never knew him to use it — the 
 poppy of the West satisfied his craving. 
 
 Sick of the monotonous drudgery of the scrivener, 
 whose semi-uncials offered such a contrast to his own 
 calligraphy — for such it was in the absolute meaning of 
 that word — he betook him to literature as a more con- 
 genial occupation, and contributed to many periodicals,t 
 the very names of which are now all but forgotten — then 
 flourishing in Dublin. At a later period he figured 
 
 * One evening in my attic when Meagher in presence of D. F. 
 MacCarthy, R. D. Williams, and half a dozen more, was reciting 
 Antony’s oration, over Caesar’s corpse, and came to the “lend me 
 your ears ” — Mangan stood up gravely and said, “ That’s a wrong 
 reading.” “ No,” replied the reciter, “it’s so in the book.” “No matter, 
 sir,” rejoined Mangan, “the correct reading is, ‘lend me your ca7's,* 
 for Julius was killed near a car-stand, and Antony wanted to get up a 
 decent funeral. What could be more absurd than to ask the loan of 
 their ears ?” 
 
 t Mr. M‘Call has enumerated them in the admirable little book 
 published in the office of the Nation. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Kl 
 
 splendidly in the Dublin Penny Journal, where he 
 published the Dying Enthusiast, the One Mystery, and 
 graceful translations from the Italian of Petrarca and 
 Filicaja. 
 
 In 1834?, a year after its establishment, he contributed 
 to the Dublin University Magazine numerous transla- 
 tions from the German, commencing with Schiller’s 
 Pilgrim,” which, in 1845, were collected in two volumes, 
 and owing to the generous munificence of Charles G. 
 Dufiy, published with the title of “German Anthology,” 
 an appellation happily bestowed on that odoriferous 
 wreath of song, so remarkable for freshness of fancy, and 
 beauty of composition. His contributions to the Uni- 
 versity Magazine in prose and verse extended over 
 fifteen years, the last of them appearing in that periodical 
 in 1849. In 1840, we find him in the pages of 
 Cameron’s Irish Penny Journal, pouring forth a tide of 
 song, and adorning that periodical with Apologues and 
 Fables from the German, Irish, and other languages. 
 Almost every one is acquainted with his version from 
 the Gaelic of the “Woman of Three Cows,”* sparkling 
 
 *In a letter dated September 15, 1840, addressed to C. G. Duffy, 
 then editing the Belfast Vindicator, Mangan says, “I thank you for 
 clapping the Three Cows into pound in your paper. But why did you 
 omit the three stanzas ? Are you able to give me a reason ? 'Not you, 
 I take it. However, you can make me some amends shortly. In No. 
 15 of Cameron’s, there will be a transmagnificanbandancial elegy of mine (a 
 perversion from the Irish), on the O’Neills and O’Donnells of Ulster, 
 which is admired by myself and some other impartial judges.” 
 
xii PREFACE. 
 
 as it is with genuine humour and sarcasm ; but by 
 far the grandest of all his translations from the language 
 of Erin, is the Lamentation for the Earls of Tyrone 
 and Tyrconnell — buried in S. Pietro Montorio at Rome.” 
 O’Curry furnished literal prose versions of both poems 
 which have attained world-wide celebrity ; and of the 
 Lamentation,’* we may say that no Irish pilgrim 
 ascends the Janiculum without thinking of Mangan, 
 and mentally repeating 0, Woman of the Piercing 
 Wail ‘ 
 
 It was at this period, 1833, he attracted the notice of 
 George Petrie — a distinguished painter, musician, and 
 enthusiastic lover of his country’s antiquities — who was 
 then engaged on the Ordnance Survey of Ireland. Petrie 
 employed him in his own oiB&ce, inspired him with some 
 of his refined tastes, introduced him to John O’Donovan ; 
 and one of the immediate sequels to this acquaintance- 
 ship was the Lamentation for Kincora, beautifully 
 rendered into flowing rhyme, from the Gaelic of Mac Liag, 
 Bard and Seanachie to the Victor of Clontarf. To the 
 same inspiration we may attribute the genesis of those 
 other exquisite versions from the same idiom ; for ex- 
 ample, the Wail over the ruins of Donegal Castle — the 
 Lament for the rifted Franciscan Monastery of Timoc 
 league, and the Testament of Cahir Mor, which reminds 
 one of the last utterances of Jacob on his death -bed. 
 To another source — the German — we must ascribe the 
 Apologue of the repentant old sinner, who on a New- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xíii 
 
 Year’s night, standing at his window list^sned to the bells 
 heralding “ the young year’s birth/' and after recountiog 
 all his days in the sorrow of his heart, wept, and thanked 
 God, “that with the will, he had the power to choose the 
 right path still.” This wonderfully beautiful translation 
 from Kichter appeared in prose and metre in the 
 periodical already named, and in both forms excels 
 every other attempt to transfuse its subtile spirit without 
 evaporation into our vernacular. Irrespective of other 
 considerations, we have reason to be grateful to Mangan 
 for making us familiar with the productions of many 
 of the most distinguished foreign poets and prose writers. 
 The Pentecost Fire does not fall on many heads; but 
 assuredly, some of its lingering sparks were bestowed 
 on his. 
 
 In October, 1842, appeared the first number of the 
 Nation for which Mangan wrote the splendid inaugural 
 ode in which he adumbrates the grand aim of that 
 journal, and the men — “ the gifted, the noble” — who were 
 to contribute to its pages, and thus bring a new soui 
 into Ireland. Davis and Duffy were glad to have such a 
 fellow labourer as Mangan ; and after Davis’ death, Duffy 
 spared no pains to secure his services and reclaim him 
 from those peculiar habitudes which he ever and anon 
 relinquished and resumed. “ I knew and loved him,” says 
 Duffy, “ from the time when I was not yet a man.” “He 
 was essentially the poet of the Nation,'' No one knows 
 
XIV 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 better than the writer of this, how fondly attached Duffy 
 was to him, or how lovingly he strove to recall him to his 
 better self ; but alas, ’twas a vain pursuit and toil without 
 the longed for result. 
 
 In 1847, Mr. James Dufiy published the Catholie 
 Magazine, the first volume of which was edited by, 
 among others, D. F. MacOarthy, K D. Williams, and 
 John Kenyon, P.P. of Templederry. Mangan contributed 
 to its pages the delightful metrical paraphrase of the 
 first chapter of Jeremias’ “ Lamentations The Death 
 and Burial of Bed Hugh O’Donnell,’’ — The weird “ Legend 
 of Claus of Unterwalden,” and a brilliant translation of 
 the Eucharistic Hymn — “ Te Deum laudamus,” composed 
 not by St. Ambrose, but by St. Nicetus, bishop of Treves, 
 in 527. 
 
 As for the Poets and Poetry of Munster, the first 
 edition was published in 1849, and a second appeared 
 in 1850. Both commanded a large circulation, and 
 the value of the work was greatly enhanced by the native 
 music which escaped Bunting, Moore, Petrie and other 
 collectors of our ancient minstrelsy. 
 
 But what of his personality ? My first interview with 
 him was in 1845, a few days after the appearance of the 
 German Anthology, when a gentleman employed on the* 
 Nation brought him to my attic and formally introduced 
 me to the author of the exquisite translations of which I 
 had spoken rapturously. Before taking a seat Mangan ran 
 
PPwEFACE. 
 
 XV 
 
 his hand through my hair 'phrenologically^ but whether 
 he discovered anything to his or my advantage I don’t 
 remember. The close proximity, however, made me re- 
 cognise the strange individual I had often seen standing 
 before book-stalls at the Four Courts, the College wall, 
 and elsewhere. He was about five feet six or seven in 
 height, slightly stooped, and attenuated as one of Memling’s 
 monks. His head was large, beautifully shaped, his eyes 
 blue, his features exceedingly fine and sickbed o’er ” with 
 that diaphanous pallor which is said to distinguish those in 
 whom the fire of genius has burnt too rapidly even from 
 childhood. And the dress of this spectral-looking man 
 was singularly remarkable, taken down at haphazard 
 from some peg in an old clothes shop — a baggy panta- 
 loon that never was intended for him, a short coat 
 closely buttoned, a blue cloth cloak^ still shorter, and 
 tucked so tightly to his person that no one could see 
 there even the faintest shadow of those lines called by 
 painters and sculptors drapery. The hat was in keep- 
 ing with this habiliment, broad-leafed and steeple-shaped, 
 the model of which he must have found in some picture 
 of Hudibras. Occasionally he substituted for this head- 
 gear, a soldier’s fatigue cap, and never appeared abroad 
 in sunshine or storm without a large malformed umbrella, 
 which, when partly covered by the cloak, might easily 
 
 * Writing to Duffy, he says “ How little do you know of the man in 
 the cloak !” 
 
XVI 
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 be mistaken for a Scotch bagpipe. This eccentricity in 
 costume and manner was not affected, and so little did he 
 heed the incidents passing about him that he never was 
 conscious of the remarks and glances bestowed on him 
 by the empty-headed fop who stared him in the 
 streets. The acquaintance formed that evening soon 
 ripened to friendship that was destined to live through 
 five eventful years ; and thenceforth Mangan was always 
 welcome to such modest fare as a poor attic could afford. 
 
 Among those whom he used to meet there were T. D. 
 M‘Gee, R. D. Williams, D. F. MacCartby, and others 
 whom he delighted with his viva voce criticisms of the 
 Italian, German, and French poets; and, above all, wdth dis- 
 sertations on the doctrines of Lavater and Spurzheim, for 
 whom he entertained great respect ; so much so, that he 
 meditated opening an academy for the propagation of 
 their theories. This, however, like many another of his 
 day-dreams, never was realized. Four years previous to 
 the period of which we write, the Apostle of Temperance 
 had visited Dublin, and given the pledge in front of the 
 church of SS. Michael and John. Mangan was present on 
 that occasion, but could not be induced to take the pledge, 
 simply because he doubted his ability to keep it. Withal, 
 what he had seen of the marvellous revolution wrought 
 by Fr. Mathew impressed him beneficially, so much so, that 
 for whole months he would avoid the use of alcohol in any 
 form. During those intervals of self-denial, he endeared 
 himself more and more to his young associates, frequented 
 
niEyACE. 
 
 XVll 
 
 the sacraments * and scrupulously kept faith with those 
 who had secured his literary services. What joyous 
 evenings we had then in that attic listening to his anec- 
 dotes of crazed Maturin — in sonoe measure his own 
 menechme or alter ego — whom he used to follow through 
 the streets; Dr. Brennan of Milesian Magazine notoriety, 
 Sir Harcourt Lees, and other eccentrics with whose 
 vagaries he was thoroughly acquainted ! On one of those 
 evenings he, for the first time, heard one of his own most 
 pathetic lyrics, “ The Time of the Barmecides,’* mated to a 
 sweet old Irish air, by Dr. Thomas Nedley, then a 
 student of medicine, and gifted with a dulcet tenor voice, 
 that often and often made our reunions all the more 
 charming. Poor Mangan was so gratified on that occasion, 
 that he gave the young doctor an autograph copy of the 
 verses, which is affectionately treasured after so many 
 years, and the disappearance of nearly all those friends 
 who, to say no more of them here, have not lived in 
 vain. 
 
 But ah, the pity of it ! — waywardness and irresolution 
 were strongly developed in Mangan, and despite words of 
 encouragement and gentle attentions he would, at in- 
 tervals, be missed for weeks and months from the little 
 circle in the attic, none knowing whither he had gone. 
 
 * As a proof of his respect for the Sabbath, we may state that he re- 
 fused a very considerable sum of money offered him by Mr. L , for 
 
 work compulsorily done in his ofiB.ce on Sundays. 
 
 h 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 xviii 
 
 till he himself would suddenly turn up, and tell how he 
 had been to Leixlip or Kiltale, suffering from fever, of 
 which he cured himself with draughts of Bishop Berkley’s 
 nostrum — tar- water. After one of those rustications when 
 
 he presented himself at the hall-door of , a servant 
 
 woman, whose loftiest ideal of a lyric was the “ Bed-haired 
 Man’s Wife,” or some such ditty, scared by his ghastly 
 aspect, naively said, Lord, forgive you, Mr. Mangan, you 
 might be rolling in your coach if you’d only keep from 
 liquor, and make ballads for Mr. Nugent in Cooke-street 
 and he who sang the ‘‘ Lady Eleanora Von Alleyn,” instead 
 of resenting this well-meant rebuke, meekly whispered, 
 ‘‘ Likely eno’, Essy, but don’t be too hard on me.” A 
 French proverb says that frequent change* of dwelling- 
 place wastes life; and if this be true, it will help to 
 account for Mangan’s ever-lowering vitality some three or 
 four years before his decease. Indeed he was always on 
 the move, for moving cost him no trouble, since furniture 
 he had none — not as much as a grabatus (pallet) — the 
 word demenager had no meaning for him, a small 
 hand-bag serving him for wardrobe, and his hat for 
 escritoire. And yet, this unsettledness was not a matter 
 of necessity but of choice; for the late James Duffy made 
 him a generous offer of bed and board, and a fair allow- 
 ance of money in his house on Wellington Quay ; and 
 Father Kenyon would have had him take up his perma- 
 
 Changer souvent d’habitation, c’est éparpiller sa vie. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XIX 
 
 nent abode\ with himself in Templederry hard-by “ Clo- 
 honan’s meadows and bosky dells.’^ But the dread of 
 restraint, and what he regarded as a surrender of liberty, 
 made him decline those kindly overtures. Space would 
 fail us were we to tell all we know of the queer places in 
 which he would sometimes hide himself away, and one 
 illustration will suffice to show his peculiarity in re 
 lodgings. One fine summer evening, after more than a 
 fortnight’s absence, an old crone who might have person- 
 ated one of Macbeth’s witches, brought him to the door 
 of the old trysting- place, and stated that she had turned 
 him out, because she could get no good of him. On in- 
 quiry, it transpired that she had given him lodging in her 
 hay-loft in 0. A. ; and that he quarrelled with her because 
 she wouldn’t allow him a candle in the night time. Sure 
 sir,” she said, you might as well think of bringin’ 
 a burnin’ sod of turf into a powder magazine. I’ll have no 
 more to do with him, let him pay me, and he can have 
 his tar water, and the papers that he was writin’.” 
 Assuredly this genius was a man of parts : — 
 
 ** Who all things did by fits and starts, 
 
 Nothing above him or below him, 
 
 Who’d make a sermon or a poem 
 From eccentricity of thought, 
 
 Nor always do the thing he ought.’* 
 
 No, but the very opposite; for he now began to estrange 
 himself more and more from his friends, and despite 
 earnest remonstrance; gave himself up to habits of irregu- 
 
XX 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 larity, which cost him the patronage of Dn Todd, and 
 his position in T. C. Library. The one fatal weakness 
 reduced him almost to insanity, and we will let himself 
 describe the phantoms that were present to him by day 
 and night. Writing to a friend he says : — 
 
 “ The Gorgon’s head— the triple-faced Hell Dog — ^the hand-writing 
 on Belshazzar’s palace wall, the fire globe that burned below the feet 
 of Pascal are all bagatelles beside the Phantasmagoria that ever more 
 haunt my brain and blast my eyes.” 
 
 A few days after he had penned that description of his 
 shattered nerves, the writer found him and his brother in 
 a miserable back room destitute of every comfort, a porter 
 bottle doing duty for a candlestick, and a blanketless 
 pallet for a bed and writing table. On expostulating 
 with him, and giving him a sum of money — the gift of a 
 sympathising friend — he vowed that he would endeavour 
 to retrieve himself, and make amends for the past. But, 
 alas for promises ! they were broken as soon as made ; and 
 yet, during those paroxysms, if such phrase may be 
 allowed, his splendid intellect was nowise impaired, for 
 the contributions he sent to the Nation and University 
 Magazine, showed that the divine estro had not forsaken 
 him. Be it told to the credit of the distinguished 
 editor of the former periodical, that all Mangan's 
 tergiversations notwithstanding, he always proved him- 
 self his apologist. ‘‘ May God bless him !” wrote the 
 grateful poor fellow, ‘‘ he has been to me the sincerest 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XXI 
 
 friend I ever had.” To this friend he sent in a moment 
 of direst extremity the subjoined appeal, and afterwards 
 the promises which, for obvious reasons he ought not 
 have made : — 
 
 “My dear Duffy, — I am utterly prostrated, I am in a state of 
 absolute desolation of spirit. 
 
 For the pitj’^ of God come to me. I have ten words to say to you. I 
 implore you come. Do not suffer me to believe that I am abandoned 
 by Heaven and man. 
 
 I cannot stir out — cannot look any one in the face. 
 
 Regard this as my last request, and comply with it as if you supposed 
 me dying. 
 
 I am hardly able to hold the pen, but I will not, and dare not, take 
 any stimulants to enable me to do so. Too long and fatally already 
 have I been playing that game with my shattered nerves. 
 
 Enough. God ever bless you. Oh, come ! — ^Ever yours, 
 
 J. C. Mangax.’’ 
 
 For Charles Gavax Duffy, Esq. 
 
 “I, James Clarexce Mangah, promise, with all the sincerity that 
 ■can attach to the declaration of a human being, to dedicate the portion 
 of life that may remain to me to penitence and exertion. 
 
 I promise — in the solemn presence of Almighty GOD, and, as I 
 
 trust, with His assistance, to live soberly, abstemiously, and regularly 
 in all respects. 
 
 I promise, in the same Presence, that I will not spare myself — that 
 I will endeavour to do all the good within my power to others — that I 
 will constantly advocate the cause of Temperance —the interests of 
 knowledge— and the duties of Patriotism— and finally, that I will do 
 •all these things irrespective of any concern personal to myself— and 
 whether my exertions be productive of profit and fame to me, or, as 
 may happen in the troublous times that I believe are at hand, 
 eventuate in sinking me still lower into poverty and (undeserved^ 
 ignominy. 
 
 This declaration of my intentions with respect to my future pur- 
 
XXll 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 poses I give to Mr. Duffy. I mean, with his permission, to send 
 similar declarations to my other literary friends, varying the phrase- 
 ology of them only as his prudence may suggest. 
 
 James Clarence Mangan.” 
 
 From the same dismal t\Vo-pair back room he addressed 
 the following De profundis to a gentleman well known 
 for his charities, and we reproduce it here as a half told 
 tale of domestic sorrow, not surpassed by that of any 
 Ither unfortunate son of genius : — 
 
 ‘‘Dear and respected Sir,— Perhaps T may venture to hope that 
 you have not altogether forgotten me. I, on my part, have never 
 ceased to remember my promise to you. That promise has, if I may 
 so speak, burned itself into my brain and memory. It is vrritten on 
 my heart, and chronicled on the tablets of my spirit. It forms my 
 last thought before I lie down at night — my first when I rise in tho 
 morning. 
 
 Can you, or will you, dear sir, help me to fulfil it? I trust in the 
 Almighty GOD that you will. In addressing you, I address no common 
 man. I am aware that 1 appeal to, perhaps, the most distinguished 
 philanthropist of our era. The stronger, therefore, is my confidence 
 that you will not refuse me the aid I seek at your hands. 
 
 I write to you, dear sir, from a fireless and furnitureless room, with 
 a sick brother near me, whom I have supported for years. My heart 
 sinks within me as I contemplate the desolation around us. I myself 
 have abstained from animal food for a long period ; yet, I regretted that 
 I was unable to buy him more than an egg on Christmas Day. But this 
 matter of diet is a trifle. Healthy persons require little nourishment 
 —they can subsist on bread and water. It was the apothecary’s bill 
 which, on Christmas Eve left us without a shilling— and has obliged 
 me even to resort since to the pawnbroker. 
 
 I call on you, dear sir, with this note ; but perhaps you may not have- 
 leisure to see me. — Your very obedient servant, 
 
 J. C. Mangan.” 
 
PKEFACE. 
 
 XXlll 
 
 And yet, in the midst of this gloom and misery he pro- 
 duced poems of transcendent beauty, among others the 
 “ Marvellous Bell,” Napoleon/^ from the French of 
 Lamartine, Ypsilanti,’ and the Lament for Moreen,” 
 some stanzas of which it may be presumed were meant 
 to picture the perturbed state of his own mind : — 
 
 “ I exult alone in one wild hour, 
 
 That hour wherein the red cup drowns, 
 
 The horrors it anon renews. 
 
 In ghastlier guise, in fiercer power ; 
 
 Then glory brings me golden crowns, 
 
 And visions of all brilliant hues 
 Lap my lost soul in gladness, 
 
 Until I awake again, 
 
 And the dark lava fires of madness, 
 
 Once more sweep through my brain.” 
 
 The two last years of Mangan^s life saw him pursue the 
 o’ame erratic course, and every effort of his friends to 
 bring him back to the right path failed. Conscious of 
 this, he himself in burning words tells how those generous 
 strivings proved unavailing : — 
 
 “In those resplendent years of youth. 
 
 When virtue sees the true Romance, 
 
 And nought else lures the generous mind, 
 
 I might, even had I strayed from Truth, 
 
 Have yet retrieved my road perchance, 
 
 And left my errors far behind, 
 
 But, return now — oh, never, 
 
 Never, and never more ! 
 
 Truth’s holy fire is quenched for ever 
 Within my bosom’s core !” 
 
 Some will regard this confession and resolution as the 
 
XXIV 
 
 PEEFACE. 
 
 outpouring of a '^mind diseased,” but those who knew 
 him personally, had reason to believe that he was perfectly 
 in earnest when he gave expression to that lamentable 
 sentiment. Proof after proof we could advance of this, 
 if we now contemplated anything but a brief outline of 
 his career. Sick of existence and thoroughly broken in 
 health, he was admitted to St. Vincent’s Hospital, in May, 
 1848. From that merciful institution where he was 
 surrounded by all the comforts the sisters could pro- 
 cure him, he wrote to a friend : — 
 
 “ Here I am at last— here, where I shall have ample time for re- 
 pentance, for I cannot leave for some months, and during all that time 
 I shall be rigorously denied every thing in the shape of stimulants. 
 My intellect is becoming clearer.’' 
 
 The doctors refused the stimulants, but he, infirm of 
 purpose” as usual, must have them, and he conse- 
 quently went out into the broadway of temptation, and 
 relapsed into the old slough. A few mornings after that 
 exodus he was a patient in the Richmond Surgical 
 Hospital, bruised and disfigured by a fall of nearly 
 fifteen feet, into the foundation of a house, then recently 
 sunk. This occurred in the night time, when he was 
 utterly unconscious of his whereabouts; and his escape from 
 mortal accident seemed almost miraculous. A few days 
 afterwards he got a lodging near the house in which he 
 was born, and on revisiting the attic, agreed to write the 
 Autohiography which may be regarded as the merest 
 Reve d'nne Vie, with here and there some filaments of 
 
PEEFACE. 
 
 XXV 
 
 reality in its texture. On representing this to him, he said 
 he would willingly destroy the performance, but finally 
 agreed to leave it as a souvenir in the writer’s possession. 
 It too had its erratic history in keeping with that of its 
 author, and first appeared in the Irish Monthly ^ a most 
 delightful periodical, edited by Father Russell, S.J. 
 
 About the same time he worked by fits and starts at 
 the ‘‘ Poems and Poetry,” which was not published till 
 November 1849. His remuneration indeed was scant, 
 but it was as much as O’Daly could afford — some few 
 pounds at long intervals, and a seat by the fire in the 
 Anglesea Street back parlour. 
 
 Soon after the outbreak of Cholera in April, 1849, he 
 now and again came to the old quarters and there held 
 forth on the origin and symptoms of the pestilence, 
 maintaining, like Don Ferrante in the Promessi Sjoosi, 
 that there was no such thing in rerum natura as con- 
 tagion, and consequently that precautions of all sorts were 
 unnecessary and delusive.* Withal, from what I remember 
 of those monologues I have no difiiculty in stating that he 
 had a presentiment that he was doomed to fall a victim to 
 the terrible epidemic ; for his mental vigour began to fail 
 perceptibly, and he seldom lost an opportunity of alluding 
 to his opening grave of which he prophetically sang : — 
 
 ‘‘ Thither many a noble hand 
 Shall garland offerings bring, 
 
 And friends about my dust shall stand, 
 
 And songs of sorrow sing. 
 
 See the “Betrothed,” c. 37. 
 
XXVI 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 And they shall oft as years roll round, 
 
 Think of the slumberer there, 
 
 And to the memory of that mound 
 A tear of pity spare !*’ 
 
 Early in June, his condition became so desperate that 
 he was admitted to the sheds at Kilmainham, and re- 
 mained there some days, till thinking that he had well 
 nigh recovered, he left, and took refuge in a miserable 
 garret in Bride-street. Growing weaker and weaker, he 
 was removed to the Meath Hospital by the advice of the 
 late Dr. Stokes, who pronounced his case hopeless. That 
 eminent physician conveyed to the writer poor Mangan’s 
 earnest desire to see him ; and he accordingly lost no 
 time in going to the pest-house, then filled with the dying. 
 On taking a chair at his bedside the poor fellow playfully 
 said, 1 feel that I am going, I know that I must go, 
 ‘ unhousel’d’ and ‘ unanel’d,’ but you must not let me go 
 ^ unshriven ^ and ‘ unanointed.’ The priest in attend- 
 ance being called, heard his confession, and adminis- 
 tered the Last Unction ; Mangan with hands crossed on 
 his breast and eyes uplifted, manifesting sentiments of 
 most edifying piety, and with a smile on his lips faintly 
 ejaculating, 0, Mary, Queen of Mercy !”* This was on 
 Wednesday, 20th June, and about ten o’clock that 
 night, his soul was summoned to the Judgment Seat of 
 God who endowed him with gifts not surpassed by 
 
 * From his beautiful translation of Simrock’s “0 Maria, Regina^ 
 Misericordiae !” 
 
PKEFACE. 
 
 xxvlí 
 
 those bestowed on the Italian, German, French and 
 Gaelic Poets, with whose inspirations he has made us 
 familiar. 
 
 Although the burial rite should have followed fast on 
 the decease, his remains were not interred till Friday, 23rd 
 June, because of the difficulty of procuring either coffin or 
 hearse, owing to the awful mortality then desolating the 
 city. 
 
 Mangan’s friends, as Sir 0. G. Duffy says,* were at that 
 time scattered far and wide, and of them all, only three, 
 — Michael Smith his kinsman — one who had been many 
 years connected with the Nation — and the individual who 
 pens this — saw him laid in his not unremembered grave 
 in Glasnevin. 
 
 Having already stated that the publishers in reissuing 
 this volume, were desirous, as far as in them lay, to keep 
 alive and propagate a knowledge of the language of Erin, 
 we may fittingly conclude with Mangan’s eulogy of that 
 grand old tongue : — 
 
 THE IRISH LANGUAGE. 
 
 (From the Dan Mholadh Na Gaoidhulge of Philip Fitzgihhon^ a Kilkenny 
 
 Poet.) 
 
 I. 
 
 The language of Eme is brilliant as gold ; 
 
 It shines with a lustre unrivalled of old. 
 
 Even glanced at by strangers, to whom ’tis unknown, 
 
 It dazzles their eyes with a light all its own. 
 
 * See “ Young Ireland,” and *‘Four Years of Irish History.” 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 ■xxvlii 
 
 i II. 
 
 It is music, the sweetest of music, to hear ; 
 
 No lyre ever like it enchanted your ear. 
 
 Not the lute, or the flute, or the quaint clarionet, 
 
 For deep richness of tone could compete with it yet ! 
 
 III. 
 
 It is fire to the mind — it is wine to the heart — 
 
 It is melting and bold — it is Nature and Art ! 
 
 Name one other language, renowned though it be. 
 
 That so wakes up the soul, as the storm the deep sea ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 For its bards— there are none in the cell, cottage, or hall, 
 
 In the climes of the haughty Iberian and Gaul, 
 
 Who despair not to match them — their marvelful tones 
 Might have won down the gods of old Greece from their thrones. 
 
 V. 
 
 Then it bears back your spirit on History’s wings, 
 
 To the glories of Erin’s high heroes and kings. 
 
 When the proud name of Gael swelled from ocean to shore. 
 Ere the days of the Saxon and Northman of yore. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Is the heart of the land of this tongue undecayed ? 
 
 Shall the Sceptre and Sword sway again as they swayed ? 
 Shall our kings ride in triumph o’er war-fields again. 
 
 Till the sun veils his face from the hosts of the slain ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 O, then shall our halls with the Gaelic resound, 
 
 In the notes of the harp and the claoirseach half drowned 
 And the banquet be spread and the chess board all night, 
 Test the skill of our Chiefs, and their power for the fight. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 XXIX 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Then our silken-robed minstrels, the silver-haired band, 
 Shall rewake the young slumbering blood of the land, 
 And our bards no more plaintive on Banba’s dark wrongs, 
 Shall then fill two worlds* with the fame of their songs. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And the gates of our Brugaidhsf again shall stand wide, 
 And their cead mile failte woo all withinside ; 
 
 And the travel-tired wayfarer find by the hearth, 
 
 Cheery plenty, where now, alas ! all is black dearth. 
 
 X. 
 
 The down-trodden poor shall meet kiudness and care, 
 
 And the rich be so happy to spare and to share ! 
 
 And the mighty shall rule unassailed in their might, 
 
 And all voices blend in one choir of delight ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 The bright Golden era that poets have sung, 
 
 Shall revive and be chaunted anew in our tongue; 
 
 The skies shall rain love on the land’s breadth and length. 
 And the grain rise like armies battalioned in strength. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The priest and the noble, the serf and his lord, 
 
 Shall sustain one another with word and with sword — 
 
 The learned shall gain more than gold by their lore, 
 
 And all Fate took away she shall trebly restore. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Like rays round a centre, like stars round the moon, 
 
 Like Ocean round earth when it heaves in the noon, 
 
 Shall our chiefs, a resplendent and panoplied ring, 
 
 In invincible valour encircle their King. 
 
 America and Europe. 
 
 + Houses of Hospitality. 
 
sxx 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And thou, 0, Grand Language, please heaven shalt win 
 Proud release from the tomb thou art sepulchred in. 
 
 In palace, in shieling, on high way, or hill, 
 
 Shalt thou roll as a river, or glide as a rill. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The history of Eire shall shine forth in thee, 
 
 Thou shalt sound as a horn from the lips of the free ; 
 And our priests in their forefathers’ temples once more 
 Shall through Thee call on men to rejoice and adore. 
 
 -o 
 
FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 By JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 O 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 “ A heavy shadow lay 
 
 On that boy’s spirit : he was not of his fathers.” — Massinger. 
 
 At a very early period of my life I became impressed 
 by the conviction that it is the imperative duty of every 
 man who has deeply sinned and deeply suffered to place 
 upon record some memorial of his wretched experiences 
 for the benefit of his fellow-creatures, and by way of a 
 beacon to them, to avoid, in their voyage of existence, the 
 rocks and shoals upon which his own peace of soul has 
 undergone shipwreck. This conviction continually gained 
 strength within me, until it assumed all the importance 
 of a paramount idea in my mind. It was in its nature, 
 alas ! a sort of dark anticipation, a species of melancholy 
 foreboding of the task which Providence and my own 
 disastrous destiny would one day call upon myself to 
 undertake. 
 
 In my boyhood I was haunted by an indescribable feel- 
 ing of something terrible. It was as though I stood in 
 the vicinity of some tremendous danger, to which my 
 apprehensions could give neither form nor outline. Wha^ 
 
XXXll 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 it was I knew not ; but it seemed to include many kinds 
 of pain a;nd bitterness — baffled hopes, and memories full 
 of remorse. It rose on my imagination like one of those 
 dreadful ideas which are said by some German writers of 
 romance to infest the soul of a man apparently foredoomed 
 to the commission of murder. I say apparently, for I may 
 here, in the outset, state that I have no faith in the theory 
 of predestination, and that I believe every individual to 
 be the architect of his own happiness or misery; but I did 
 feel that a period would arrive when I should look back 
 upon the past with horror, and should say to myself : 
 ‘‘ Now the great tree of my existence is blasted, and will 
 never more put forth fruit or blossom.” And it was (if I 
 may so speak) one of the nightmare loads lying most 
 heavily on my spirit, that I could not reconcile my feeling of 
 impending calamity with the dictates of that Reason which 
 told me that nothing can irreparably destroy a man except 
 his proper criminality, and that the verdict of Conscience 
 on our own actions, if favourable, should always be suifl- 
 cient to secure to us an amount of contentment beyond 
 the power of Accident to affect. Like Bonnet, whose life 
 was embittered by the strange notion that he saw an 
 honest man continually robbing his house, I suffered as 
 much from my inability to harmonize my thoughts and 
 feelings as from the very evil itself that I dreaded. Such 
 was my condition from my sixth to my sixteenth year. 
 
 But let me not anticipate my mournful narrative. The 
 few observations that I make in this preliminary chapter 
 I throw out without order or forethought, and they are 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 icxxiii 
 
 not intended to appear as the commencement of a history. 
 In hazarding them I perhaps rather seek to unburden my 
 own heart than to enlist the sympathies of my readers. 
 Those few, however, who will thoroughly understand me, 
 need not be informed why I appear to philosophise before 
 I begin to narrate. 
 
 I give my Confessions to the world without disguise or 
 palliation. From the first my nature was always averse, 
 even almost to a fault ; the second, if it be possible in my 
 case, I resign to that eternity which is rapidly coming 
 alike upon me, my friends, and my enemies. These latter 
 I also have, and from my heart I say, “ May GOD* bless 
 them here and hereafter.” Meantime they, as well as 
 those excellent individuals whose kindness towards me 
 during the period of my probation I have experienced to 
 an extent scarcely credible, may in these pages read the 
 simple and undecorated truth witb regard to all that 
 has so long appeared worst in my character and conduct. 
 To all I owe a debt, and that debt I shall endeavour to 
 repay to the uttermost. 
 
 There have been some men who may be said to have 
 published their autobiographies without directly revealing 
 themselves in these, as there are others who have avowedly 
 laid bare to the eyes of mankind their own delinquencies 
 without cloak or equivocation. Among the former we 
 may class Goodwin and Byron ; the latter will comprehend 
 St. Augustine, Eousseau, Charles Lamb, and perhaps a 
 
 * Margan throusliout writes the name of God in capital letters. 
 
 C 
 
XXXIV 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 itíw besides. It is neither my wish nor my ambition to 
 take any one of these as my model in sentiment or ex- 
 pression. I cannot do so if I would, and if I could I know 
 that I would not. My desire is to leave after me a work 
 that may not merely inform but instruct — that may be 
 adapted to all capacities and grades of intellect — and 
 that, while it seeks to develop for the thinking the more 
 hidden springs of human frailty, shall also operate simply 
 in virtue of its statements as a warning to others, parti- 
 cularly to the uneducated votary of Vice. And let me not 
 be esteemed presumptuous if I add that it will be one 
 which, with GOD'S blessing, shall achieve both objects. 
 
 For myself, individually, I crave nothing. I have for- 
 feited all claim upon human generosity. The kindness 
 that during my life, and amid all my errors, I have endea- 
 voured to exercise towards others will, doubtless, be 
 denied to me ; but I complain not. May my unhappy 
 memoirs serve in some degree to benefit my fellow-beings! 
 May GOD’S justice be vindicated in me and them I May 
 no human creature ever arise from their perusal without 
 (if a good man) feeling his virtuous resolutions confirmed, 
 and if a bad, without experiencing some portion of that 
 salutary remorse which indicates the first dawning of 
 reformation. These I would wish, and ambition— but no 
 more than these. 
 
 -o- 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 Chapter 1 1. 
 
 “ These thÍQgs are hut the begin ning of sorrows .” — Jesus Christ. 
 
 I share, with an illustrious townsman of my own,* the 
 honour, or the disreputability, as it may be considered, of 
 having been born the son of a grocer. My father, how- 
 ever, unlike his, never exhibited any of the qualities of 
 guardian towards his children. His temper was not 
 merely quick and irascible, but it also embodied much of 
 that calm, concentrated spirit of Milesian fierceness, a 
 picture of which I have endeavoured to paint in my 
 Italian story of Gasparo Bandollo.’^f His nature was 
 truly noble : to quote a phrase of my friend O’Donovau, 
 He never knew what it was to refuse the countenance 
 of living man ft but in neglecting his own interests — and 
 not the most selfish misanthropes could accuse him of 
 attending too closely to those — he unfortunately forgot 
 the injuries that he inflicted upon the interest of others. 
 He was of an ardent and forward-bounding disposition, 
 and, though deeply religious by nature, he hated the 
 restraints of social life, and seemed to think that all feel- 
 ings with regard to family connexions, and the obligations 
 imposed by them, were totally beneath his notice. Me, 
 my two brothers, and my sister, he treated habitually as a 
 huntsman would treat refractory hounds. It was his 
 
 * Moore. 
 
 t See Dublin University Magazine, for December 1848. (No. cxcii.) 
 t ‘‘Annals of the Four Masters,’* anno {date not given']. 
 
XXXTl 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 boast, uttered in pure glee of heart, that ^'we would run 
 into a mouse-hole to shun him. While my mother 
 lived, he made her miserable ; he led my only sister such 
 a life that she was obliged to leave our house ; he kept 
 up a succession of continual hostilities with my brothers ; 
 and, if he spared me more than others, it was perhaps 
 because I displayed a greater contempt of life and every- 
 thing connected with it than he thought was shown by 
 the other members of his familj^ If anyone can imagine 
 such an idea as a human boa- constrictor, without his 
 alimentive propensities, he will be able to form some 
 notion of the character of my father. May GOD assoil 
 his great and mistaken soul, and grant him^eternal peace 
 and forgiveness ! But I have an inward feeling that to 
 him I owe all my misfortunes. 
 
 My father’s grand worldly fault was improvidence. To 
 anyone who applied to him for money he uniformly gave 
 double or treble the sum requested of him. He parted 
 with his money — he gave away the best part of his worldly 
 property — and in the end he even suffered his own judg- 
 ment and disposition to become the spoil of strangers. 
 In plainer words, he permitted cold-blooded and crafty men 
 to persuade him that he was wasting his energies by 
 following the grocery business, and that by re-commencing 
 life as a vintner, he would soon be able not only to re- 
 trieve all his losses, but to realise an ample fortune. And 
 thus it happened, reader, that I, James Clarence Mangan, 
 came into the world surrounded, if I may so express 
 myself, by an atmosphere of curses and intemperance, of 
 
JAMES CLAEENCE MANGAN. 
 
 XXXVll 
 
 cruelty, infidelity, and blasphemy, and of both secret and 
 open hatred towards the moral government of GOD — 
 such as few infants, on opening their eyes to the first light 
 of day, had ever known before. 
 
 From the fatal hour which saw my father enter upon 
 his new business, the hand of a retributive Providence* 
 was visibly manifested in the change that ensued in his 
 affairs. Year by year his property melted away. Debts 
 accumulated on him, and his creditors, knowing the sort 
 of man they had to deal with, always proved merciless. 
 Step by step he sank, until, as he himself expressed it, 
 only ‘‘the desert of perdition” lay before him. Disasters 
 of all kinds thickened around him ; disappointment and 
 calamity were sown broadcast in his path. Nothing that 
 he undertook prospered. No man whom he trusted proved 
 faithful to him. “ The stars in their courses fought 
 against Sisera.” And his family ? They w^ere neglected 
 — forgotten — left to themselves. For me, I sought refuge 
 in books and solitude, and days would pass during which 
 my father seemed neither to knew nor care whether I 
 were living or dead. My brothers and sisters fared better; 
 they indulged in habits of active exercise, and strengthened 
 their constitutions morally and physically^ to a degree, that 
 even enabled them to present a successful front of opposi- 
 tion to the tyranny exercised over them. But I shut 
 
 * My reader will pardon the frequent allusion to GOD and Providence 
 which occur in the course of these memoirs. But as Maiebranche 
 saw all things in GOD, so I see GOD in all things. GOD is the idea of 
 my mind. 
 
XXXVlll 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 myself up in a close room : I isolated myself in such a 
 manner from my own nearest relations, that with one 
 voice they all proclaimed me mad.” Perhaps I was : this 
 much at least is certain, that it was precisely at that period 
 (from my tenth to my fourteenth year) that the seeds of 
 moral insanity were developed within me, which after- 
 wards grew up into a tree of giant altitude. 
 
 My schooling during those early days stood me in some 
 stead. Yet I attended little to the mere technical in- 
 struction given to me in school. I rather tried to derive 
 information from general study than from dry rules and 
 special statements. One anecdote 1 may be permitted to 
 give here, which will somewhat illustrate the peculiar 
 condition of my moral and intellectual being at this period. 
 I had been sent to Mr. Courtney's Academy in Derby 
 Square.* It was the first evening of my entrance (in 
 1820), when I had completed my eleventh year.f Twenty 
 boys were arranged in a class ; and to me, as the latest 
 comer, was allotted the lowest place — a place with which 
 I was perfectly contented. The question propounded by 
 the schoolmaster was, ‘‘ What is a parenthesis But in 
 vain did he test their philological capacities ; one alone 
 attempted some blundering explanation from the gram- 
 mar ; and finally to me, as the forlorn hope that might 
 possibly save the credit of the school, was the query 
 referred. “ Sir,'‘ said I, I have only come into the 
 
 * [Should be Sauls Court.] 
 
 t [This is a palpable error, for he was born in 1803.] 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 school to-day, and have not had time to look into the 
 grammar; but I should suppose a parenthesis to be some- 
 thing included in a sentence, but which might be omitted 
 from the sentence without injury to the meaning of the 
 sentence/’ Go up, sir/’ exclaimed the master. to the 
 head of the class.” With an emotion of boyish pride I 
 assumed the place allotted me ; but the next minute 
 found me once more in my original position. Why do 
 you go down again, sir ?” asked the worthy pedagogue. 
 ‘'Because, sir/’ cried I, boldly, "I have not deserved the 
 head place ; give it to this boy” — and I pointed to the 
 lad who had all but succeeded — "he merits it better, 
 because at least he has tried to study his task.” The 
 schoolmaster smiled : he and the usher whispered to- 
 gether, and I was remanded to a seat apart. On the 
 following day no fewer than three Koman Catholic clergy- 
 men, who visited the Academy, condescended to enter 
 into conversation with me; and I very well recollect that 
 one of them, after having heard me read, "Blair on the 
 Death of Christ,” from " Scott’s Lessons,” clapped me on 
 the back, with the exclamation, " You’ll be a rattling 
 fellow, my boy ; but see and take care of yourself.” 
 
 In connection with this anecdote I may be permitted 
 to mention a singular fact, namely, that in my earlier 
 years I was passionately fond of declaiming, not for my 
 auditors but for myself. I loved to indulge in solitary 
 rhapsodies, and, if intruded on upon those occasions, I was 
 made very unhappy. Yet I had none of the ordinary 
 shyness of boyhood. I merely felt or fancied that between 
 
xl 
 
 AUTOBIOGKAPHY OF 
 
 me and those who approached me, no species of sympathy 
 could exist; and I shrank from communion with them 
 as from somewhat alien from my nature. This feeling 
 continued to acquire strength daily, until in after years it 
 became one of the grand and terrible miseries of my 
 existence. It was a morbid product of the pride and pre- 
 sumption which, almost hidden from myself, constituted 
 even from my childhood governing traits in my character, 
 and have so often rendered me repulsive in the eyes of 
 others. But a severe check was in preparation for these 
 faults. My father’s circumstances at length grew des- 
 perate : within the lapse of a very limited period he had 
 failed in eight successive establishments in different parts 
 of Dublin, until finally nothing remained for him to do 
 but sit down and fold his arms in despair. Ruin and 
 beggary stared him in the face ; his spirit was broken ; 
 and as a last resource he looked to the wretched members 
 of his family for that help which he should have rather 
 been able to extend to them. I was fifteen years old ; 
 could I not even then begin to exert myself for the behoof 
 of my kindred ? If my excellent mother thought so, she 
 said nothing ; but my father undertook the solution of the 
 question ; and I was apprenticed to a scrivener. Taken 
 from my books, obliged to relinquish my solitary rambles 
 . and musings, and compelled, for the miserable pittance of 
 a few shillings v/eekly, to herd with the coarsest of asso- 
 «ciates, and suffer at their hands every sort of rudeness 
 and indignity which their uncultivated and semi-savage 
 natures prompted them to inflict on me ! Thus bad 
 began, and worse remained behind.” 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 xli 
 
 Chapter III. 
 
 At this time we — that is, my father, my mother, my 
 brothers, my sister, and myself — tenanted one of the 
 dismalest domiciles, perhaps, to be met with in the most 
 forlorn recesses of any city in Europe. It consisted of two 
 wretched rooms, or rather holes, at the rear of a tottering 
 old fragment of a house, or, if the reader please, hovel, in 
 Chancery Lane.* These dens, one of which was over the 
 other, were mutually connected by means of a steep and 
 almost perpendicular ladder, down which it was my for- 
 tune to receive many a tumble from time to time upon 
 the sloppy earthen floor beneath. Door or window there 
 was none to the lower chamber ; the place of the latter, 
 in particular, being supplied not very elegantly, by a huge 
 chasm in the bare and broken wall. In the upper apart- 
 ment, which served as our sleeping-room, the spiders and 
 beetles had established an almost undisputed right of 
 occupancy ; while the winds and rains blew in on all sides, 
 and whistled and howled through the winter nights like 
 the voices of unquiet spirits. It was to this dreary abode, 
 without, I believe, a parallel for desolateness, that I was 
 accustomed to return from my employer’s office each night 
 between eleven and twelve through three long years. I 
 scarcely regarded my own sufferings when I reflected on 
 
 * This is purely imaginary ; and when I told Mangan that I did not 
 think it a faithful picture, he told me he dreamt it. 
 
xlii 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 those of my relatives — my mother especially, whose forti- 
 tude was admirable — and yet I did suffer, and dreadfully. 
 I was a slave of the most miserable order. Coerced to 
 remain for the most part bound to one spot from early 
 morning till near midnight, tied down to “the dull 
 drudgery of the desk’s dead wood ” unceasingly, without 
 sympathy or companionship, my heart felt as if it were 
 gradually growing into the inanimate material I wrote on. 
 I scarcely seemed like a thing of life ; and yet at intervals 
 the spirit within me would struggle to vindicate itself ; and 
 the more poetical part of my disposition would seek to 
 burst into imperfect existence. Some lines which I pro- 
 duced about this time may serve to give my readers a 
 notion of the sentiments which, even amid want and 
 bitter pain, and loneliness of soul, may sometimes agitate 
 the breast of a boy of sixteen : — 
 
 GENIUS. 
 
 0 Genius ! Genius ! all thou dost endure 
 First from thyself, and finally from those 
 The Earth-bound and the blind, who cannot feel 
 That there be souls with purposes as pure 
 And lofty as the mountain snows, and zeal 
 All quenchless as the spirit whence it flows ; 
 
 In whom that fire, struck but like spark from steel 
 In other bosoms, ever lives and glows ! 
 
 Of such, thrice blest are they, whom, ere mature 
 Life generate woes which God alone can heal, 
 
 His mercy calls to a loftier sphere than this — 
 
 For the mind’s conflicts are the worst of woes ; 
 
 And fathomless and fearful yawns the Abyss 
 Of Darkness thenceforth under all who inherit 
 That melancholy changeless hue of heart. 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 xliii 
 
 Which flings its pale gloom o’er the years of Youth—- 
 Those most — or least — illumined by the spirit 
 Of the Eternal Archetype of Truth. 
 
 For such as these there is no peace within 
 Either in Action or in Contemplation, 
 
 From first to last — but, even as they begin, 
 
 They close the dim night of their tribulation ; 
 
 Worn by the torture of the untiring breast. 
 
 Which scorning all, and shunned of all, by turns. 
 
 Upheld in solitary strength begot 
 By its own unshared shroudedness of lot. 
 
 Through years and years of crushed hopes, throbs and burns. 
 
 And burns and throbs, and will not be at rest, 
 
 Searching a desolate Earth for that it findeth not 1” 
 
 My physical and moral torments, my endurances from 
 cold, heat, hunger, and fatigue, and that isolation of mind 
 which was perhaps worse than all, in the end flung me 
 into a fever, and I was transmitted to an hospital. This 
 incident I should hardly deem worthy of chronicling if it 
 had not proved the occasion of introducing into my blood 
 the seeds of a more virulent disease than any I had yet 
 known — an incurable hypochondriasis. There was a poor 
 child in the convalescent ward of the institution, who was 
 afllicted from head to foot with an actual leprosy ; and 
 there being no vacant bed to be had, I was couipelled to 
 share that of this miserable being, which, such was my 
 ignorance of the nature of contagion, I did without the 
 slightest suspicion of the inevitable result. But in a few 
 days after my dismissal from the hospital this result but 
 too plainly showed itself on my person in the form of a 
 malady nearly as hideous and loathsome as that of the 
 
xliv 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 wretched boy himself; and, though all external traces of 
 it have long since disappeared, its moral effects remain 
 incorporated with my mental constitution to this hour, 
 and will probably continue with me through life. It was 
 woe on woe, and within the lowest deep a lower deep.’^ 
 Yet will it be credited ? my kindred scarcely seemed to 
 take notice of this new and terrible mark so set upon me. 
 Privation and despair had rendered them almost indifferent 
 to everything ; and for me, sullen, self-inwrapt, diseased 
 within and without, I cared not to call their attention to 
 it : ‘‘My heart had ^rown hard, and I hurt my hand when 
 I struck it."* 
 
 Very slowly, and only when a kind acquaintance (for I 
 was not yet utterly deserted), came forward to rescue me 
 from the grave by his medical skill, did I in some degree 
 conquer the malignity of this ghastly complaint. Another 
 disease, however, and another succeeded, until all who 
 knew me began to regard me as one appointed to a linger- 
 ing, living martyrdom. And, for myself, I scarcely knew 
 what to think of my own condition, though I have since 
 learned to consider it as the mode and instrument which 
 an all-wise Providence made use of to curb the outbreak- 
 ings of that rebellious and gloomy spirit that smouldered 
 like a volcano within me. My dominant passion, though 
 I guessed it not, was pride ; and this was to be overcome 
 by pain of every description and the continual sense of 
 self-helplessness. Humiliation was what I required ; and 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 xlv 
 
 that bitterest moral drug was dealt out to me in lavish 
 abundance. Nay, as if Pelion were to be piled on Ossa 
 for the purpose of contributing to my mortification, I was 
 compelled to perform my very penances — those enjoined 
 me by my spiritual director — in darkness and subter- 
 ranean places, wheresoever I could bury myself from the 
 face of living man. And they were all merciful dispensa- 
 tions these, to lift me out of the hell of my own nature, 
 compared with those which the Almighty afterwards 
 adopted for my deliverance. 
 
 My apprenticeship terminated : but so did nothing else 
 in my unhappy position. The burden of an entire family 
 lay upon me, and the down-dragging weight on my spirit 
 grew heavier from day to day. I was now obliged to 
 seek employment wheresoever I could find it, and thankful 
 was I when even my father and mother were enabled to 
 reap the fruits of my labour. But my exasperated mind 
 (made half mad through long disease) would frequently 
 inquire, though I scarcely acknowledge the inquiry to 
 myself, how or why it was that I should be called on to 
 sacrifice the Immortal for the Mortal ; to give away irre- 
 vocably the Promethean fire within me for the cooking of 
 a beefsteak ; to destroy and damn my own soul that I 
 might preserve for a few miserable months or years the 
 bodies of others. Often would I wander out into the 
 field and groan to GOD for help. “ De Profundis da- 
 mavi r was my continual cry. And in truth, although 
 my narrative scarcely appears at a glance to justify me, 
 my, circumstances taken altogether were amply sufficient 
 
xlvi 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 to warrant the exclamation. A ruined soul in a wasted 
 frame ; the very ideal and perfection of moral and physi- 
 cal evil combined in one individual. Let the reader 
 imagine these and draw his conclusions. 
 
 After a short while matters appeared to brighten with 
 me, or rather to assume a less dusky aspect. I was 
 advised by a worthy medical friend of mine, Mr. Graham, 
 of Thomas Street, a man of considerable knowledge and 
 skill, though but an apothecary, to try what such kinds 
 of exercise as fencing or ball-playing might accomplish 
 for me. ‘‘ The mind, my dear young friend,^' observed 
 this intelligent man to me, ‘'is the key to the health, a 
 somewhat rusty key to persons of coarser constitutions^ 
 but an oiled key to all of nervous temperaments and s^'s- 
 ceptible apprehensions. You have taken long walks : ttiey 
 have done you no good : why ? Because you felt no 
 interest in them, because ^vhile your limbs walked one 
 way, your mind walked another. Try the foil or the 
 racket, and you will be a new man at the end of a fort- 
 night.'’ I took my friend's advice, and soon was in a 
 condition to bear testimony to the truth of his vaticina- 
 tion. Never, perhaps, was such a change witnessed in 
 the health and spirits of a human being as that which 
 supervened in mine after the lapse of a week. The almost 
 miraculously recuperative power which has since been 
 frequently observed to exist in me enjoyed full and fair 
 play. I arose, as it were, out of myself. I had for a long 
 time subsisted upon nothing but bread and tea, or milk, 
 with my heart only for animal food (“bitter diet/’ as 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 xlvii 
 
 Byron remarks), giving the grosser aliments they required 
 to my relatives ; but I now felt as though I could feast 
 upon air and thought alone. The great overcurtaining 
 gloom, which had become to me a sort of natural atmos- 
 phere, a fifth element, still in a degree surrounded me ; 
 but my experience of existence at this time was that of a 
 comparative paradise. Alas ! it could not endure, and it 
 did not. Another book in the Iliad of my woes was to 
 be opened, and black and appalling was the page that it 
 presented to my view. 
 
 Chapter IV. 
 
 “ Farewell the tranquil mind ! farewell content !’* — Shakespeare, 
 
 Amid the glow of soul which I experienced through the 
 change in my situation from absolute bondage to com- 
 parative liberty, I could not forget the links that bound 
 me to those who still depended on me for the very breath 
 of life. That they appeared as indifferent to my powers 
 of endurance as the storms are to those of the rock they 
 assault was nothing to me. That they were in health, 
 and in the prime of life, while I was in a state of chronical 
 illness, and old in soul though young in years, touched 
 me little or nothing. They were still my parents, and 
 only as such could I regard them. I willingly overlooked 
 the maxim of St. Paul that the elder should lay up for 
 the younger portion of the family, and not the younger 
 for the elder. Within about nine months after the ter- 
 
xlviii 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 mination of my apprenticeship a situation was oflfered me 
 in a solicitor’s office, the salary derivable from which 
 though humble enough, w^as sufficient to elevate us in 
 some degree above the depths of our former poverty; and 
 this situation I accepted, not gladly — for a foreboding of 
 what was to come haunted me now with more intense 
 force than ever — but resignedly, and in the full belief that 
 I was merely fulfilling a destiny which I could not oppose, 
 and which I had no right to arraign. 
 
 I weary the reader by calling on him for ever to listen 
 to a tale of unmitigated calamity. But as I am bound to 
 adhere to strict truth in this autobiography, he will kindly 
 forgive as well the monotqny of general reflection as of 
 particular detail which he here encounters. By-and-by 
 I may invite his attention to more cheerful and consola- 
 tory matter. At present the scroll which I am compelled 
 to unroll before him is, like that of the prophet, Written 
 within and without with mourning, lamentation, and 
 woe/’ And perhaps those who are more desirous of under- 
 standing the motives than of listening to a cold recital of 
 the actions of another may find some interest in perusing 
 a record which, I willingly admit, embodies hardly a sen- 
 tence upon which the mere worldling would care to 
 expend a moment’s reflection, 
 
 I had not been long installed in my new situation before 
 all the old maladies under which I had laboured returned 
 with double force. The total want of exercise to which I 
 was subjected was in itself sufficient to tell with ruinous 
 effect upon a frame whose long-continued state of ex- 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 xHx 
 
 haustion had only received a temporary relief from the 
 few months' change of life to which I have adverted. But 
 other agencies also combined to overwhelm and prostrate 
 me. The coarse ribaldry, the vile and vulgar oaths, and 
 the brutal indifference to all that is true and beautiful and 
 good in the universe, of my oflSce companions, affected me 
 in a manner difficult to conceive. My nervous and hypo- 
 chondriacal feelings almost verged upon insanity. I 
 seemed to myself to be shut up in a cavern with serpents 
 and scorpions, and all hideous and monstrous things, which 
 writhed and hissed around me, and discharged their slime 
 and venom upon my person. These hallucinations were 
 considerably aided and aggravated by the pestiferous 
 atmosphere of the office, the chimney of which smoked 
 continually, and for some hours before the close of the 
 day emitted a sulphurous exhalation that at times literally 
 caused me to gasp for breath. In a word, I felt utterly 
 and thoroughly miserable. The wretched depression of 
 my spirits could not escape the notice of my mother ; but 
 she passed no remark on it, and left me in the evenings 
 altogether to myself and my books 3 for unfortunately, 
 instead of endeavouring somewhat to fortify my consti- 
 tution by appropriating my spare hours to exercise, I 
 consumed these in unhealthy reading. My morbid sensi- 
 bilities thus daily increasing and gaining ground, while 
 my bodily powers declined in the same proportion, the 
 result was just such as might have been anticipated. For 
 the second time of my life nature succumbed under the 
 
 intolerable burden imposed upon her ; and an attack of 
 
 d 
 
1 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 illness removed me for a season from the sphere of my 
 irksome and melancholy duties. My place in the office 
 was assumed by my younger brother, John, a stout and 
 healthy lad of nineteen, who had already acquired some 
 slight experiences in the mysteries of scrivenery and 
 attorneyship, and I returned home. 
 
 My confinement to bed on this occasion was not of long 
 duration; but, though after the lapse of a few days, able 
 to crawl about once more, I was far indeed from being 
 recovered. 
 
 A settled melancholy took possession of my being. A 
 sort of torpor and weariness of life succeeded to my former 
 over-excited sensibilities. Books no longer interested me 
 as before ; and my own unshared thoughts were a burden 
 and a torment unto me. Again I essayed the effect of 
 active exercise, but was soon compelled to give over, from 
 sheer weakness and want of animal spirits. I indulged, 
 however, occasionally in long walks into the country 
 around Dublin, and the sight of hills, fields, and streams, 
 to which i had long been unaccustomed, produced in me 
 a certain placidity of mind, with which, had I understood 
 my own true interests for time and eternity, I ought to 
 have remained contented. But contented I did not, and 
 would not remain. I desired to be aroused, excited, 
 shocked even. My grand moral malady — for physical 
 ailments I also had, and singular of their kind — was an im- 
 patience of life and its commonplace pursuits. I wanted 
 to penetrate the great enigma of human destiny and my 
 own, to know the be-all, and the end-all,” the worst that 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 li 
 
 could happen here or hereafter, the final denouement of 
 a drama that so strangely united the two extremes of 
 broad farce and thrilling tragedy, and wherein mankind 
 played at once the parts of actors and spectators. 
 
 If I perused any books with a feeling of pleasure, they 
 were such as treated of the wonderful and terrible in art, 
 nature and society. Descriptions of battles and histories 
 of revolutions ; accounts of earthquakes, inundations, and 
 tempests ; and narratives of moving accidents by flood 
 and field,’^ possessed a charm for me which I could neither 
 resist nor explain. It was some time before this feeling 
 merged into another, the sentiment of religion and its 
 ineffable mysteries. To the religious duties enjoined by 
 my Church I had always been attentive, but I now 
 became deeply devotional, addicted myself to ascetic 
 practices, and studied the lives of the saints with ^the 
 profoundest admiration of their grand and extraordinary 
 virtues. If my mind had been of a larger and sterner 
 order, all this had been well enough, and I should doubt- 
 less have reaped nothing but unmixed advantage from 
 my labours. But, constituted as I was, the effect of those 
 upon me was rather injurious than beneficial. I gradually 
 became disquieted by doubts, not of the great truths of 
 faith, for these I never questioned, but my own capacity, 
 so to speak, for salvation. 
 
 Taking a retrospective view of all the events of my fore- 
 gone years, reflecting on what I had been and then was, and 
 meditating on what it was probable that I should live to 
 be, I began to think, with Buffon, that it is not impossible 
 
lii 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 that some beings may have been created expressly for 
 unhappiness ; and I knew that Cowper had lived, and 
 perhaps died, in the dreadful belief that he himself was a 
 castaway, and a vessel of wrath fitted for destruction.” 
 
 Scruples of conscience also multiplied upon me in such 
 numbers in the interval between each of my confessions 
 that my mind became a chaos of horrors, and all the fires 
 of Pandemonium seemed to burn in my brain. I consulted 
 several clergymen with regard to what I should do in this 
 extremity. Most recommended me to mix in cheerful 
 and gay society. One alone, I remember, counselled me 
 to pray. And pray I did, for I had so held myself aloof 
 from the companionship of others that I knew of no society 
 with which I could mix. But I derived no consolation 
 from praying. I felt none of that confidence in God then, 
 which, thanks to his almighty power and grace, I have so 
 frequently known. The gates of heaven seemed barred 
 against me : its floor and walls of brass and triple adamant 
 repelled my cries : and I appeared to myself to be sending 
 a voice of agony into some interminable chasm. This 
 deplorable interior state, one which worlds and diadems 
 should not bribe me into experiencing again, continued 
 for about a twelvemonth, after which it gradually disap- 
 peared, not through progress of time, not through any 
 progress of reasoning, or, indeed, any effort of my own, 
 but remarkably enough, precisely through the agency of 
 the very remedy recommended me by my spiritual 
 ndvisers. 
 
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 
 liii 
 
 Chapter V. 
 
 Farewell the tranquil mind ! farewell Shalcespeare, 
 
 On the south side of the city of Dublin, and about half- 
 way down an avenue which breaks the continuity of that 
 part of the Circular Road, extending from Harold's Cross 
 to Dolphin's Barn, stands a house plain in appearance, and 
 without any peculiarity of external structure to attract the 
 passenger's notice. Adjoining the house is a garden, with 
 a sort of turret-lodge at the extreme end, which looks 
 forth on the high road. The situation is lone and un- 
 picturesque ; and he who should pause to dwell on it 
 must be actuated by other and deeper and, possibly, sadder 
 feelings than any that such a scene would be likely to 
 excite in the breast of the poet or the artist. Perhaps he 
 should be under the influence of such emotions as I 
 recently experienced in passing the spot after an absence 
 from it of seventeen years. Seventeen years ! let me 
 rather say seventeen centuries. For life upon life has 
 followed and been multiplied on and within me during 
 that long, long era of passion, trouble, and sin. The 
 Pompeii and Herculaneum of my soul have been dug up 
 from their ancient sepulchres. The few broken columns 
 and solitary arches which form the present ruins of what 
 was once Palmyra, present not a fainter or more imperfect 
 picture of that great city as it flourished in the days of its 
 youth and glory than I, as I am now, of what I was before 
 I entered on the career to which I Avas introduced by my 
 
liv 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 first acquaintance with that lone house in 1831. Years of 
 so much mÍDgled pleasure and sorrow ! whither have you 
 departed ? or rather, why were you allotted me ? You 
 delivered me from sufferings which, at least, were of a 
 guiltless order, and would shortly, in a better world, have 
 been exchanged for joys, to give me up to others, the 
 bitter fruits of late repentance, and which await no re- 
 compense, and know no change, save change from severe 
 to severer. But, alas ! thus it was, is, and must be. My 
 plaint is chorussed by millions. Generation preaches to 
 generation in vain. It is ever and everywhere the same 
 old immemorial tale. From the days of Adam in Eden 
 to our own, we purchase knowledge at the price of inno- 
 cence. Like Aladdin in the subterranean garden, we are 
 permitted to heap together and gather up as much hard 
 bright gold and diamonds as we will — but we are forever, 
 therefore, entombed from the fresh natural green pastures 
 and the healthy daylight. 
 
 In the course of my desultory rambles about the suburbs 
 of the city it would sometimes happen that I should feel 
 obliged to stop and rest, even though nothing better than 
 a hedge-side or a field-hillock afforded me the means of a 
 few moments’ repose. The reader will, therefore, imagine 
 me reclining, rather than seated, on a long knoll of grass by 
 a stream -side beyond Eathfarnham, and closely adjacent 
 to Roundtown, while the sun is setting on an evening in 
 June. I held in my hand a book, with the covers turned 
 down ; it was Les Pensées de Pascal, As I lay revolving 
 in my mind some of the sublime truths contained in this 
 
JAMES CLAEENCE MANGÁN. 
 
 Iv 
 
 celebrated work, I was somewhat suddenly approached 
 and accosted by a fashionably-dressed and intelligent- 
 looking young man, whom I had twice or thrice before 
 observed sauntering about this neighbourhood. 
 
 May I ask,’' he inquired, ‘'the nature of your studies ?” 
 
 I placed the book in his hand. He looked at it for a 
 moment, and then returned it to me without speaking. 
 
 “You don’t read French ?” said I, interrogatively. 
 
 “ Oh, yes, I do,” he replied ; who does not now-a-days. 
 But that is a very unhealthy work.” 
 
 I perceived at once that there was a great gulf between 
 us ; and as I had even then learned enough of the nature 
 of the human mind to know that disputation hardly ever 
 converts or convinces, I contented myself with remarking, 
 in an indifferent manner : “ Everything in this world is 
 unhealthy.” 
 
 The stranger smiled. “And yet,” said he, “you feel 
 pleasure, I am sure, in the contemplation of this beautiful 
 scenery ; and you admire the glory of the setting sun.” 
 
 “ I have pleasure in nothing, and I admire nothing,” 
 answered I; “ I hate scenery and suns. I see nothing in 
 creation but what is fallen and ruined.” 
 
 My companion made no immediate remark upon this, 
 but after a pause took the book out of my hand, and turn- 
 ing over the leaves, read aloud that passage in which 
 Pascal compares the world to a dungeon, and its inhabi- 
 tants to condemned criminals, awaiting the summons to 
 execution. 
 
 “Can you believe, my friend,” the stranger asked, “for 
 
Ivi AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF JAMES CLARENCE MANGiN. 
 
 short as oar acquaintance has been, I venture to call you 
 such, can you believe this to be true ?” 
 
 Why not V* I replied, ‘‘ My own experiences, feelings, 
 life, sufferings, all testify to my soul of its truth. But 
 before I add anything further, will you allow me to ask 
 what religion you profess 
 
 “ A good one, I hope,” he answered ; I have been 
 reared a Catholic Christian.” 
 
 Then,” said I, you know that it is the belief of the 
 holiest and most learned theologians of your Church that 
 the majority of mankind will be irrevocably consigned to 
 eternal misery.” 
 
 Eeally I know no such thing,” he replied. 
 
 “ Have you never read Massillon,” I asked, on the 
 small number of the saved 
 
 I take the judgment of no one individual, even in my 
 own Church,” he answered, as my guide. The goodness, 
 the justice of God ” 
 
 I interrupted him, “ Stop,” said I, What do you ” 
 
 [Here the manuscript comes suddenly to an end.l 
 
PRESS NOTICE. 
 
 Ivii 
 
 The following notice of the Poets and Poetry of 
 Munster appeared in the Irishman, November 3rd, 
 1849, and we give it here because it is one of the earliest 
 criticisms of the volume : — 
 
 James Clarence Mangan, what a life was thine, and, alas, how 
 suggestive of saddest, dreariest reflections ! 
 
 Six months ago you were a homeless, houseless wanderer, through 
 the streets of this city, shunned by the opulent who could have relieved 
 you with the crumbs from their table, and utterly unknown, save 
 in your deathless song, to those epicures of taste who banqueted 
 on the rich repast your genius provided them in newspapers and 
 periodicals! You were dubbed “drunkard” by one, and “opium- 
 eater” by another. The Pharisee whom you asked for alms gave you 
 a homily — the Nice Scented Gentleman who admired your “ soul mated 
 with song,” fled all contact with your person, as though you were a 
 pollution ; and need we wonder if that soul of thine, sickened and dis- 
 gusted at the unrealities of life — at this eternal cant about Christian 
 charity, and commiseration for human errors and frailties— longed and 
 pined for that shelter which God alone can give ? 
 
 Christian charity and commiseration, forsooth ! Where did you And 
 one or the other? In Saint Vincent's Hospital, where those angelic 
 beings, the charitable sisterhood, bring consolation to the sick one’s 
 pillow, and balm to the bruised spirit — in the apartment of the priest 
 who gave his second coat, with a moiety of the coppers wherewith he is 
 recompensed for encountering death in the house of pestilence, and the 
 half of that scanty meal with which the exigency of the times allows 
 him to refresh himself. Yes, but there was another who never shunned 
 or fled you, even when you lay bleeding, wounded, and robbed of right 
 reason by those most accursed of all freebooters, whisky and despair ! 
 
 This good Samaritan was the pubbsher of the volume before us, and 
 he, poor fellow, little richer than yourself in this world’s goods, did 
 give, with a kind hand, such as well becomes the true Celt's generous 
 
Iviii 
 
 PRESS NOTICE. 
 
 nature, the little he could afford. What was that little ? — a seat at hia 
 humble hearth — half the poor meal that an occasional profitable specu- 
 lation in some old book enabled him to purchase, a few pens, an ink- 
 bottle, candle, and a literal prose version of those old songs, whose melt- 
 ing pathos, and quaint wit, would not lose a particle of one or the other 
 when mated to English verse by such a man as Mangan. 
 
 Oh, base perfidious world ! This Mangan, concerning whom so many 
 fireside philosophers have grown enamoured of writing — whose genius 
 they now extol, when praise and censure fall uselessly on his clay — this 
 Mangan, on whose character and misfortunes so much of twaddle and 
 gossip has been expended by men who would not bestow on him, while 
 living, as much as would buy him a pennyworth of bread ! — ^this child 
 of genius was allowed to dree his last moments of agony in a common 
 lazar-house, and of all his admirers (curse the cant !) who followed his 
 remains to their resting-place, the short notice of him prefixed to 
 this volume will tell. Had Mangan been a rich man, with ten times 
 more than the ordinary amount of sins against God, and human 
 nature, which usually, and par excellence^ seem peculiar to that 
 class — the newspapers would have gone into mourning for him, aye, 
 deep mourning, and his sorely ’reaved relatives would erect a pyramid 
 or a mausoleum, with a verbose epitaph, very gorgeous, and very 
 mendacious, for stone don’t blush ! Without fear of being deemed 
 egotistic, the proprietor of this paper can safely lay his hand on his 
 heart and assure those who take an interest in the subject, that he did, 
 to the best of his ability, what in him lay, to correct eccentricities, 
 and solace the miseries of poor Clarence. Had he no other gratifying 
 proof of his conviction, the poetry which Mangan wrote for the Irish- 
 man, and what still remains in his hands unpublished, would, op 
 ought to be amply sufficient to remove all doubt. 
 
 The recollection of the 23rd of June, the day on which Mangan was 
 buried in Glasnevin, has induced us to moralize, instead of telling our 
 readers what the volume of the loets and loetry of Munster contains. 
 
 O’Daly, who is profoundly versed in the Irish language, and conver- 
 sant with the written and traditional lives of the Munster Bards, has 
 furnished sundry biographical notices of these worthies, in whose lives 
 the antithetical elements of sparkling fun and wailful melancholy so 
 
PRESS NOTICE. 
 
 lix 
 
 strangely blend. A queer set of fellows were those bards ! — one hour 
 rollicking in the shebeen-house, and the next, seated on some tradition 
 haunted rath, keening the woes of Inisfail, and the persecution of tha 
 old religion ! — beaten, though never vanquished, on a hundred fields, 
 the undying attachment to the land of their birth, and the religion of 
 their fathers, is the grand and leading idea which those Gaelic singers 
 seem to love, and weave into all their compositions. When we remem- 
 ber that this idea, so beautifully pervading all the songs of our bards, has 
 been cherished and dwelt upon by thousands long gone to the “ lampless 
 land,” must we not do honour to the men, who, despite degradation and 
 bondage, fostered the remembrances of old, and kept the faint heart, 
 though drooping, still hoping on for a day of retribution, which, alas, 
 seems retiring farther and farther from us, into the dim distance? Moore’s 
 songs were made for the ballroom, and for gentle maidens, who sit down 
 to a piano, manufactured by some London house — they are, beyond a 
 doubt, matchless in their caste— but, before Moore sung, our grand- 
 mothers at the spinning-wheel, and our great-grandfathers, whether 
 delving in the fields, or shouldering a musket in the brigades, sang these 
 time-consecrated verses, to keep alive the memory of Ireland, her lost 
 glories, and cherished aspirations. Before Moore was, those bards 
 and it is but fair to give their memory that honour which some would 
 bestow exclusively on the author of “The Irish Melodies.” How few 
 out of the whole mass of our peasantry ever heard a single song out of 
 the “ Melodies ?” How many generations have sung that song of the 
 “ Fair Hills of Eire, 0 !” chaunted by one Mac Con Mara, who (be not 
 startled, 0 sceptic !) set up a school in Hamburgh. A school in Ham- 
 burgh ! aye, verily an Irish bard — call him, if you like, a mere hedge 
 school master — did, somewhere about the year 1785, set up an academy in 
 Hamburgh, for the purpose of indoctrinating, and, in all probability of 
 whacking, more Sibernico, young Teutons. If you have a doubt as to 
 the qualifications of the said Mac Con Mara, read this Latin epitaph 
 written by him for a brother bard : — 
 
 “ Plangite Pierides, vester decessit alumnus 
 
 Eochades non est, cunctaque rura silent. 
 
 Pacem optavit, pace igitur versatur in alta ; 
 
 Ad superi tendit regna beata Patris.” 
 
lx 
 
 PEESS NOTICE. 
 
 Mirthful, or moody this love of fatherland and of religion charac- 
 terises, nay, deeply marks each and every one of the bardic songs; 
 We may now and again find fault with the little use to which they 
 employ mere imagery ; nevertheless, some of their images are so 
 quaint in themselves as to supersede the necessity of that “ gossamer 
 spinning” to which other poets would have devoted them ; as, for ex- 
 ample, in that instance of the lover who apostrophises his “ringletted 
 Mary.” 
 
 We might multiply exanoples of this sort from the volume before us, if 
 we were not afraid to impress our readers with the notion that those 
 song-makers devoted themselves and their muse to love and stroug 
 drink ; far otherwise : their grand source of inspiration was native land 
 and religion — instance the retort of John O’Tuomy, who reproves the 
 ‘^Dame of the Slender Wattle,” doubtless, the wife of some strong 
 farmer, who employed the said O’Tuomy, for the very unpoetical 
 occupation of herding her hens. 
 
 But the limits we have prescribed to ourselves will not allow us to say 
 all we might wish in praise of these old song-makers, or of the beauty 
 of Mangan’s versions. Those songs are an integral portion of the history 
 of this hapless land ; to know the latter, as we would wish you to know 
 it, you must be familiar with the former. 
 
 With this hurried notice we commend this beautiful volume replete 
 with song — with the elegant song of Mangan — to every lover of nation- 
 ality. Alas ! for Mangan. Let the wreaths, twined by him a short time 
 before Death came to carry off his glorious soul, be strewn as flowers 
 upon his fresh-made grave — “Et tumulum facite, et tumulo super- 
 addite carmen. ” 
 
 ■0- 
 
THE 
 
 POETS AND POETEY OF MUNSTER. 
 
 0 
 
 t)onnc1idT)li tn^c con.m<\nA. 
 
 Donogh Mac Con-Mara, or Mac na Mara, as the name 
 is vulgarly spelled, was surnamed, from the red colour of 
 his hair T)orincA*6 tluA*ó f for, as many of our readers may 
 be aware, the Irish peasantry have been long accustomed 
 to designate individuals from certain personal marks or 
 peculiarities — not unfrequently ludicrous ; a man with 
 crooked legs being, for instance, called ‘‘ Cdtn-copAc,*’ and 
 one with a nose turned awry, CAm-fporiAc,’^ while a corpu- 
 lent person is styled “iDobg-rhop.” 
 
 'OonncA‘0 was a native of Cratloe,in the county of Clare, 
 and connected by blood with the Mac Namaras of that 
 locality. He made his appearance in the county of 
 Waterford, about the year 1738, while on his way home- 
 ward from a foreign college, whither he had been sent in 
 early youth to pursue the theological studies — the penal 
 laws at that period, as we need scarcely remark, render- 
 
 ♦ The use of soubriquets to denote personal peculiarities is of very 
 remote antiquity in Ireland, and still exists to a great extent among the 
 peasantry» 
 
2 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 ing it imperative on a candidate for the Catholic priest- 
 hood to forsake his own country, and seek that instruction 
 abroad which he was not suffered to obtain at home. His 
 wild and freak-loving propensities had procured his ex- 
 pulsion from college, after he had spent four years within 
 its walls ; and thus he was compelled to return to his 
 native soil, and locate himself in Waterford. 
 
 He had not long sojourned in this county before he 
 became acquainted with one William Moran, a kindred 
 spirit, celebrated in bardic lore among the peasantry of his 
 native county. Moran kept a classical hedge academy at 
 Knockbee, in the parish of SbiAb Cua,* a village within 
 an hour’s walk of the birth-place of the writer of this 
 sketch ; and here, he and his friend laboured conjointly for 
 the enlightenment and edification of the young students 
 who attended their school, and taught them the various 
 languages which "OonncAb Ruad learned abroad, and Moran 
 acquired at home. 
 
 * Sliabh Cua (now called Sliabh g-Cua)^ a large mountain district 
 lying midway between the towns of Clonmel and Dungarvan, in the 
 county of Waterford. In an ancient MS. life of St. Mochuda, which 
 we perused some years ago, much light is thrown on the ancient topo- 
 graphy of this locality; for it appears that St. Mochuda and his 
 community made a short stay here, with the view of founding a monas- 
 tery, but afterwards proceeded to Lismore. One of the five preroga- 
 tives of the King of Cashel was “to pass over Sliabh Cua [with a band 
 of] fifty men, after pacifying the South of Eire.” — See Leabhar nag^Ceart 
 (Book of Rights), p. 5, published by the Celtic Society. The name is 
 still preserved, but applied to the parish of Seskinan, which is the most 
 fertile in the district. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 3 
 
 How long the alliance lasted between the erudite pair 
 we have no certain means of ascertaining ; but, according 
 to the tradition of the peasantry, it held good until the 
 bards, in an evil-starred hour,’’ as the Orientals phrase 
 it, or, as we would say, in a moment of luckless frolic, 
 happened, in one of their poetical effusions, to “ damn to 
 immortal fame ” a certain fair and frail young damsel of 
 the neighbourhood, who, enraged at being thus publicly 
 satirised, set the hedge academy ” in flames; so that a 
 dissolution of partnership between the ‘^fratres fraterrimi’* 
 was the immediate and melancholy result. 
 
 The next locality chosen by ITIac Con-tTlApA appears 
 to have been the barony of Imokilly,^ an extensive district 
 in the immediate vicinity of Youghal, in the county of Cork, 
 where he commenced business on his own account but 
 his stay here must have been very brief, for we find him 
 shortly afterwards located in the barony of Middlethird, in 
 the county of Waterford. The hedge-school occupation 
 not prospering here, he soon departed for Newfoundland. 
 
 Accordingly, being well equipped, by the munificence of 
 his neighbours, with food and raiment for the voyage, he set 
 out for Waterford, and thence repairing to Passage, a small 
 seaport town on the Suir, below Waterford, he embarked 
 for his new destination on the 24th of May, 1745, or, as 
 some accounts have it, 1748, or 1755. But, alas! the 
 winds and waves proved adverse to his wishes. He had 
 
 *That portion of this extensive district which immediately adjoins 
 the town of Yonghal is known among the natives as “ The Barony.” 
 
4 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 been but a few days at sea when a storm arose, which 
 drove the vessel on the coast of France, where the crew 
 fell in with a French frigate, which forced them to hoist 
 sail and steer their course homeward to the Emerald Isle; 
 and consequently, poor TTIac Con-TTlApA was obliged to 
 resume his former avocation in the very place which he 
 bad so recently left. A Mr. Power, one of his patrons, 
 who died but a short time ago, humorously insisted upon 
 having a narrative of the voyage from him, and our hero 
 accordingly produced a mock -^neid of about eighty stanzas 
 on the subject, which he entitled, ‘‘0 <\cc|ia ^hiobÍA An 
 AbpAoin,” ‘‘ The April Fools Tale.” Of this poem Edward 
 O’Reilly, in his “ Irish Writers,” remarks : There are 
 some lines in it by no means inferior to any of Virgil’s 
 and he quotes the shout of Charon, as described by the 
 Irish bard, thus : — 
 
 "Oo téig pé gÁip óp-Ápo Y béiceAc, 
 
 be pUAIiri A gUtAH DO CpiOCAD UA fpeApCAD, 
 
 *Oo cuAtAD An cpuinne é, Y cuip Ippionn jéiTn Apl” 
 
 “ He lifted up his voice ; he raised a howl and yell 
 That shook the firmament, as from some vast bell ; 
 Awakened one grand peal, that roused the depths of hell !” 
 
 Among other eloquent passages in it, we find the fol- 
 lowing allusions to his partnership with Moran, his location 
 at the Barony, and his removal to Middlethird : — 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 5 
 
 A R-ueiiAim, uo cAbAiif Ainn mAR tfiALAi|iu Le bumeACAf 
 ^i|\ A beic “pAn m-bAibe, no a 5-cAbAu-po|AU éijin ; 
 
 HÓ pAR lR-DA|\ÚTflA1R AtR ReA]1CR§A*Ó ’t)lR 
 
 Reic tRO éeACjAArhARR Y A5 -pmACCRgAÚ TRO CpéA*OCA 
 Ho fAR g-CpeACAbAlU A g-cbeACCAÚ fho gAO'ÓAÍCA'Ó, 
 
 HÓ A tlRRlReACpop S10RAIRR RA g-CAOb Rl-bApC, 
 
 Hó Aip SbbiAb ^eAÍ CuA pu^bRAU peibe, 
 
 ^5 URAR, 'opRAjA, Y cbéipec, 
 
 tlÓ A b-pOCAip tllbblARl til TnbÓ|lÁlR, pORR A]1X)lél5lORCA, 
 
 'OhéARpAC peAR tDAR 6 y CIORR cbÁ|A IR’éAgAÚ !” 
 
 “ All I have penned I would joyously give away, 
 
 To be at home, or in some snug seaport town ; 
 
 Or in the Barony, with the Gaels to-day, 
 
 Following my trade, and keeping my pupils down ; 
 
 Or in Cratloe, where my ancestors dwelt of old. 
 
 Or in Limerick, on the tail-barked Shannon agen, 
 
 Or in Sliabh Cua, the hospitable and bold, 
 
 There feasting bards, and sages, and learned men ; 
 
 Or with Willliam Moran, the Prince of Poets, who reigns. 
 
 Who would chant a death-song over my cold remains !” 
 
 A series of unpropitious circumstances, however, once 
 again drove him from home, and sent him anew to tempt 
 the ocean in search of Newfoundland. Here, on this occa- 
 sion, he arrived safely, and spent some time at St. John’s, 
 where his old freakish propensities broke out afresh, 
 though they do not appear to have involved him in any 
 unpleasant affair with the natives or others. 
 
 Having one evening met at a public-house a party of 
 English sailors, whom he well knew how to fool to the 
 
6 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 top of their bent,” he sang the following song, extempore, 
 to the great amusement of the Irish present, and indeed 
 to that of the English, though the latter understood but 
 one part of it, while the former chuckled in comprehend- 
 ing the entire : — 
 
 As I was walking one evening fair, 
 
 Ajup me 50 oeAUAc a m-l 3 Aite SheAgAin ; 
 
 I met a gang of English blades, 
 
 Ajup 1 A *0 OÁ * 0 -UpA 0 CA*Ó Ag UeA]AU A UATflAI’O I 
 
 I boozed and drank both late and early, 
 
 With those courageous Men-of- War 
 'S binne “Liom SAgpAriAig aj puic Ap éi^m, 
 
 ’S ^AU DO 5l^AOiDit Arm ACC pop beAjÁn. 
 
 I spent my fortune by being freakish, 
 
 Drinking, raking, and playing cards ; 
 
 5 i '6 nÁ pAib AIP510D AjAm, ’nÁ gpéicpe, 
 
 tlÁ pAD pAn U-pAO^Ab, ACD nÍD gAtl AipO ! 
 
 Then I turned a jolly tradesman. 
 
 By work and labour I lived abroad ; 
 
 *S bioc Ap m’pAbbAing-p ^up mop au bpéA^ pin. 
 
 Ip beAg De’n c-pAocAp do cuic be m’ bÁiríi. 
 
 Newfoundland is a fine plantation. 
 
 It shall be my station until I die. 
 
 Bio cpÁD ! 50 m peApp biom a beic a n-Cipe, 
 
 A5 Diob SÁipcéipíge, ’nÁ A5 Dub pÁ'n 5-coibb: 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 7 
 
 Here you may find a virtuous lady, 
 
 A smiling fair one to please your eye, 
 
 An pAC<^ pc^MjionnAÓ ip meApA upéiúe, 
 
 50 m-beipeA*ó mé Ap a beic Ap pAÓApc ! 
 
 ril join in fellowship with '' Jack-of-all-Trades,’’ 
 
 The last of August could I but see ; 
 
 AuÁ piop A5 Coip-oeAbbAO ’p Ap mAgAipoip bÁix) é, 
 5 np Vote An bÁith mé Ap tntnp ’nÁ Aip cip; 
 
 If fortune smiles then, Idl be her darling, 
 
 But, if she scorns my company 
 
 'OéAnpA‘0 "‘bAinipci'oe An Uoilb AnÁipoe,” 
 
 "S Ap pAOA on Aiu-pi *00 beiúeAÓ me ’pT- 
 
 Come drink a health, hoys, to Royal George, 
 
 Our chief commander, nÁp opoAij Cpiopo ; 
 
 ’S biob blip n-Auctnn^ibe cum Uluipe tTlhÁCAip, 
 
 0 péin ’p A jÁpoAige 00 beAjAÓ pi op : 
 
 We’ll fear no Cannon, nor War’s Alarms,” 
 
 While noble George will be our guide, 
 
 A Chpiopc 50 b-peiceA'ó mé An bpiim *oÁ CApnAu. 
 
 A5 An THac* po Ap pÁn UAinn UAbb pAn b-I^pAinc. 
 
 tri AC Con-1TlApA made three voyages across the Atlantic ; 
 and it was in the city of Hamburgh, where he conducted 
 a school, that he wrote the lDÁn* cnoic 0ipeAnn O !" 
 
 The Fair hills of 0ipe O !” a song we have introduced 
 
 * Prince Charles Edward Stuart. 
 
8 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 into this volume. It is the genuine production of an 
 Irishman, far from his native home — full of tenderness 
 and enthusiastic affection for the land of his birth. 
 
 As evidence that our poet was skilled in the Latin 
 tongue, we need only call the attention of our readers 
 to the following elegy which he composed in the year 
 1800, at the advanced age of ninety, on the death of a 
 brother bard named (^aodIac) Ha SúibbeAbÁin. 
 
 ‘‘ Thaddeus hie situs est ; oculos hue fleete viator ; 
 
 Illustrem vatem parvula terra tegit. 
 
 Heu ! jaeet exanimis, fatum irrevocabile vicit ! 
 
 Spiritus e terra sidera summa petit. 
 
 Quis eanet Erinidum laudes ? quis faeta virorum ? 
 
 Gadelieo extineto, Seotiea musa taeet 
 Proeessit numeris doetis pia earmina eantans, 
 
 Evadens vietor munera eerta tulit. 
 
 Laudando Dominum praeelara poemata feeit, — 
 
 Et suaves hymnos fervidus ille eanit. 
 
 Plangite Pierides ; vester deeessit alumnus ; 
 
 Eochade * non est, eunetaque rura silent, 
 
 Paeem optavit, paee igitur versatur in alto ; 
 
 Ad superi tendit regua beata patris,” 
 
 In person *OonncA*ó was tall and athletic ; but becoming 
 blind towards the close of a life considerably extended 
 beyond the average term allotted to man, and being 
 straitened in pecuniary circumstances, he was compelled 
 
 * Eoghan (Ruadh) O’Suilleabhain, of Sliabh Luchra, in Kerry ; a near 
 relative of Tadhg (Gaodlach) O’Suilleabhain, and a celebrated poet, who 
 died A.D., 1784. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 9 
 
 to appeal to the beneficence of the schoolmasters of his 
 neighbourhood, who imposed a “ Rate-in- Aid ” for him on 
 the scholars. We saw him ourselves in 1810, and paid 
 our mite of the impost. He died about the year 1814, 
 and his remains lie interred in Newtown churchyard, 
 within half a mile of the town of Kilmacthomas, on the 
 Waterford road, where no stone has yet been placed to 
 commemorate his name, or indicate his last resting-spot to 
 the passer-by. Indeed, but for the interference of the 
 worthy priest of the parish, the Rev. Mr. Veale (and to his 
 honour be it spoken), a drain would, some few years back, 
 have been passed through the place of his interment by 
 Goths, who were at the time turning off a stream of water 
 from a distant comer of the churchyard. 
 
 0 
 
 II. 
 
 SeAghAtl VIA UtlAtriA. 
 
 John O’Tuomy was born at Croome, in the County of 
 Limerick, in 1706. Through his own diligence, and by 
 means of the scanty educational facilities which the country 
 afforded, he made-^considerable proficiency in Latin and 
 Greek, and was tolerably well versed in the literature of 
 his time. The brief sketch which we propose to give of 
 the life of this poet, interesting as we trust it will prove in 
 itself, will be attended with this advantage, that it may 
 serve to elucidate the meaning of much that might other- 
 wise have appeared obscure in his poetry ; and the nature 
 
10 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 of his compositions will be the better understood from a 
 previous view of his character, and a short narrative of the 
 vicissitudes that marked his career. His poverty, and the 
 restrictions then imposed on education, interrupted his 
 studies too soon, and involved him prematurely in worldly 
 cares. He married young, and embarked in the vintnery 
 business, first at Croome, but subsequently at Limerick, 
 where the site of his residence in Mungret-street is still 
 pointed out with veneration, as having once been the abode 
 of a philanthropist and a true-hearted Irishman. His suc- 
 cess in the line he had chosen, as may be anticipated, was 
 but indifferent ; for, besides that poets are rarely frugal or 
 fortunate in the management of their temporal concerns, 
 the malediction which invariably pursues the man who 
 trades upon the intemperance of others, marred the best- 
 directed efforts of his industry. His liberality, moreover, 
 far exceeded his means, and must have inevitably led to 
 bankruptcy. The most generous are usually content with 
 relieving those who crave assistance from them; but the 
 house of O’Tuomy was open to all ; his hospitality was 
 unbounded ; and, in order that this might be made known 
 to all, the following general invitation was written in broad 
 letters on a large board over his door : — 
 
 ni’t pÁriAc riA UAipbe 
 
 t)pAc<Mp *oe’n 'oÁirh-jtic, nÁ puAipc-peAp gpoióe, 
 
 'ói 5-cAp 50 m-beiDeAD tAiúpe<\c gAH huAD riA nige, 
 
 HÁ 50 Tn-bei*óeA*ó tnibe pÁibce Ag SeÁgAn tlA Uuattia 
 poiTTie !” 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 11 
 
 ** Should one of the stock of the noble Gael, 
 
 A brother bard who is fond of good cheer. 
 
 Be short of the price of a tankard of ale, 
 
 He is welcome to O’Tuomy a thousand times here !” 
 
 After this, it is unnecessary to mention that his house 
 was much frequented. Himself, too, the soul and centre 
 of his company (whence his appellation of ‘‘ SeÁjAri tl<\ 
 TTuArnA Au gpinn,'^ ‘‘John O’Tuomy, the Gay/’) was not 
 more courted for his hospitality than for his gaiety and 
 good humour. His ^ ouae. w as_a gener al rendezvous for 
 the bards apid tourists, o^^ came ~thithe7~on 
 
 occasional visits, and sometimes m et there in a body , so 
 a^lo form a sort of poeticar'cluK These bardic sessions,* 
 as they may be called, exercised a healthful influence in 
 the country, and aided powerfully towards reviving the 
 national spirit, bowed and almost broken, as it was, be- 
 neath the yoke of penal enactments ; they were also a 
 source of unalloyed pleasure to all, Mrs. O’Tuomy alone 
 excepted, to whom patriotism and poetry were of less 
 moment than the interests of her establishment, to which 
 it was impossible that such meetings could contribute 
 any advantage. She often warned her husband that his 
 extravagance was disproportioned to his circumstances ; 
 she told him that their means of subsistence must not be 
 consumed by “ strollers,’^ and that, unless he disconnected 
 himself from such society, he would soon be as penniless 
 
 ♦ For a history of those bardic schools, see Haliday’s edition of 
 ‘‘Keathig’s History of Ireland,” p. vi., note 
 
12 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 as any of his associates. Literary pursuits, she insisted, 
 were barren and useless accomplishments, not unbecoming 
 in persons of large fortune, but altogether unfitted for any 
 one who had no resource but his own exertions for the 
 maintenance of a wife and family. From prudential 
 motives like these, she cherished a general dislike of alj 
 O’Tuomy’s brother rhymers, and at length succeeded, by 
 her continual remonstrances and objurgations, in breaking 
 up for a season the bardic musters altogether. 
 
 We will here introduce an anecdote illustrative of the 
 friendship which existed between O’Tuomy and a brother 
 poet, Andrew Magrath, of whom we shall have more to 
 say presently. One day, our friend, according to the 
 custom of country publicans, had erected a tent on the 
 race-course of Newcastle (or, as some assert, at the fair of 
 Adare), which was surmounted by a green bough,* as a 
 distinctive mark of his occupation, and also as an emblem 
 of the love he bore his own green isle.” He was eyed 
 
 ♦This ancient custom gave rise to the old adage, that “Good wine 
 needs no bush.” 
 
 In 1565, the mayor of Dublin ordered that no person should sell 
 wine or ale in the city without a sign at the door of the house — Harris's 
 Dublin, 
 
 An “Act” of Charles II., “for the improvement of His Majesty’s 
 revenues upon the granting of licenses for the selling of ale and beer,” 
 provided— '♦CJat eberg one go to be lícenseír gjall Jabe gome Sign, 
 ^‘Stabe, or 13ugt at Jig l^oor, to gibe notice unto Strangerg anti 
 ” tIErabellerg b^ere t^eg mag receibe Entertainment of iHeat, IBrinit, 
 “ anti Hotiging for t^eir reagonable moneg.” Hence the custom of using 
 the green bush at fairs and patterns. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 13 
 
 at some distance by Magrath, who approached and accosted 
 him, and the following short but pithy dialogue took place 
 between the brother wits : — 
 
 Magrath.* 
 
 ‘‘If bACAbtAc jbAf An cbeAc-fA A *o-u0in x)0 cige, 
 
 ^5 CAf fAing nA b-feAf a fceAc Ag ót ua ‘oije/’ 
 
 ** How clustering and green is this pole which marks your house ! 
 Enticing men in to drink your ale, and carouse.” 
 
 O’Tuomy. 
 
 “ Alf^lOO gCAb 50 pfAf A félgfioó fbíje, 
 
 'CÁ’n cAfAio A5 ueAct), An bfAic Y jAn 'oíob.’^ 
 
 “Bright silver will pave your way to quaff your fill, 
 
 But the hops and malt, alas ! are unpaid for still.” 
 
 It is to be regretted that O'Tuomy^s many excellent 
 qualities were not accompanied by greater economy in the 
 management of his domestic affairs. But his improvidence 
 was unfortunately incorrigible, for vain were all his wife’s 
 impassioned remonstrances and expostulations. At length 
 his little capital began to melt away in the sunshine of 
 convivial enjoyment ; business first languished, and then 
 entirely ceased, and with a young and helpless family he 
 was cast once more an adventurer on the world. After 
 
 * We should here observe that Magrath was somewhat deep 13 . the 
 books of O'Tuomy for certain old scores. 
 
14 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 undergoing many reverses he was compelled to accept the 
 situation of servant at Adare, to Mr. Quade, a caretaker 
 or steward on the farm of a gentleman residing in Limerick. 
 Here he seems to have borne his change of fortune some- 
 what impatiently, for we find him engaged in frequent 
 contests with his mistress, whose ill-treatment evoked his 
 bitterest invectives. This old woman frequently trans- 
 ferred the duties of her office, as poultry-keeper, to the 
 poet, who, however, did not feel at all honoured by the 
 trust ; and his most pointed satires against her indicate 
 this to be the chief cause of his hostility. Poets are 
 seldom to be offended with impunity. Having the means 
 of reprisal so near at hand, they are not slow to use them 
 with effect against the aggressor. In justice, however, to 
 O’Tuomy, it should be observed that his was not a vindic- 
 tive disposition ; and this, perhaps, was the only instance 
 in which his talents were made subservient to the indul- 
 gence of private resentment. From a cane which the old 
 woman carried, both as a support in walking, and to keep 
 the hens in order, O’Tuomy contemptuously designated 
 her in rhyme as ‘‘tleAU ha cbeice cAoibe,” “ The Dame of 
 the Slender Wattle,” and the poem so entitled we beg to 
 introduce here : — 
 
 be An nA cteiuhe cAone. 
 
 niop cAgAip bioin ceApu, boApc ’HÁbpiAÚAp Aoibmp 
 LeAbAp riA ceAcc, riÁ pAUu a oeibb oipeAc ; 
 niop CACAg me Ap pAO 50 ceAcc Am peipbipeAC, 
 
 ’S Am peAccAipe ceApc Ag bcAU ua cbeice cAoibe! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 15 
 
 T)0 CAICIOfAU IfOóX, “pA |AA 1 C A 1 |\ ÍAoice, 
 
 A 5 -c<M*o|iioiTi Y Y ciieioioifi ^oyA ; 
 
 Ai]\ 51 o*o jcaL Ain gtAic jAn 'ooi|Ab níó a|v biu, 
 
 CiA 'oeAbb mo meAf Ag Tdoah riA cbeiue cAOibe! 
 
 Ifé IajaiO mo meA-p, *00 meAu,t)o meip\b m’ninuinn, 
 
 TIac iTiAi'iiion riA pÍAic 'oo teAn An qAeiuiorh *oY^< 5 .c; 
 
 T)o cAnnAÚ nA -lAAnnAU a fCAnnAb c|\eib a pnnfeAji, 
 
 ’S *00 bAinpeAú An pAib *oe bhoAn nA cbeite CAoibe! 
 
 ’Y l^^AfAc nÁ|v cteAcuA]" noAcc An-'oeipe coimeAfgAip, 
 
 -A5 ceAfAcc Y CAi|"mi]ic cAibbibe ceipniOe cince ; 
 
 11 An ACApAn Am, a b-^TAt) o bpeic An p^A-cipc, 
 
 50 n-'oeACA'ó pÁ I'mAcc aj^ boAn nA cteice cAOile! 
 
 CiA iTA'OA me Y ^^if*oiob cyveAb, Y uAOipeAc, 
 
 *S 50 b-'peACA'ó 5AC ]ieAcc Y^cc Ap peAÚ nA pogAcuA ; 
 Hiop b-peApAc me Ap cbeApAÓ ppApAÓ peibb-j^ío^^c, 
 
 50 5 ^ AIT)”* AcÁ A^ beAn nA cbeiúe cAoibe ! 
 
 Aiccim An HIac t)o ceAp nA ceiúpe poitbpe, 
 ‘pÍACAp, peApn, Y T)Aoine; 
 
 50 ngAbAÚ m’AnAm peAp*0A 'nA peibb T)íbip, 
 
 ’S me pgApAb pÁ bÍAp be beAn nA cbeiúe CAOibe ! 
 
 * An appropriate name for a flail among the Kerry peasantry. 
 
16 
 
 THE POETS AND POETKY 
 
 THE DAME OF THE SLENDER WATTLE. 
 
 Oclione ! I never in all my dealings met with a man to snub me, 
 
 Books I have studied, however muddied a person you may dub me, 
 
 I never was tossed or knocked about — I never was forced to battle. 
 With the storms of life, till I herded your hens, 0, Dame of the Slender 
 Wattle ! 
 
 I spent a season a chanting poems, and free from toil and troubles, 
 
 The faith of Christ I ever upheld, though I mixed with the proudeat 
 nobles. 
 
 And gay was my heart, and open my hand, and I lacked not cash or 
 cattle. 
 
 Though low my esteem to-day with you, 0, Dame of the Slender 
 Wattle ! 
 
 My spirits are gone, my face is wan, my cheeks are yellow and hollowed. 
 Because the nobles are dead by whom the true old Faith was followed, 
 Who sang the glory of those that died for Eire’s rights in battle, 
 
 And would soon bring down your paltry pride, my Dame of the Slender 
 Wattle ! 
 
 ’Tis very well known I always shunned contention, clamour, and jawing. 
 And never much liked the chance of getting a barbarous clapper- 
 clawing ; 
 
 I always passed on the other side when I heard a hag’s tongue rattle, 
 
 Till I happened, im vrone ! to stumble on you, 0, Dame of the Slender 
 Wattle ! 
 
 Though used to the ways of tribes and chiefs, and reading the deeds 
 that appear in 
 
 The chronicles and the ancient books that embody the lore of Erin, 
 
 I scarce ever knew what cruelty was, except through rumour or prattle 
 Till the dismal day that I felt your flail, 0, Dame of the Slender Wattle I 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 17 
 
 0 ! I pray the Lord, whose powerful Word set the elements first in 
 motion, 
 
 And formed from nought the race of Man, with Heaven, and Earth, and 
 Ocean, 
 
 To lift my spirit above this world, and all its clangour and brattle, 
 ánd give me a speedy release from you, 0, Dame of the Slender Wattle ! 
 
 The history of this woman and her husband, and of 
 their subsequent elevation to rank and fortune, is very 
 extraordinary. Tradition represents them as living at 
 Adare in distressed circumstances, when a stranger one 
 day presented himself before them in search of a treasure, 
 which he had dreamed was buried in the neighbourhood. 
 Though he seemed unacquainted with the locality, his 
 accurate description of a ruined mansion in the vicinity, 
 as the place of its concealment, made a deep impression 
 on the old woman, who cunningly resolved to turn the 
 information to her own account. She accordingly advised 
 him to relinquish his foolish search, which, originating 
 from a dream, did not deserve to be prosecuted; and the 
 stranger, according to her advice, left the place. He had 
 no sooner departed, however, than she and her husband 
 visited the spot indicated, and digging, discovered a crock 
 of gold,” covered with a flag-stone inscribed with some 
 half- effaced characters, which they did not take much 
 trouble to decipher, supposing them merely to refer to the 
 treasure they were already in possession of. Filled with 
 joy, they conveyed home the money with secrecy and 
 caution. But it happened that a certain itinerant literary 
 character, who lodged with them, seeing the inscription on 
 
 B 
 
18 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 the flag-stone, or pot-lid — for into such an utensil had it 
 been converted — fell to deciphering it, and at length 
 succeeded in discovering the words — 
 
 AcÁ An oipeAD céAonA a]a au 'o-CAob eihe,” 
 
 There is as much more on the other sideT This, though 
 mysterious enough to the poor scholar, was quite intelli- 
 gible to the initiated pair, who, at once acting on the 
 suggestion, proceeded to the well-known spot, and secured 
 the remainder of the booty. This treasure was shortly 
 afterwards the purchase-money of a large estate in their 
 native county; and it is said that at this day the blood of 
 the Quades commingles with that of Limerick's proudest 
 nobility. 
 
 OTuomy's poems are mostly illustrative of his Qwn 
 condition and habits of life. His songs, especially, sparkle 
 with the glow shed over the festive scenes in which he 
 was accustomed to spend so many gay hours with his 
 brother bards. Their inspiration and eloquence would 
 seem to favour the once popular, but now (thanks to 
 Father Mathew) exploded doctrine of Oratinus: — 
 
 “Nulla p'^acere diu nec vivere carmiiia possunt, 
 
 Qusb scribantur aquae potoribus.” 
 
 All the poets of this period, it should be remarked, 
 combined in denouncing the persecuting policy of their 
 rulers, and exposed with indignant patriotism the cupidity 
 and bigotry which brought into action the worst passions 
 of the heart, and perpetrated in the name of religion those 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 19 
 
 atrocities which wull for ever sully the fame of Britain. 
 But as the sufferer was not permitted to complain openly, 
 the voice of discontent was often veiled in the language 
 of allegory. Ireland was usually designated by some 
 endearing name, such as — Sigite 
 “ CaiciUu til ItAhtAcÁin,” ITlóipín tlí ChuitbonÁiri 
 and introduced under the form of a female of heavenly 
 beauty, but woe-stricken, and dishonoured by the stranger. 
 O’Tuomy’s compositions on these subjects are replete with 
 Irish sentiment and melody, especially his songs to the 
 airs of “trióipíri tii ChuihboririÁiri,’’ and ‘‘ CnouAu bÁn,’^ 
 White Cockade,’’ which will be found in this collection 
 (p.62.). 
 
 This lamented bard expired, at the age of sixty-nine, 
 in Limerick city, on Thursday, 31st August, 1775, and 
 his corpse was borne to his ancestral burial-place — the 
 .graveyard of Croome — by a numerous assemblage of the 
 bards of Munster, and others of his friends. James 
 O’Daly, a contemporary bard, who chanted his elegy, gives 
 the precise period of his death in the following stanzas : — 
 
 Ay pA*OA pAon jau peApAticAp, 
 
 ^Ati bAibue-puipc, gAU peuTieAp pig; 
 trieic iriógA riA u-eACc uo cbeACCAC cion, 
 CAbmAcc, ’p cAin, ’p ciop : — 
 
 Sbocc WgAiu ’p Chein, ’p CbAipbpe, 
 
 Paoi eAccpAuriAi'ó triAp cÁpbAi*ó uim ; 
 
 D'puig 'oporij riA u-éAcc jau rriApbriA, 
 
 Ay pgApA'o teAc, tli UhuAtnA ati gpinn I 
 
20 
 
 TEE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 ^ 1]^ orb AC, Y Af teAn, Y Af OAimo tiom, 
 
 o-uAg^iAo, A|i o-ueAPP, Áp ri-oion ; 
 A5-C]\omA*ó, ]:Aon ]:aoi gAiiib-bic, 
 
 ’S 5tA|?A]AriAc iiA p-gAbb ]\e v' uAoib ! 
 SeAcc ^'CeAO oéA^ ^ah oeAiAniAO, 
 SeAcu-tnojÁu Y cúig, ^ae cÍAom ; 
 
 Aoif rhic "Oé oo ceAP.nAi^ pnn, 
 
 A]\ ]"5ApA'ó teAC, tlí UbuATTiA An 5innn i 
 
 Stricken and feeble, without land, or name, 
 Mansions, or princely sway. 
 
 Are Mogha’s ancient race of ancient fame, 
 
 And might, and wealth, to-day ! 
 
 The noble sons of Cairbre, Conn, and Lugliaidh, 
 Alas ! are foreigner’s prey. 
 
 But bitterest grief is ours for losing you, 
 O'Tuomy, once the Gay ! 
 
 0, woe ! 0, sorrow ! waking heart-wrung sighs, 
 
 Our guide, our prop, our stay, 
 
 In Croome, beneath an unhewn flag-stone, lies, 
 While the stranger treads his clay. 
 
 ’Tis seventeen hundred years — the account is true — 
 And seventy-five this day, 
 
 Since Christ, His death, that we by death lost you, 
 O’Tuomy, once the Gay ! 
 
 -O- 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 21 
 
 III. 
 
 ANDREW MAGRATH. 
 
 (Surnamed ‘'TDAngAijAe Sú^ac.'’) 
 
 Perhafs there is nothing more melancholy and deplorable 
 than the sight, too often, unfortunately, witnessed in this 
 world of contradictions — the union of lofty genius with 
 grovelling propensities. To see talent of the highest 
 order debased by an association with vulgar and low-lived 
 habits — the understanding pointing one way, while the 
 bodily requirements and appetites drag their degraded 
 victim in an opposite direction — is indeed a spectacle 
 calculated to excite to thoughtfulness and sorrow every 
 generous mind. The world is familiar with examples of 
 this lamentable and ill-assorted union ; and we need only 
 mention the names of Savage, Burns, Poe, and Maginn, 
 as a few of those who have made the most mournful and 
 conspicuous exhibitions of its effects. The subject of our 
 present sketch unfortunately adds another to the muster- 
 roll of those ill-starred children of genius ; but we should 
 be unfaithful to the requirements of the task we have 
 undertaken, if we did not allot a place here to the bio- 
 graphy of the gay, the eccentric, the jovial, but withal, the 
 witty, learned, and intellectual Andrew Magrath. 
 
 This distinguished poet, who, from his convivial habits, 
 was usually called the “ TTlAngAipe SdjAc ” (i. e., Jovial,’^ 
 or “ Merry Pedlar,”) was a native of the county Limerick, 
 
22 
 
 THE POETS AND POh:TRY 
 
 and was born on the banks of the Maig, a river which he 
 has frequently made the theme of eulogy in his poems. 
 Of his earlier years there are scarcely even any traditional 
 accounts ; but we find him, as he grew to manhood, 
 engaged in the occupation of a country schoolmaster. 
 Magrath was the contemporary of John O’Tuomy, and a 
 host of others who at this period acquired a high reputa- 
 tion among the admirers of wit and lovers of song ; bat, 
 unhappily for himself and those connected with him, his 
 life, and even many of his productions, were at variance 
 with, and unworthy of, his great intellectual powers. 
 Habitual indulgence in intoxicating drinks — that foe to 
 all aspiring thoughts and noble impulses — was his peculiat 
 besetting sin ; and, as a consequence, a great number of 
 his songs are so replete with licentious ideas and images, 
 as to be totally unfit for publication. Many of these, 
 however, but particularly some others, in which his better 
 muse predominates, are sung to this day by the Munster 
 peasantry, and, doubtless, will remain unforgotten as long 
 as \he Irish spirit shall remain unbroken by the tyranny 
 under which it has groaned and struggled through ages of 
 misrule and unparalleled oppression. 
 
 The habits of Magrath were migratory and wandering ; 
 he seldom tarried long in any one spot, though usually 
 long enough to leave behind him some rather marked 
 souvenirs of his drollery, and reckless love of mischief and 
 merriment. The caustic severity of his sarcasms rendered 
 liim an object of dread to such as were conscious of de- 
 serving exposure for their misdeeds. He delighted, like 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 23 
 
 Burns, in mixing with low company, over whom, of course, 
 he reigned supreme as a triton among the minnows. We 
 may well believe this, however, when we recollect that 
 one of the brightest wits and orators of this day, Philpot 
 Currau, is said to have on one occasion disguised himself 
 in the garb of a tinker, and taken up his quarters for 
 a month with a fraternity of ‘‘jolly brothers'’ who so- 
 journed in the Coombe, in this city, until one of them 
 raffled his tools to enable “ the tinker to go on a “ tramp.” 
 So has it been related by Moore of Byron, or rather by 
 Byron of himself, in his “Journal,’^ that frequently at 
 night, when disgusted at the ice-cold manners of the 
 aristocratic society in which he mingled, he was accus- 
 tomed to rush into the streets, and take refuge in a 
 
 cider cellar ! 
 
 Many of the productions of our poet were penned amid 
 these bacchanalian revels, and are, indeed, redolent of the 
 tlipce heACA* bottle. 
 
 Magrath tried his master-hand upon several species of 
 literary compositions and succeeded in alh He is said 
 to have been the author of those beautiful and soul- 
 Ctirring words adapted to the air called “ An Se<Mi 'oume " 
 (literally “ The Old Man,”) which is known in Scotland 
 under the name of “ The Campbells are Coming.” The 
 incident which gave birth to this exercise of the poetical 
 powers of the ITlAngAipe SugAc has been preserved by 
 
 • Uisceheatha, ‘'water of life,** equivalent to the Latin aqua vitcb 
 
 and French eau de vie- 
 
24 
 
 THE POETS AND POETEY 
 
 traditioD, and is highly interesting. In the course of his 
 wanderings through the country, our poet chanced to meet 
 with a young woman by the roadside who was weeping 
 bitterly, and appeared to be abandoned to inconsolable 
 grief. Upon inquiring the cause of her affliction, he found 
 that she had been induced, at the urgent request of her 
 parish priest, to wed, for the sake of his great wealth and 
 worldly possessions, an old man, the coldness of whose 
 nature presented but an imperfect requital to her youthful 
 warmth of affection. Magrath, who, with all his failings, 
 possessed a heart ever sensitively alive to the wrongs of 
 injured youth and innocence, was moved by the affecting 
 narrative, and immediately produced an extempore song 
 on the occasion. The first stanza of which runs thus : — 
 
 “ CÓTÍIAipbe *00 pUApAp ATnUlC Ap AU m-bóÚAp, 
 
 O pógupe pAgAipc An peAnnuine a pópA*ó : 
 
 Ua cumA help é, acx) 50 méA*oÓ5t:in a pócA^ó, 
 
 ’S A beiú pA*o '00 lUAippin Ag b]AAiu a]a ua cótriAppAin !” 
 
 “ A priest bade me marry ‘for better or worse/ 
 
 An old wretch who had nought but his money and years — 
 
 Ah ! ’twas little he cared, but to fill his own purse ; 
 
 And I now look for help to the neighbours with tears !” 
 
 The additional notoriety acquired by Magrath from the 
 circulation of this song was not of a very enviable kind. 
 A general outcry was raised against him by all the old 
 men of the whole surounding country, and he was com- 
 pelled, like Keynard, to betake himself to ‘‘ new quarters.’^ 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 25 
 
 Repairin.j to Croc pipiRR, he there resumed his former 
 occupation of school- teaching, and varied his leisure hours 
 by the composition of political and amatory ballads. Here 
 he wrote his popular song to the air of “ CpAoibin Aoibiun 
 ÁluiRR Ó5,” and declares in the opening stanza that he 
 had been invited to Croc ppiRR by IDorr pipiRRCAc,^ 
 chief of the Munster Fairies; and here also he produced 
 another song, in derision of those old women who lay 
 themselves out ” to entrap young men into the snares of 
 matrimony, a production, in our opinion, quite as clever 
 and sarcastic in its way as the “ SeARUtnRe,’^ though, on 
 account of its perhaps unjustifiable attacks upon the softer 
 
 * Donit. — O ne of the sons of Milesius, who, being separated from the 
 rest of his brethren by a magic storm raised by the Tuatha de Danans, 
 when effecting a landing on the coast of West Munster, was with his 
 ship’s company, drowned at a place called “ Bumhacha" “ Sand-hills.” 
 In recording his death, Boohaidh O^Flainn^ a poet of the tenth century, 
 writes thus ; — 
 
 “ Donn, ’s Bile, ’s Buan, a bheaii, 
 nil. ’s Aireach meic Mileadh, 
 
 Buas, ’s Breas, ’s Buaidhne go m-bloidh, 
 
 Do bhathadh ag namhachaibh.” 
 
 “ Bonn, and Bile, and Buan, his wife, 
 
 Bil, and Aireach, son of Milesius ; 
 
 Buas, and Breas, and Buana, found. 
 
 Were at the sand-hills drowned.” 
 
 It is traditionally believed that JDoww is chief of the Munster Fairies, 
 and holds his court at Gnoc Firinn (hence the appellation I)onnFirinneach)f 
 a romantic hill in the county of Limerick, See Haliday’s Keating, p. 294. 
 Dub. 1811. 
 
26 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 sex, who, whether juvenile or ancient, are entitled to our 
 respect, we forbear quoting any portion of it here. 
 
 Andrew Magrath was, perhaps, the most melodious 
 Gaelic poet of his day ; and we believe that few who 
 peruse his song to the air of CaiUti DOAp cpúióce riA 
 m-bó,’’ Pretty Girl Milking the Cows,” given in this 
 volume, will dispute the correctness of our opinion. To 
 his biography we have nothing more to add. He reached, 
 notwithstanding all his irregularities and excesses, an ad* 
 vanced age ; but the precise period of his death we are 
 unable to ascertain, though we have been informed that 
 he was living in 1790. His remains repose in the church- 
 yard of Kilmallock, in the county of Limerick ; and we 
 have learned, upon good authority, that shortly before his 
 death he bequeathed his manuscripts, which, as may be 
 supposed, were exceedingly voluminous, to a farmer named 
 O’Donnell, residing at Ballinanma, near Kilmallock, at 
 whose house this eccentric genius, but true poet, breathed 
 his last. Peace to his erring spirit ! Let us remember 
 his faults but to compassionate and avoid them, while we 
 honour his talents, which were, undoubtedly, of a high 
 and striking order. 
 
 o- 
 
OF MUNSTEE. 
 
 27 
 
 IV. 
 
 .AO-oVlASAri tlA KAI sluttish. 
 
 Egan O’Rahilly (or as the came is now sometimes 
 written Raleigh, (!) and O’Reilly), the subject of our 
 present notice, was, according to Edward O’Reilly’s 
 '‘Irish Writers,” the son of John Mor O’Reilly, a gentle- 
 man farmer, who resided in the village of Crossarlough: 
 on the borders of Lough Sheelan, in the county of Cavan, 
 about the commencement of the eighteenth century. 
 John had been intended by his father, Eoghan, for *the 
 priesthood, and was sent to receive his education in Kerry, 
 a county celebrated at that period for the facilities it 
 afforded of communicating a knowledge of the classics, 
 by means of its hedge-schoolmasters, who frequently 
 made the very cowherds Greek and Latin scholars. Our 
 young aspirant, during his stay here, made considerable 
 proficiency in his studies; but Fate had willed that he 
 should never reach the goal which his father had pointed 
 out as the object of his ambition. Happening, on his 
 journey homeward, during vacation, to give offence to 
 some person whose name we have been unable to discover, 
 he was waylaid, and attacked by six men armed with 
 bludgeons, one of whom he killed with a single blow. 
 Apprehended and tried for murder, he was acquitted* 
 but having taken away the life of another, he was, by the 
 canon law, disqualified for the priesthood, and obliged to 
 
28 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 relinquish the hope of ever attaining to it. He returned 
 to Kerry, where he married a young w^oman of the name 
 of Egan ; and the subject of our memoir, called also Egan, 
 in compliment to his mother s name, was the eldest son 
 of this marriage. John Mor, we may observe, was the 
 author of several poems, with which the peasantry of his 
 native county are stated to have been familiar but a few 
 years since ; and it is also said that copies of many of 
 them are extant in Kerry at the present day. 
 
 Egan was left by his father in comfortable circum- 
 stances ; indeed in the possession of what, at the present 
 day, would be considered almost opulence. His residence 
 was at StiAb tuAcpA, in the county of Kerry. He was 
 the author of a great variety of admirable songs, copies 
 of which were scattered through Munster, particularly in 
 his native district. His “ Vision,’^ or Reverie,” which we 
 give here, is, perhaps, as beautiful a piece of modern 
 poetry as can be found in the Gaelic language, and is, 
 in fact, a perfect gem amid the jewels of song : — 
 
 gibe riA Jibe DO conriApc Ap pbije a n-UAi jmop, 
 
 CpiopoAb AH ChpiopoAib A gopin-popj, pirin-tiAicne ; 
 iDirimop AH birimp AppiouAb, riÁp cpiori-jpuAmAt>, 
 
 X)eipje Y A piorinAD ^ha jpíop-jpuAó’riAÓ. 
 
 CAipe riA CAipe Ann jac puibe oÁ buioe-cuACAib, 
 HhAineAp AH cpuiHHe oÁ puicHe be piH-pjuAbAio ; 
 loppAÓ bA jbAIHe HÁ jbAIHe Aip A bpillHH bUACAIÓ, 
 
 X)0 jeiHeAÓ Ap jeiHeAlflAlH o’lpi pAH cip UACCpAl j. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 29 
 
 pio|' po|"Ac 'OAtri *0^1111" Y 5^ pop-tiAigiiioc, 
 poi' pLteA'o 'oo’ri oinrie OG’n loriAO bA p j-*ótí 
 piof TTiibbeA*ó riA opoiri^e cui]a eipion Ap |vírí-|AtiA5A*ó, 
 ‘S poy eibe riÁ cmppioo air burócib be pio]A-UArfiAri. 
 
 beiTTie riA teiifie oaiti 'opui'oim ’ra cptiiriri-ctiAi]Aim, 
 
 ’S mé Am ciiirige Ag ar CAime uo f'pAiómeA‘0 50 po]w 
 cpitiAió mé ; 
 
 A]\ goipim tfuctTlRi^ie ÓAm -ptipuAcc uo bioj UAimpi, 
 
 ’S blRJIOf AR bpRlRglobb RA buifRe gO bptllgiR btlACpA. 
 
 tltjicim be mipe Am piuicib 50 q^oi-oe-btiAimReAc, 
 
 'C]\e iomAbbAib cRjA^Ai^, u|\éTfioR5CAib, c|\é f'bím|\tiAi*óuib ; 
 T)o'r pRRe-b|A05 ci^im, ri útiipm cia ’r c-fbige ^tiA|iAp 
 50 b-10RAX) RA R-IORAO^OO CUmAX) be 'OllAOlgeACC l^ptlAJAlb. 
 
 binpo -pÁ fglje 50 lAjijeArhAib, buibiR gpiRAjAc, 
 
 ’S -piRpeARR 00 bpiRR^IobbAlb pO^^AIÓCe, 'obAOICRACAC ; 
 
 A R-jenfieAbbAib j^eirheAb mé ctupix) ^ar ptURR -puAiTfiRip 
 ’S mo bjAtiiRgiobb A|i b]itiiRRib A5 b]ii:iiRRi|\e bpRiRR- 
 |"UUACAC 
 
 T)’iRRipioi^ b-ppiouAb bA popi tiAim-pi, 
 
 tlÁp cRibe X)i -pRAibrne be ]"bibipe 'pbím-buApúA ; 
 
 ’S AR 'oiRRe bA gibe ai|\ ciRe Sctiic cp b-RAi-pe, 
 
 Aj peiciom a|\ ip beic Aige mA|\ caoir-rraca]!. 
 
80 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 cLtiif“oin mo guuA *01, goitedn 50 pop-UAibpeAc, 
 1ltiice<\ri AH -pbce 50 tipe Af a ^piof-gpiiADAib ; 
 
 CtupeAri bom ^iottAÓ mA|i coimi]ic ó’n m-l3]Atii5iri iiAice. 
 Í giLe HA 51 te, DO coHnA|\c a|\ ftige a h-iiai5H10]P ! 
 
 Ah CeAHgAb 
 
 THo cjieipD, mo cubAÍfu, mo cupyiAiHH, mo bjAOH, mo Die ! 
 ITI0 f'oi'LL'peAc mtii|iHeAc miocAi]i-5eA'L, beót-cAif, caoih, 
 
 Al|\ ADA1|\C A5 ]:U1|\eAHHtllli), miOfJAIf OAC, C]1ÓH-Duli), btHDe; 
 3AH beíjioi" HA 501^1050 b-pbilD HA teÓjAlH CA]1 CUIHH ! 
 
 The Brightest of the Bright met me on my path so lonely ; 
 
 The Crystal of all Crystals was her flashing dark-blue eye ; 
 Melodious more than music was her spoken language only ; 
 And glories were her cheeks, of a brilliant crimson dye. 
 
 With ringlets above ringlets her hair in many a cluster 
 Descended to the earth, and swept the dewy flowers ; 
 
 Her bosom shone as bright as a mirror in its lustre ; 
 
 She seemed like some fair daughter of the Celestial Powers. 
 
 She chanted me a chant, a beautiful and grand hymn, 
 
 Of him who should be shortly Eire’s reigning King — 
 
 She prophesied the fall of the wretches who had banned him ; 
 And somewhat else she told me which I dare not sing. 
 
 Trembling with many fears I called on Holy Mary, 
 
 As I drew nigh this Fair, to shield me from all harm, 
 When, wonderful to tell ! she fled far to the Fairy 
 Green maasion of Sliabh Luachra in terror and alarm. 
 
OF MUNSTER, 
 
 31 
 
 O'er mountain, moor, and marsh, by greenwood, lough, and hollow, 
 I tracked her distant footsteps with a throbbing heart ; 
 
 Through many an hour and day did I follow on and follow. 
 
 Till I reached the magic palace reared of old by Druid art. 
 
 There a wild and wizard band with mocking fiendish laughter 
 Pointed out me her I sought, who sat low beside a clown ; 
 
 And I felt as though I never could dream of Pleasure after 
 When I saw the maid so fallen whose charms deserved a crown. 
 
 Then with burning speech and soul, I looked at her and told her 
 That to wed a churl like that was for her the shame of shames, 
 
 When a bridegroom such as T was longing to enfold her 
 To a bosom that her beauty had enkindled into flames. 
 
 But answer made she none ; she wept with bitter weeping. 
 
 Her tears ran down in rivers, but nothing could she say ; 
 
 She gave me then a guide for my safe and better keeping, — 
 
 The Brightest of the Bright, whom I met upon my way. 
 
 SUMMING UP. 
 
 Oh, my misery, my woe, my sorrow and and my anguish, 
 
 My bitter source of dolor is evermore that she 
 
 The loveliest of the Lovely should thus be left to languish 
 Amid a ruffian horde till the Heroes cross the sea. 
 
 To an intimate acquaintance with his mother tongue, 
 Egan O’Rahilly united a thorough knowledge of the 
 classics, and had, perhaps, been designed like his father, 
 John Mor, for the sacerdotal profession. To the kindness 
 of Mr. Patten, librarian to the Eoyal Dublin Society, 
 we are indebted for the following extract from a MS. copy 
 
THE POETS AND POETEY 
 
 32 
 
 of Keating’s Ireland, made by him in 1772, and now 
 deposited in the Society’s valuable library. It will serve 
 to prove that our bard was living at that period, being the 
 year in which it was written by him. 
 
 It runs thus : — ua pgpiobAÓ be tl-AoÓAjÁn Ua Ka- 
 gAbbAig X )0 rhic SeÁin 015 True Sice, a n-T)pon 7 
 
 Cobuctnp pAn m-bbiAjAin d’aci^ Chpiopx) mibe, peAcc 
 gceo, Agup An 2pA bbtAgAin piccio. July An peAcernAD 
 bÁ.” Written by Egan O’Reilly, for Rughi, son of John 
 Og Mac Sheehy, of Dromcullaghar, on the 7th day of 
 July, 1722.” The book is written in a plain, legible, and 
 bold character, and establishes the writer’s power and 
 skill as a perfect scholar in the structure and idiomatic 
 peculiarities of his native tongue. We have one 
 other curious remark, however, to make with respect 
 to it — that he writes his name in two forms,. At the 
 commencement of the work he subscribes himself Ha 
 tvAjAbbAig (O’Reilly) ; whereas, at the close of the second 
 volume, he thus writes : — 
 
 ^'Cntd 
 
 AOt)llA5Ari VÍA RAUtlAltte, 
 
 by which name indeed (i. e. Rahilly), he is best known 
 throughout Munster at the present day. 
 
 There are two songs of our author’s in the present 
 collection. One of these, called The Star of Kilkenny,” 
 was composed on occasion of the celebration of a marriage 
 
OF iilUNSTER. 
 
 33 
 
 in the the year 1720, between Valentine, third Viscount 
 Kenmare, and Honoria Butler, of Kilcash, great grand- 
 niece of James, Duke of Ormond. The other was written 
 as a tribute of praise to a poetess, a lady named Fitzgerald, 
 who resided at Bally kenely, in the county of Cork, and 
 who, from her extraordinar}^' beauty, was a perpetual 
 theme of eulogy among the bards of Munster. 
 
 We have only to add, that notwithstanding all our 
 inquiries and researches, we have been unable to discover 
 either at what precise period or locality the death of 
 -Ao’DAgÁn Ha Kauai the occurred. 
 
 
 V. 
 
 u-AuhAHi tiittiAm 
 
 The Rev. William English f was an Augustinian friar, 
 and stationed in the convent of that community in 
 Brunswick-street, Cork. It is said that he was born in 
 Newcastle, in the county of Limerick, and that he passed 
 
 * This lady had a brother named Pierse, a poet of some celebrity ; 
 his productions, and many amusing anecdotes relating to him, are still 
 remembered throughout the province. He flourished about the middle 
 of the last century ; but the only fragment of his poetry in our pos- 
 session is an elegy on the death of John Power, Esq., of Clashmore, in 
 the county of Waterford, who died in the summer of 1754. 
 
 t We have seen his name in an old Irish MS. Hibernicised 
 Oglaoich, 
 
 C 
 
34 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 a considerable portion of his early life as a schoolmaster 
 in Castletownroche, in the county of Cork, and at Charle- 
 ville, in same county. Previous to his taking the 
 Augustinian habit, he had produced many striking and 
 beautiful songs in his native tongue, among which we 
 may reckon the celebrated CAipot tTIurhAn,’’ Cashel 
 of Munster,’’ and Coip riA bpigoe,”* ‘‘Along the Bride,” 
 both well known to our Munster readers. His admission 
 to the ranks of the regular clergy is said to have been 
 on the condition of abandoning song-writing for the rest 
 of his life — an obligation which he faithfully kept until 
 the occurrence of an incident which tempted him to call 
 once more his rhyming powers into action, and, at all 
 hazards, to violate his anti-poetical reserve ; as indeed he 
 did, though not without having obtained permission from 
 his ecclesiastical superior. 
 
 A brother friar, who had been despatched from the 
 convent, according to the custom of the order in Munster, 
 at a particular period of the year, for the purpose of 
 collecting provisions, obtained a quantity of butter among 
 the benevolent farmers’ wives of the district, which he 
 packed in a firkin, and sent to Cork market for sale. 
 Upon inspection, however, by the merchant to whom it 
 was offered, it was found to exhibit, owing to the various 
 
 * The river Bride, which has its source in the barony of Barrymore, 
 county of Cork, near a place called Qleann an Phreachain (Glinville^, 
 and falls into the BJackwater at Strangcally Castle^ county of Water- 
 ford. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 35 
 
 sources from which it had been procured, such a strange 
 combination of colours, that the poor friar was, perforce, 
 compelled to return home, and use it himself. Such an 
 opportunity for displaying his satirical genius, even at the 
 expense of a brother of the Order, was too tempting to be 
 forfeited by our poet; and he immediately commenced and 
 produced the well-known sarcastic stanzas : — 
 
 Cpé nÁ Cíbb nAp An l3pAúAip, 
 
 Chuip ppéip nÁ puim An ím nÁ a m-bbACAig !” 
 
 “ May that friar never know peace in the dust, 
 
 Who in butter or buttermilk places his trust 1” 
 
 Several of Father English’s poems are still in ex- 
 istence. The song by him which we present to our 
 readers in this volume, is adapted to a very pleasing air 
 called ‘‘ SeAnuuine” (The Old Man), of the merits of 
 which we have already spoken in our biographical 
 sketch of Andrew Magrath. We regret that our limited 
 acquaintance with the minuter details of our poet’s 
 life, precludes us from doing him that justice which his 
 high moral character unquestionably deserved, but which 
 would be better understood by the reader, were we in a 
 position to illustrate it by anecdote and narrative. 
 
 The Eev. William English closed his life on the 13th 
 of January, 1778, in Cork, and his remains repose in St. 
 John’s churchyard, Douglas -street, in that city. 
 
 0 - 
 
86 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 VI. 
 
 i:a*oIi 5 (gAO’o'hiAch) ua suitie^xb'hAin. 
 
 Timothy O’Sullivan, a poet, who, either from his sim- 
 plicity of manner, or from the fact of his being an humble 
 peasant,* altogether ignorant of the language of Bacon and 
 Shakspeare, usually went by the surname of 
 or The Gaelic,” was a native of Kerry, and, unfortunately 
 was not in his earlier years a model of the strictest recti- 
 tude in point of conduct. To his honour, however, be 
 it stated, that he subsequently reformed, abandoned his 
 irregularities, and succeeded in acquiring the esteem and 
 friendship of all who knew him. 
 
 Born a poet — as every true poet, according to Horace 
 must bef — he early lisped in numbers,” and ere the 
 heyday of his youth was over, had composed a considerable 
 number of amatory songs, rather too remarkable, it must 
 be confessed, for warmth of sentiment and expression. 
 In after-life, however, he atoned for the sins of his youth- 
 ful muse by a collection of sacred poems, which he left 
 behind, and which are published under the title of “ The 
 Pious Miscellany,” a work at the present day in the hands 
 
 * The ancient natives were universally prejudiced against the dialect 
 of the colonists ; insomuch, that any of them known to speak the rude 
 jargon of the foreiguers seldom escaped a reproachful nickname.” — 
 Sardinian, Note on the Statute of Kilkenny, 
 t ‘‘ Foeta nascitur non Jit,” — Hon. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 37 
 
 of almost every peasant in Munster, and, although not 
 comparable in point of style to some pieces of a similar 
 character in our volume, yet characterised by much depth 
 of feeling and energy of language. The book, moreover, 
 possesses this distinguishing merit, that every page, every 
 verse, we might almost say every line, reflects back, as 
 from a mirror, the leading traits in the character of the 
 amiable author. 
 
 O’Sullivan was accustomed to make periodical excursions 
 to a district in the county Waterford, celebrtaed for its 
 hospitality, and known by the name of “pAopACA,” which 
 comprises the barony of Middlethird. In all probability, 
 it was owing to his repeated visits to this territory, that 
 an eminent writer has fallen into the error of supposing 
 him to have been a native of Waterford. There he 
 passed the latter years of his life, and frequently sojourned 
 at the house, and sat at the table of the father of 
 the writer of this sketch. The precise period of his 
 death is unknown — to us at least — but that it probably 
 occurred towards the close of the last century may be 
 conjectured by the following quotation from one of his 
 sacred poems, entitled ‘‘ X)UAn Ati T)orhAin,'’ or ‘‘The Lay 
 of the World”:— 
 
 “ T)ubAit peAcc Am ceAcc t)0 ceAUAib, 
 
 ’S upi céAU riA j-córhAp ue’n 5-cóimpiom ceAuriA ; 
 
 T)ÍAp ÓÁ pcio btiAÚAn, btiAjAin Y 
 
 Sin An bbiA^Ain 'o’Aoip Chpiorc An ÍAoióe-p *óéAnAih.’^ 
 
38 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 ** Since born was GOD’S Eternal Son, 
 
 Came fourteen hundred years to an end ; 
 
 Three hundred, four score, ten, and one, 
 
 Before this lay of mine was penned/’ 
 
 According to popular report, his remains were interred 
 in Bally bricken churchyard, Waterford, but we cannot 
 vouch for the correctness of the tradition. There is much 
 beauty and pathos in the epitaph written on his death by 
 T)onncA*ó THac Con-TTlApA, but it is extremely doubtful 
 whether it was ever engraved on his tomb. 
 
 0 
 
 VIL 
 
 ipeAX)AK WA T)011inil1. 
 
 Were we not sincerely desirous of rescuing from the 
 wrecks of the Past the names and memories of the truly- 
 gifted children of genius who have flourished, though 
 in comparative obscurity, in our island, we might pass 
 over in silence the claims of Peter O’Dornin. But we 
 cannot so far forget the duty we owe to our country and 
 our readers. Although the bones of this poet lie in a 
 remote part of Ireland, the remembrance of what he 
 achieved and essayed shall not die with him ; and, as 
 far as lies in our power, we endeavour to wreath with 
 a garland of verdure his distinguished, though humble 
 name. 
 
 Peter O'Dornin was born in the year 1682, in the 
 county of Tipperary, near the renowned Rock of Cashel. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 39 
 
 At an early age he displayed the most astonishing evi- 
 dences of an intellect far advanced in knowledge ; and his 
 parents accordingly resolved on educating him for the 
 priesthood. But the laws of that dark and dreary period 
 — the statutes against education, domestic or foreign — the 
 operation, in short, of the Penal code — interposed a veto 
 to their wishes, and prevented them from carrying their 
 desire into effect.^ 
 
 Menaced in his early youth by political dangers and 
 hostilities, O’Dornin became a fugitive from the home of 
 his childhood. Directing his course towards the north, 
 which he regarded as the safest retreat from the storms of 
 persecution, he arrived at Drumcree, near Portadown, in 
 the county of Armagh. A Catholic clergyman, an ardent 
 lover of his country’s language and literature, who has 
 
 * The following extracts from the Irish Statutes will at once exhibit 
 the state of the Catholic schoolmasters and students in Ireland during 
 the penal times : — 
 
 I. 
 
 ‘‘No person of the Popish religion shall publicly teach school or 
 instruct youth in learning, or in private houses teach or instruct youth 
 in learning, within this realm (except only the children or others under 
 the guardianship of the master or mistress of such private house), under 
 the penalty of £20, and three months’ imprisonment.” — 7th William 
 III., ch. 4, s. 9. 1694. 
 
 II. 
 
 “ In case any of his Majesty’s subjects of Ireland shall go or send any 
 person to any public or private Popish school, in parts beyond the seas, 
 in order to be educated in the Popish religion, and there be trained in 
 the Popish religion, or shall send money or other thing towards the 
 
40 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 kindly furnished us with materials for this brief bio- 
 graphical notice, states that the following quatrain, in 
 O’Dornin’s handwriting, is in the possession of Mr. Arthur 
 Bennett, of Forkhill; and, as will be seen, it completely 
 precludes any controversy on the subject of our poet’s 
 birthplace : — 
 
 ‘‘ X)o bí*ó Ápup tno CAipue a 5-CAipob tiA piog, 
 
 1p é DÁfAcc riA ^^^bbuAcc *00 p5Ap mipe mob; 
 
 Uhuj mé pÁpA pó’n cpÁc pm 50 mubbAc "Ohpuim Cpíoc, 
 iriAp A b-puAip mé pÁilce 5ATI uÁirhleAp ’p meAÓAip gAti 
 cíop.” 
 
 ‘‘ The lands of my fathers were at Cashel of the Kings, 
 
 But the black English tyrant-laws drove me from thence ; 
 
 So I fled to Drumcree, as an eagle on wings, 
 
 And I foimd welcome there, without grudging or expense. ” 
 
 maintenance of such person gone or sent, and trained as aforesaid, or as 
 a charity for relief of a religious house, every person so going, sending, or 
 sent, shall, on conviction, be disabled to sue, in law or in equity, or to 
 be guardian, executor, or administrator, or take a legacy or deed of gift, 
 or bear any office, and shall forfeit goods and chattels for ever, and lands 
 for life.” — 7th William III., ch. 4, s. 1. 1694. 
 
 m. 
 
 ‘^If any person, after 1st September, 1709, shall discover any Popish 
 schoolmaster, or any Papist teaching or instructing youth in private 
 houses, as tutor, or as usher, under-master, or assistant to any Protes- 
 tant schoolmaster, so as the said Popish schoolmaster, tutor, or usher, 
 under-master, or assistant to any Protestant schoolmaster, be appre- 
 hended and legally convicted, every person making such discovery shall 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 41 
 
 While sojourning in this locality, he produced an elabo- 
 rate poem, entitled “The Ancient Divisions of Ireland, 
 and an Account of the different Septs that from time 
 to time colonised iC The peculiarly powerful style of 
 this poem attracted the Retention of the Hon. Arthur 
 Brownlow, ancestor of the present Lord Lurgan, who 
 requested an interview with O’Dornin ; and finding, upon 
 a close acquaintance with him, that he possessed high 
 talents, had received a liberal education, and was withal, 
 a man of polished manners and profound penetration into 
 human character, he took him into his own house to in- 
 struct his family, revise his Irish records, enrich his library 
 with Gaelic poetry, and, above all, to infuse into his own 
 mind a deep and lasting love for the literature of his 
 native country. The friendship, thus happily commenced, 
 eontinued unabated for several years, until, unfortunately, 
 the electioneering contest of the Brownlows of Lurgan, 
 the Copes of Loughgall, and the Richardsons of Richhill, 
 supervened, and the independent conduct of O'Dornin on 
 that occasion aroused the wrath of Brownlow : the result, 
 after some angry altercation, was a final separation between 
 the poet and his patron. 
 
 receive as a reward for the same £10, to be levied on the Popish inhabi- 
 tants of the country where such Popish schoolmaster, tutor, usher, 
 under-master, or assistant, taught or instructed youth, or did most 
 commonly reside, and shall be convicted thereof.” — 8 Anne, c. 3, ss. 20, 
 21 . 1701 . 
 
42 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 The thoughts of O’Dornia now once more reverted 
 towards home : he desired to spend the evening of his 
 days among the friends and companions of his youth, and 
 was anxious that his remains might mingle with the dust 
 of his ancestors. Fate, however, ordained otherwise. A 
 handsome young woman, named Rose Toner, laid siege in 
 due form to our poet’s heart ; and he bowed his scholarly 
 head beneath the yoke of Hymen. He spent the “ honey- 
 moon ” in the parish of Loughgilly, at Ballymoyre, and 
 subsequently established himself in the neighbourhood of 
 Forkhill, where he opened a school as a competitor with 
 one Maurice O’Gorman, who bore a high character for 
 ability in teaching. The insinuating address and ex- 
 tensive learning of O’Dornin, however, soon drew over a 
 majority of the scholars to his side ; and O’Gorman, 
 fancying himself deeply injured by his rival, but having 
 no means of redress or retaliation at his command, 
 was forced to leave the neighbourhood, and retire to 
 Dublin. In and about the vicinity of Forkhill, O’Dornin 
 passed a considerable time. Here he wrote a humo- 
 rous poem, in which he unmercifully satirized the luck- 
 less O’Gorman ; and here also he penned the song 
 (to the air which we give in our present collection) of 
 
 SbiAb péiDbim,” with many other minor poetical com- 
 positions. 
 
 In his latter years, O’Dornin was honoured with the 
 friendship, and enjoyed the esteem, of many of the most 
 eminent men in Ireland. He lived to a green old age, 
 and closed a life which he had consecrated to the vindica- 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 43 
 
 tion of his country’s literary renown, and the advanceoienl; 
 of the happiness of his numerous friends and acquaint- 
 ances, on the 5th of April, 1768, in his eighty-sixth year. 
 His death occurred in the townland of Shean, at a place 
 called Friarstown (Shean, we may observe, is now divided 
 into quarters), adjacent to the village of Forkhill, in 
 Armagh ; and his remains were interred near the north- 
 east wall of Urney churchyard, in the county of Louth, 
 somewhat more than three miles northward of Dundalk. 
 The parish priest of Forkhill, the E»ev. Mr. Healy, when 
 on his death-bed, requested to be laid beside O’Dornin ; 
 and the poet and the clergyman now repose beneath one 
 stone. 
 
 Our readers will understand that the poets at whose 
 lives and labours we have thus cursorily glanced, formed 
 but a few of the great hand of native Irish writers whose 
 genius illumed the political gloom and dreariness of the 
 eighteenth century. Among their contemporaries, and 
 not less distinguished for their poetical talent, we may 
 mention — 
 
 I. — 005 <\n 1ílu<\*ó O’SúihieAbAin, a native of SliAb 
 huAcpA, in the county of Kerry, who flourished towards 
 the close of the last century, and was justly celebrated for 
 his judgment and skill in the production of compound 
 epithets. He wrote many songs both in Irish and English, 
 though he always entertained an undisguised contempt 
 and dislike for the latter language. As a specimen of his 
 English versification, we give here the opening stanza of 
 
44 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 one of those — a song called ‘‘Molly Casey’s Charms/* 
 Jt^hich he penned for a village beauty of his acquaint- 
 ance : — 
 
 '‘One evening late, it was my fate 
 To meet a charming creature, 
 
 Whose airy gait and nice portrait 
 Excel both art and nature : 
 
 Her curling hair, in ringlets fair, 
 
 Down to her waist doth dangle ; 
 
 The white and rose — united foes — 
 
 Her beauteous cheeks bespangle. 
 
 Her rolling, glancing, sparkling eyes, 
 
 Each gazer’s heart at once surprise, 
 
 And bind a train of love-sick swains 
 In Cupid’s close enthralling chains. 
 
 Whoever views her lovely face, 
 
 That is bedecked with youth and grace, 
 
 Must every hour, proclaim the power 
 Of Molly Casey’s charms.” 
 
 II. — J ohn Mac Donnell, a poet of almost unrivalled 
 power and sweetness, surnamed “ CtÁpAc/’ from the broad 
 cast of his features, or from the fact of having been born 
 at the foot of Clarach mountain, near Millstreet in the 
 county of Cork. 
 
 III. — William Heffernan, surnamed “DAbb,” or the 
 Blind, a native of Shronehill, in Tipperary, and one of the 
 most delightful of versifiers. Our limited space will not 
 permit us to enlarge upon the writings and characters of 
 these poets ; but we refer the reader to the “ Reliques of 
 Irish Jacobite Poetry/’ in which will be found detailed 
 biographical notices of them. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 45 ^ 
 
 At this period there flourished a host of other gifted 
 men, of whom but '' Eandom Records’^ remain — men 
 whose powers of denunciation and satire were unsparingly 
 exercised against the abuses of authority, and the oppres- 
 sions which their unhappy country was compelled to suffer 
 at the hands of her mis-rulers. Among those men, who, 
 although less famous than the O’Tuomys and Magraths of 
 their time, yet scarcely inferior to them in poetical ability, 
 we may record the names of — • 
 
 I. — Hugh and Andrew Mac Curtin, both natives of 
 Clare, who flourished in the early part of the eighteenth 
 century* 
 
 II. — Conor and Donogh O’Sullivan, both of Cibbin, or 
 as they style it, Cibbin cAm-pAnriAc An ChpónÁin,’’ in the 
 parish of Whitechurch, near Blarney. Some of their 
 songs, printed from the original manuscripts, will be found 
 in this volume. 
 
 HI. — Bryan O’Flaherty, a mason, who lived at Bruff. 
 
 IV. — James Considine, of At ua 5-CAopAc in the county^ 
 of Clare. 
 
 V. — John Cunningham, who lived near Castletown- 
 
 ♦ A copy of Dr. Keating’s ** Tri Bir-Ghaotha an Three 
 
 Pointed Shafts of Death,” in the handwriting of Andrew M ‘Curtin., 
 bearing date 1703, still exists. Hugh Mac Curtin wrote an Irish 
 Grammar, an English-lrish Dictionary, and a Brief Discourse in Vindi- 
 cation of the Antiquity of Ireland, which were published early in the 
 last century. 
 
46 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 roche, and flourished in the year 1737. We have seen 
 some of his MSS. bearing that date. 
 
 VI. — Maurice Griffin, who followed the profession of 
 schoolmaster at Ballingaddy, in the county of Limerick, 
 about 1778. 
 
 YIL — William Cotter (the Red)y a native of Castle- 
 lyons, some of whose manuscripts, dated 1737, exist. 
 
 YIII. — George Roberts, one of whose poetical piecea 
 a fairy-song of remarkable beauty, appears in this 
 volume. 
 
 IX. — James O’Daly,* a native of the parish of Inagh, 
 county of Clare, and contemporary with John O’Tuomy, 
 whose elegy he chanted. 
 
 X. — Thomas Cotter, of the Cove of Cork. 
 
 * Since the time of Donogh Mor O’Daly, abbot of Boyle, a.d. 1244, 
 styled the Ovid of Ireland, the tribe of O’Daly has produced a vast 
 number of eminent poets. 
 
 Edward O’Reilly gives a catalogue of twenty-eight writers of the 
 name ; and they were so numerous in the sixteenth century, that an 
 English chronicler of that period uses O’Dalie as synonymous with poet 
 or rhymer. 
 
 We may here mention Fra. Dominic O’Daly, O.P., founder of the 
 College of “ Corpo Sancto,” and the Convent of “Buon Successo”at 
 Lisbon, and ambassador, in 1655, from Portugal to the court of Louis 
 XIV., on which occasion he gave a series of magnificent fetes to the 
 citizens of Paris. He died in 1662, having been elected Bishop of 
 Coimbra, and was buried in his own college at Lisbon. His “ History 
 of the Geraldines ’’ is known to most of our readers, through the transla- 
 tion by the Rev. C. P. Meehan, a new and enlarged edition of which was 
 published by the Messrs. Duffy, Dublin, 1878. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 47 
 
 XI. — Edward Nagle, also of Cork, a contemporary of 
 the Rev. William English. 
 
 We might append to these the names of a number of 
 others ; but as we do not present the reader with any of 
 their songs, and as we purpose, according to our promise 
 devoting a volume exclusively to their ‘‘ Lives and Times,’’ 
 it is unnecessary for us to particularise them here. There 
 are, however, two of the number w^ho cannot be passed 
 over in silence. We allude to CójAn O’CAOirh (Owen 
 O’Keeffe), and John Murphy. O’Keeffe, who, like his 
 namesake, the dramatist, possessed the most varied and 
 versatile powers, was born at Glenville, in the county of 
 Cork, in 1656. He married early, and had a son, whom 
 he reared for the priesthood, but who died in 1709, at 
 Rochelle, in the flower of his youth, while engaged in the 
 prosecution of his theological studies. CoJati, the father, 
 entered Holy Orders after the decease of his wife, in 1707, 
 and closed his life on the 5th day of April, 1726, as parish 
 priest of Doneraile. His remains are interred in the 
 grave-yard of SeAn-Cbdipu (Old-Court), about half 
 a mile west of Doneraile. The following inscription 
 was graven on his tomb by a sculptor named DonncAU 
 O’DÁlAig : — 
 
 A5 peo loriAt) íoúbAicce CójAin Ri CbAOirh, cug 
 upéirhpi 'OÁ Aimpp pópuA, Ajup UAp éip éAgA a rhíiÁ 
 *00 jlAC CoippeA^cA ; oip bA 'ouine ^AoprhAp, 
 
 jeAnATnriAi'oe, jpeAunruAp ; Agup no bA pile póglAtncA, 
 píp-eólAc, Ajup cléipeAc clipne, cAoin, a b-ppiorhceAnjAn 
 
48 
 
 THE POETS AND POETKY 
 
 A Duicce A finrii-eA-p é. Ab tume pn do 
 
 cui^ieAD An -pgpbinn neArh-coiuceAnn -po op a cionn. 
 
 ‘'T)o éA 5 An cnijiTiAD lÁ Den AbpÁn, A.T>, 1726 ; A^ny» 
 Ap DOib^ D’Ó5Aib nA TlIntfiAn é, Agtip pop da cbéip ; óip ip 
 lombA beAbAp bÁn-pojbAmcA, iéip-pgpiobcA, dá pAOCAp 
 pe nA pAicpin a n-0ipe Aninj.” 
 
 The Rev. John O’Brien, afterwards Bishop of Cloyne, 
 wrote the following epitaph, or ^eApc Baoido, which is 
 also engraven on the same stone : — 
 
 ‘‘ Sin AgADA A bic, tno D1Ú ! pÁ d’ uAob 50 b^j ! 
 
 SAgApc bA CAoin, Y A n-Dbige tine "06 bA beAcc ; 
 pAppAipe 5poÍDe D’ptnb ChAoirh bAcpeine a D-upeAp, 
 peAp peAncAD a pgpiob 50 piop Ap JI^AOiDeibib peAb.’’ 
 
 “ A grave-stone lies above thee laid this night, 
 
 Thou mildest priest, in God's great laws well versed — 
 O’Keeffe, of heroes mightiest in the fight, 
 
 Whose lore illumed the Gaelic learning erst.’* 
 
 John Murphy (SeÁgAn O’ITlupcúgAD), born at Raua- 
 omneAc, county of Cork, in March, 1700, was distinguished 
 for the beauty and pathos of his elegiac compositions. In 
 the year 1726, he had transcribed, with his own hand, 
 many native historical tracts of high value. He was 
 the chief patron of a bardic sessions, or academy, held 
 periodically at Charleville, and in the parish of White- 
 church, near Blarney ; and we have seen a poem of four 
 stanzas composed by him on the fate of four brothers 
 
OF MUNSTEll. 
 
 49 
 
 named Armstrong, who were killed at the battle of 
 Anghrim, for which composition it has been asserted that 
 their sister presented him with four bullocks. Murphy 
 continued his labours as an Irish scribe of high repute to 
 the year 1758. We cannot tell how long he lived, as we 
 have no records bearing on that subject. 
 
 About this period the introduction into female dress of 
 that singularly ridiculous and unsightly article of head- 
 gear known as the High Cauled Cap,” called forth the 
 unsparing satire of the poets of Munster. Numerous and 
 , bitter were the rhyming diatribes which they levelled 
 i against it. The offensive specimen of bad taste in apparel, 
 1 however, maintained its elevated position for at least forty 
 years, from 1760 to 1800, and some old dames kept up 
 the custom till 1810, when it entirely ceased to disfigure 
 the flowing ringlets of our fair countrywomen. Even 
 poetry and satire, it will thus be seen, are not omnipotent. 
 Bat if Horace, Young, and even Swift, failed in their 
 attempts to correct the manners of their times by ridicule 
 and sarcasm, it can hardly be deemed surprising that 
 such weapons should prove powerless against a cause 
 which influences of so potent a character as vanity and 
 fashion had enlisted under their special protection. 
 
 Upon the ‘‘ High Cauled Cap,” several songs were com- 
 posed to the air which we here present to our readers, 
 but unfortunately we have not been able to procure the 
 original words. 
 
 D 
 
60 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 THE HIGH CAULEH CAP. 
 
 A species of rhythmical composition, similar to the 
 following, was extensively in vogue among the Irish 
 peasantry, about the middle of the last century. In giving 
 it a place here, however, we willingly confess that we are 
 less actuated by its poetical merit, than by a desire to 
 display the extreme facility with which our native rhymers 
 were able to bring into juxta-position with the Irish lines 
 that Anglo-Irish phraseology, for a knowledge of which 
 few of them have ever obtained credit : — 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 51 
 
 heA^^ r\A n^oR-phoiu T)orin. 
 
 Ay 1 bcAU ri<x n-óp-yobc 001111, mo ^ar oóIdac, 
 
 OGA]" A com Y A cnÁmA ; 
 
 Likewise her features round, excel the Lady Browne s ; 
 
 Her equal can’t be found Ann -pAn Áic-p : 
 
 If I had a thousand pounds, I’d pay the money down, 
 T)’ponn UÚ beiu AgAm a b-popu-bÁipge; 
 jbbAcpAmAoif Ann bong, Y 'oo pAcpAmAoip a nun 
 UAp Y b’ eAgAb oumn beiu bÁíóce. 
 
 TIÍ géibbim-pi OOT)’ jbóp, mAp ip mop 00 óúib pA n’ób, 
 
 ’S cAp pAipge ni pACA*o-pA go bpÁú beAU ; 
 
 I believe you’re for sport, I beg you’ll let me alone, 
 
 ’S gup be bbAOAipeAcc 00 meAbbAnn cu nAmnÁ bcAU, 
 If I bade my friends adieu, and to go along with you, 
 geAbbAim ouic gup pAOAOo beic cpAcc oppuinn, 
 
 I believe I’ll stay at home, and never go to roam, 
 SeACAin me? t)0 pAUAipeAcc ni Áib biom. 
 
 Tpéigpio*o peApuA An u-ób, Y beAnpAi*ó mé An ppópc, 
 ’S bei*ó Aipgiox) go pAipping Ann mo pócAi'óe, 
 
 5 up míbpe biom X)o póg nÁ piucpe beAC Ap bopt), 
 
 ’S go m’Aice biom Am Aice uu nÁ céob pic ; 
 
 What I do to you propose, you may take as a joke, 
 
 ’S An ACApAnn, ni mAgA'o beAc bim a óg-mnAoi, 
 
 If I had you in my bower, x)o pinpinn pi op be 0’ com, 
 
 ’S bei'oeAC m'Aigne-pi ceAngAibce Ann vo tfiopcpoiue ! 
 
52 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 btiA-oApoA ’cÁ mo c|\oíóe be UAicmorh mó]A 'ooo’ jriAoi, 
 A*OAbtiim Ó m Aigne jujA teón me ! 
 
 When I go to bed at night, no comfort can I find, 
 
 But lying on my side in sore grief ! 
 
 By this and that indeed, and the Bible we do read, 
 
 T 1 Í -p5A]A^'*Air.n beAc Aip ai]A51o*o, nÁ ai]1 ó]\ buióe, 
 
 My treasure, wealth, and store, you shall be evermore, 
 Uai]a a bAibe biom Y beAiApAO m AC]:Airin 'ouiu a ]"uói]AÍnt 
 
 Your civil silver tongue I think is moving on, 
 
 Your chattering^ or flattering won’t coax me ; 
 
 'OÁ 11561 bpiin-p *00 *0’ fbige Y AU cAm vo belt ao c|ioi*óe, 
 11 Á]i b’é An peACA'ó ‘óuic me rheAbbAÓ be o’cuiognocuióe. 
 
 Can’t you come and try — my kindness you shall And, 
 
 CAbA]ii:Ainn m AcpAinn X)uic 50 pAbAipneAc be moji- 
 cpoíóe, 
 
 ril buy you decent clothes, silk and satin shoes, 
 
 AunpA n-^Aibbirh 'oo gbACAcpnn Áp bóipcín. 
 
 My mind would give consent to go with you, I think, 
 
 -Acc be h-eA^bA cbeApA cbif *00 gnócAige ; 
 
 If I thought you were true, 'oo pACAinn beAc Anun, 
 
 UAp iTAiji^e, 5An eAU|\A, gAn cóifcíge, 
 
 TlVb A^Am be |AÁ*ó, ACC 50 mA*ó buAn 00 bei*ó ua mnÁ,” 
 ’S 5Up CAICmOTTlAC biom gApiA-Ó ’cA A5 Ób 'OÍge, 
 
 To you I give my oath (and what could I do more ?) 
 
 Ha p5A|i|:Ainn beAc 50 5-cA];'pA*ó ppuic a g-cbo^o aige. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 53 
 
 With regard to the translator of the Irish Lyrics in this 
 i volume, we would inform our readers, that his biography 
 ; shall appear in the contemplated edition of his collected 
 poems, and that those shall be preceded by the Antholo- 
 I gia Germanica,’’ where his mastery of the English idiom, 
 
 I and thorough acquaintance with the language of Goethe, 
 Schiller, etc., etc., shine so conspicuously. Meanwhile, we 
 j fondly hope that this book may help to keep alive and pro- 
 j pagate a knowledge of the grand old tongue, for whose 
 preservation such energetic efforts are being made at 
 I home and abroad, by some of the most highly gifted philo- 
 logists of the day, w^hicli sees Davis' aspiration — the 
 establishment of a Celtic Journal — realised. 
 
 
54 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRT 
 
 bAn-cVinoic emeAnn o ! 
 
 T)onncA‘ó (1ltiA*ó) TDac Coti-1TlA]AA, ecu. 
 
 
 > 
 
 ,• é 
 
 >- 
 
 #' 
 
 -- bJi-hf r~ 
 
 
 H-+ 
 
 kx 
 
 : 
 
 Í " 
 
 x—l aj— L 
 
 TTi — ^ 
 
 
 
 ^ VI/ 
 
 l3ei|A beArnidcx) ó m’ ciAOi*óe 50 uip ha h-0i|AeAririii^ 
 l3Ári-crioic CipeAnri O ! 
 
 ’S cum A mAi]Honn *oe potjiAc 1tl Y 0lbh0\\Tl, 
 
 A]\ bÁn-cnoic CipeAtin O! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 55 
 
 THE FAIR HILLS OF eiRe O ! 
 
 BY DONOGH (THE EED) MAC CON-MAEA. 
 Air : — “ TTileacan Dubh 0 !” 
 
 We have no means of tracing the antiquity of the air to which these 
 beautiful words are written ; but it may with probability be ascribed to 
 the early part of the seventeenth century. “ Uileacan Dubh 0 /” literally 
 means a blach-haired head of a round shape, or form ; and we have fre- 
 quently heard it so applied by the Munster peasantry, with whom it is a 
 favourite phrase, when speaking of the head, particularly that of a 
 female. Some writers are of opinion that “ Uileacan Duhh 0 alle- 
 gorically means Ireland ; but we cannot concur in this opinion, for it is 
 evidently a love expression. The song entitled “ Plur na m~han donn 
 6^,” of which we give the first stanza, can be sung to this air. It must 
 be played rather mournfully, but not too slow : — 
 
 “Da d-tiocfadh liomsa go Conntae Liath druim, 
 
 A phluirin na m-ban donn og ! 
 
 Do bhearfainn siuicre arliun mar bhiadh dhuit, 
 
 A phluirin na m-ban donn og I 
 Do bhearfainn aor long duit ’s bathad faoi sheol, 
 
 Ar bharr na d-tonn ag filleadh chum tragha, 
 
 *S ni leigfinn aon bhron ort choidhche nago brath, 
 
 A phluirin na m-ban donn og !” 
 
 “ Would you only come with me to Leitrim county fair, 
 
 O, flower of all maidens young ! 
 
 On sugar and brown ale I’d sweetly feast you there, 
 
 O, flower, &c. 
 
 I’d shew you barks and ships you never saw before, 
 
 So stately and so gay, approaching to the shore, 
 
 And never should you sigh or sorrow any more, 
 
 O, flower, &G. 
 
 Take a blessing from my heart to the land of my birth, 
 And the fair Hills of Eire, 0 ! 
 
 And to all that yet survive of Eibhear’s tribe on earth, 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, 0 ! 
 
50 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 An Á1U nD ’nA|i b’A0il3inn binn-gnc é^n, 
 tnA^A f'Árh-c|\tiiu cAorn aj CAome jAODAb, 
 é mo cÁy a belt mite mibe 1 5-céin, 
 
 O bÁn-cnoic 0i|\eAnn O ! 
 
 iDiteAnn bÁ]i|i boj -pUm a|\ cAoin-cnoic 0i|AeAnn, 
 l 3 Án -cnoic 0 i]ieAnn O ! 
 
 Af -peApijA biA ’n uipi-fi Dít jac -["béibe Ann, 
 bÁn-cnoic 0ifeAnn, O ! 
 
 X)o ^b A|\D A coibbue Y péi^, 
 
 ’S A m-bbÁt mA|\ Aob Api iriAoibinn géig, 
 
 AcÁ 5 iAÁt) Ag mo cpoite a m'inncinn ]:éin, 
 
 "Oo bÁn-cnoic 0i]ieAnn O ! 
 
 AuÁ gA^nAt) bioniriApi ad-ci^a nA b-0i]ieAnn, 
 bAn-cnoic 0i|ieAnn O ! 
 
 ’S ]:eA]i-coin 5 ]ioit)e nÁ cbAoitpcAc c 6 adca, 
 A|\bÁn-cnoic 0 i]ieAnn O ! 
 
 TnYÁt-ctiip-pe cpioite! Y ctnrhne fgeAb, 
 
 1ad A 5 jAbb-poic poy pÁ 5 |\eim, mo beAn ! 
 
 ’S A m-bAibue da poinn pÁ ciop 50 DAop, 
 bÁn-cnoic 0ipeAnn O ! 
 
 If fAiffinj Y-^r CftiACA”^' nA b-0ifeAnn, 
 
 bÁn-cnoic 0ifeAnn O ! 
 
 * Cruachana h-Eireann, There are various hills in Ireland bearing 
 this name ; Cruach Phadruig, in Mayo ; Gruachan Bri Eile, in the King’s 
 County ; but the Cruachan the poet alludes to is a large hill in the parish 
 of Kilgobnet, county of Waterford, within four miles of the town of 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 57 
 
 In that land so delightful the wild thrush’s lay 
 
 Seems to pour a lament fortli for Eire’s decay — 
 
 Alas ! alas ! why pine I a thousand miles away 
 From the fair Hills of Eire, 0 ! 
 
 The soil is rich and soft — the air is mild and bland, 
 
 Of the fair Hills of Eire, O ! 
 
 Her barest rock is greener to me than this rude land — 
 
 O ! the fair Hills of Eire, O ! 
 
 Her woods are tall and straight, grove rising over grove ; 
 
 Trees flourish in her glens below, and on her heights above ; 
 
 O, in heart and in soul, I shall ever, ever love 
 The fair Hills of Eire, O ! 
 
 A noble tribe, moreover, are the now hapless Gael, 
 
 On the fair hills of Eire, 0 ! 
 
 A tribe in Battle’s hour unused to shrink or fail 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, 0 ! 
 
 For this is my lament in bitterness outpoured. 
 
 To see them slain or scattered by the Saxon sword. 
 
 Oh, woe of woes, to see a foreign spoiler horde 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, 0 ! 
 
 Broad and tall rise the Crnachs in the golden morning’s glow 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, O ! 
 
 Dungarvan ; on the summit of which there is a conical pile of stones 
 known among the natives as Suidhe Finn, or the seat of Fionn Mae 
 Cttmhail, of which we find the following account in a MS. of the 
 seventeenth century : — 
 
 ‘'And for the monuments from them (the Fenians) in this country 
 
58 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 A g-CtllD TneAÍA ’jtlf tJACUAip A5 jluAII'eACC riA 
 A]\ bÁn-cnoic CijAeAiin O ! 
 
 'RaCAD-'PA A]1 CtlA1]1C, no tUAC mo fAOgAt, 
 
 T)o’l1 UAtATTl min -pnAljlC DUaL do ^llAODAt, 
 
 *S 50 m’peA]A]A Liom ’nÁ dhai]", da tiAii'toAcc é, beic, 
 A|ibÁn-cnoic CijieAnn O ! 
 
 SjAipeAnn An Djiucc a|\ geAmAp ’p pÓAp Ann, 
 
 A]{ bÁn-cnoic 0 i|ieAnn O ! 
 
 ’S pÁj'AiD AbÍA cúbApcA A|\ géAjAib Ann, 
 
 A]\ bÁn-cnoic CipeAnn O ! 
 
 lOiDOAnn biobAp Y fAmAD Ann a n-^boAnncAib ceÓAi§, 
 'S nA ppoÚA pAn u-pAinpAD aj bAbAipc Him neóin, 
 tlipge nA Sitnpe * A5 bpncc nA ptójAiD, 
 
 Coip bÁn-cnoic GipeAnn O ! 
 
 anciently named, and still yet contynued, wee have from ffion 
 O’Baoisgne, Suidhe Finn, that is the sitting seate of ffion, vpon the 
 mountaine called Sliabh na m-han, Gleann Garraidh, in the barony of 
 Iffahy, so called from Garrae mac Mornae, and leahha Fhiermoda Vi 
 Fuiffne and Grayne, ymplying their bedding there together, at Polity- 
 leabayne, in the county of Vi ffiachragh Aidhne, now called the O’Sheagh- 
 nussy his country, which are but a few of many other monuments 
 from them named in divers other places of this kingdome.*’ 
 
 In the next line the poet alludes to the fertile district of Cumeragh 
 (properly Gom-Eathach, from Coin, nook, declivity, or opening between 
 two hills which meet at one extremity ; and Eathach, forts, which 
 abound in the locality), in the parish of Kilrosenty, and barony of 
 Middle third, where the cuckoo is heard earlier in spring than in any 
 other part of Ireland. 
 
 * Siuir, This river has its source in Sliabh Ailduin (the Devil’s Bit 
 Mountain, better known as Groin an Diabhail), in the county of Tip- 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 o9 
 
 O’er her smooth grass for ever sweet cream and honey flow 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, O ! 
 
 O, I long, I am pining, again to behold 
 
 The land that belongs to the brave Gael of old; 
 
 Far dearer to my heart than a gift of gems or gold 
 Are the fair Hills of Eire, 0 ! 
 
 The dew-drops lie bright ’mid the grass and yellow corn 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, O ! 
 
 The sweet-scented apples blusb redly in the morn 
 On tbe fair Hills of Eire, 0 ! 
 
 The water- cress and sorrel fill the vales below ; 
 
 The streamlets are hushed, till the evening breezes blow ; 
 While the waves of the Suir, noble river! ever flow 
 Near the fair Hills of Eire, 0 ! 
 
 perary. It takes a circuitous route by Thurles, Holy cross, Oahir, Ard- 
 Finan, Clonmel, Carrick-on-Suir, and Waterford; and, being joined 
 by the rivers NTore and Barrow (hence the appellation ‘‘ Sister Bivers”) 
 at Cheek Point, six miles below Waterford, falls into the British 
 Channel. Donnchadh Ruadh describes its waters in the following line: — 
 
 ** TIisge na Siuire ag Irrucht na Shloghaidh.* ** 
 
 “ The Waters of the Suir swelling into whirlpools.” 
 
 The scenery of these rivers recalls Spenser’s delightful lines : — 
 
 “ . . . . The gentle Shure that, in:tking way 
 By sweet Clonmell, adorns rich Waterford ; 
 
 The next, the stubborn Newre, whose waters grey 
 By fair Kilkenny and Rosseponte board ; 
 
 The third, the goodly Barrow, which doth hoard, 
 
 Great heaps of Salmon in his deep bosom. 
 
 All which long sundered, do at last accord, 
 
 To join in one, ere to the sea they come ; 
 
 So flowing all from one, all one at last become Í” 
 
 Faerie Queens, Book iv. Canto xi. 
 
60 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 ofguitceAc, -pÁiLceAC, An Áic pn 0 ipe, 
 lOÁn-cnoic 0i]\eAnn O! 
 
 loioeAnn Uo^ad ha SlÁmce” a in-bÁ]A|i nA X)é}ye, 
 A m-bÁn-cnoic 0i|ieAnn O ! 
 
 IOa binne biom nÁ inéApAib Ap c6a*oa b ceoit, 
 Seinnim Y jeimpeAb a Íao^, Y -<5^ rn-bó, 
 
 'UAiúmorh nA jiAéine opAA AopoA Y 05 , 
 
 A]a bÁn-cnoic 0i]AeAnn O ! 
 
 Although the Suh' and Kore flow from the same source, Sliabh Ailduin, 
 the Barrow rises in Sliabh Bladhma^ in the Queen’s County, which 
 Spenser makes as the parent of the three ; but we must presume that he 
 took Giraldus Cambrensis as authority, he being the only writer on 
 Irish history who fell into this sad mistake. — See Raliday^s Keating ^ p. 
 29. Dub. 1809. Cambrensis Eversusy vol. i., p. 123, edited for the 
 Celtic Society by the Rev. Matthew Kelly. Dublin. 1848. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 61 
 
 A fruitful clime is Eire’s, through valley, meadow, plain, 
 And the fair land of Eire, 0 ! 
 
 The very Bread of Life” is in the yellow grain 
 On the fair Hills of Eire, O ! 
 
 Far dearer unto me than the tones music yields. 
 
 Is the lowing of her kine and the calves in her fields 
 And the sunlight that shone long ago on the shields 
 Of the Gaels, on the fair Hills of Eire, 0 I 
 
62 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 UAi'L'L-c1itinili<M“o1i 114 1:6111116. 
 
 SeÁjAti Ha Uuattia, ccc 
 ponn — An CnouA'ó l3Án. 
 
 March 
 
 Time. 
 
 1Tlo inite c^AtiAg! mo biiAijAu! mo bpón ! 
 
 An |"5eimle iauaij a]a n-iiAifte A|a ^reot) ! 
 gAn flige, gAn fiiAgA, gAn rnAi^iciof, fogAc, 
 ^An tAoi-o, gAn x)tiAin, gdn cntiA]", jAn ceót ! 
 Af é t)o téig mo milleA'ó a 5-GAf, 
 
 A]^ é XDo ú]iAOc mo cui]'l,e a|i ]:a'0, 
 tlAi|"te 5<5 ^o‘óa'L — ]:Á C]niA*ó-'pmAcu geAji, 
 A5 cuAine An béA]\lA 'óuib a n-glAf ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 63 
 
 A LAMENT FOR THE FENIANS. 
 
 BY JOHN o’tUOMY. 
 
 Air — ‘‘ The White Cockade'* 
 
 The air to which this song is written is very much misunderstood, as 
 many persons suppose the White Cockade to mean a military cockade, 
 and with that view, doggrel rhymers have polluted the good taste of 
 the public by such low ribaldry as the following : — 
 
 “A Shaighdinir ! a Shaigbdinir ! a b-posfadh bean, 
 
 Le Heigh I no le Ho ! no le bualadh an drum !” 
 
 “ 0 soldier! 0 soldier ! would you take a wife. 
 
 With a heigh ! or a ho ! or a beat of the drum.” 
 
 The Cnotadh Ban (White Cockade) literally means a bouquet y or plume 
 of white ribbons, with which the young women of Munster adorn the hair 
 and head-dress on wedding, and other festive occasions. The custom 
 prevailed early in the seventeenth century, for we find a poet of that 
 period, ILuiris Mac Daibhi JDuibh Mac Gearailty addressing a young 
 woman in these beautiful words : — 
 
 “ A chailin donn deas an chnotadh bhain, 
 
 Do bhuair is mheall me le h-iomad gradh ; 
 
 Tar si liom ’s na dein me chradh, 
 
 Mar do thug me greann duit ’s dod’ chnotadh ban !'* 
 
 “ 0 brown-haired maiden of the plume so white, 
 
 I am sick and dying for thy love ; 
 
 Come then with me, and ease mv pain. 
 
 For I dearly love you, and your White Cockade.” 
 
 The Munster poets, who adhered with devoted loyalty to the cause of 
 the Stuarts, wrote many beautiful Jacobite songs to this air. 
 
 It makes my grief, my bitter woe, 
 
 To think how lie our nobles low, 
 
 Without sweet music, bards, or lays. 
 
 Without esteem, regard, or praise. 
 
 0, my peace of soul is fled, 
 
 I lie outstretched like one half dead, 
 
 To see our chieftains, old and young, 
 
 Thus trod by the churls of the dismal tongue ! 
 
64 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 'l)é ciopeAC RAID gAC pRAUAIA b]\0in, 
 
 5ac DAOH^fe cpuAig, jAc ciiRADUAri ifoy ] 
 
 5ac -pgéirhbe ^UAiji Á]a ri-iiAi]"te ]AeóifiAipri, 
 
 "Da UonCAD A §]111AD te DlÍA|ACAri DeÓ]\ 1 
 é Do téi^, ecc. 
 
 ITIa^a a m-bÍDeAc iia -pbtiAiJue, moi^-ftiocc CoJair,* 
 T)’Á]A CUlbe, Y D A]A DUAb AR RAIfbe A]A D-CÓl]" f 
 13a btl1DeArTriAA|A, buARAC, bUACAC, beÓDA, 
 
 SoibbfeAC, -pilAgAC, -pniiAD-jbAn, ■f'ÓjAC. 
 
 é DO béi 5 , ecc. 
 
 111a]a a m-bÍDeAc TIIac CúrhAib riA b-]:ioriri ói]a,J 
 'S AR biHDin riÁ]A DiiÁbuA cúiri|'e a ri-gbeó ; 
 
 Coibbue bAÁcfnAjA, bpiririeAc, beójAC, 
 
 TDac T)btiibne, Y "OúbbAirig, cr^arac cpeoiR. 
 
 é Do béi^, ecc. 
 
 /Ar 5A]aúac 5ot-b, ^RÍbeAC ^ro^Aib a]a úói]\, 
 
 ’S 0|"5R]A obb, DO ÍARR-bpif fbóig ; 
 
 CoRAbb CAbA]AÚAC, ÍORRCAlb, Ó 5 , 
 nío|A cbof DeAbb|AAC beó. 
 
 é DO béi 5 , ecc. 
 
 * Hoghan Mor, King of Munster, and ancestor to the Ui Fidhgheinte, 
 who possessed that portion of the county of Limerick lying west of the 
 river Maig, besides the barony of Coshma in the same county, and were 
 exempt from tribute, as being the seniors of the Eugenian line, having 
 descended from Daire Cearba, the grandfather of the great monarch, 
 Criomhthan Mor Mac Fidhaigh — See O' 'Flaherty' s Ogygia^ pp. 380, 381 ; 
 Book of Fights (published by the Celtic Society) pp. 63, 66, w, 67, n, 
 t Other copies read “ ar bordF 
 
 XMac Cumhail na hh-Jionn-fholt oir, Mac Cumhal of the golden locks 
 of hair. Fionn Mac Cumhail, commander-in-chief of the Irish militia, 
 of whom it is traditionally related, that his hair was of the colour of the 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 65 
 
 Oh ! who can well refrain from tears, 
 
 Who sees the hosts of a thousand years 
 Expelled from this their own green isle, 
 
 And bondsmen to the Base and Vile ? 
 
 O, my peace, &c. 
 
 Here dwelt the race of Eoghan of old, 
 
 The great, the proud, the strong, the bold, 
 The pure in speech, the bright in face. 
 
 The noblest House of the Fenian race ! 
 
 O, my peace, &c. 
 
 Here dwelt Mac Cumhal of the Flaxen Locks, 
 And his bands, the first in Battle’s shocks 3 
 Dubhlaing, Mac Duinn, of the smiting swords. 
 And Coillte, first of heroic lords. 
 
 0, my peace, <S:c. 
 
 The Goll, who forced all foes to yields 
 And Osgur, mighty on battle-field. 
 
 And Conall, too, who ne’er knew fear, 
 
 They, not the Stranger, then dwelt here. 
 
 O, my peace, &c. 
 
 finest gold, and in graceful curls covered his shoulders. Many of the 
 Irish peasantry take pride in these “golden locks.” Extravagant stories 
 are told of Fionn, as to his enormous size and strength ; but Dr. Keating 
 states, on the authority of ancient records, that “ Eionn did not exceed 
 the common proportion of the men of his time ; and that there were 
 many soldiers in the Irish militia that had a more robust constitution 
 of body.” See his History of Ireland, vol. i. p. 412, Dublin, 1809. 
 For an account of all the other Fenian heroes whose names are intro- 
 duced in the song, the reader is referred to Keating’s History. 
 
 E 
 
6G 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 A m-biDeAc -pbocc 111 Y móni, 
 
 TOa lioriiTiA|\, DAon-rhA|\, c|iAobAC, cói|i; 
 
 AOibinri 0i]\eArhóin, 
 
 An tlig fAY fiot-pAo uyieine c|ieóiTi. 
 
 é DO beig, ecc. 
 
 TnA|i A m-bibeAc TiiAÍb via n-DAO^A-bpAu f|\óibt, 
 
 Sar ^ígeACU -ptiAiiv ^éibbe upéirhpe a j-cpóinn ; 
 
 ■pi]! Cbyioibe* cpAocAC, cpéiú ^ac cpeóiri. 
 
 t>e cboiDeATTi gAc CAOiriiY^A|v céAD De’n z6^\^. 
 
 -df é DO béig, ecc. 
 
 An cAic-rhiteAD bpiAtif Do’ri pAriri-ptiib trióp, 
 
 IOA DACArhAlb, D1ADA, A tfllAR Y ctoD ; 
 l>e -peA-pcAib o T)biA ctig •piAgbA Y 
 cbtl1]1 T)AriA1]A IfA ClAC A-p lACAlb 0O5AIR. 
 
 Ay é DO beig, ecc. 
 
 dp é DO bioR mo cjAoiDe be b|iÓR, 
 
 gtjp AORCAID CpiopD A D-CIgeACC A J-cY^IRR , 
 
 11a béip ctjip b)iobbA lopA Ay cóip, 
 
 ’S RÁp géibb DÁ RAOirh, DÁ Dbíge, ’rá d’ó|\d ! 
 
 dp é Do béig, ecc. 
 
 * The Red Branch Knights were the chief military force of Ulster, 
 and resided at Eamhain (Emania), near Armagh, the palace of the Kings 
 of Ulster. They were highly celebrated during the first century for 
 their victories under their champions Cuchulaimi^zxA Conall Cearnach, 
 See Annals of the Four Masters. Book of Eights, published by the Celtic 
 Society, 1847, p. 249. 
 
 t Brian, surnamed Borumha, assumed the sovereignty of Ireland, a.d. 
 1002 ; and was killed at the Battle of Cluain Tairbh (Clontarf), on the 
 23rd of April, 1014. An account of the various tributes exacted by 
 Brian may be seen in the Leabhar pwi g-Ceart (Book of Bights). 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 67 
 
 Here dwelt the race of Eibhear and Ir, 
 
 The heroes of the dark blue spear, 
 
 The royal tribe of Heremon, too, 
 
 That King who fostered champions true. 
 
 O, my peace, &c. 
 
 And Niall^ the great, of the Silken gear, 
 
 For a season bore the sceptre here. 
 
 With the Eed Branch Knights, who felled the foe 
 As the lightning lays the oak-tree low ! 
 
 O, my peace, &c. 
 
 The warrior Brian, of the Fenian race. 
 
 In soul and shape all truth and grace, 
 
 Whose laws the Princes yet revere, 
 
 Who banished the Danes — he too dwelt here. 
 
 O, my peace, &c. 
 
 Alas I it has pierced mine inmost heart. 
 
 That Christ allowed our Crown to depart 
 To men who defile His Holy Word, 
 
 And scorn the Cross, the Church, the Lord ! 
 
 0, my peace, &c. 
 
 ♦Nial, surnamed Naoi n-Giallaidh ” (Of the Nine Hostages), 
 monarch of Ireland at the close of the fourth century, was one of the 
 most gallant of all the princes of the Ultonian race: He made several 
 descents on Britain, and it was against his incursions that some of those 
 successes were achieved by the Romans which ‘‘threw such lustre 
 round the military administration of Stilicho, and inspired the muse of 
 Claudiau, a Roman poet who flourished under Theodosius, a.d. 394.’* 
 
 Nial was killed, anno 406, during one of his invasions of Gaul, 
 
68 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 momin ni cVitiiitionnAin. 
 
 tl<\ UuAtnA, ccc. 
 
 yor)X] tij Cl3Uill)oi)4rn. 
 
 — i 
 
 h 
 
 í — i — R" 
 
 
 1 ^ 
 
 Tr 1 l?) 
 
 n 
 
 
 
 r \ r \ 1 r 1 
 
 i 
 
 
 ( 1 
 
 i ií 9 ^ 
 
 
 
 1 : 
 
 ^ 
 
 1 ^ 
 
 
 j bjagE 1/ t 
 
 i ; 
 
 Am AonA]i aj lAÓ'otngeAcc, 
 
 CiA -peót):ui*óe Am cuinrie iÁ? 
 
 Ac*o An 'ppéi|\beAn rhAipeAC móip-rhín, 
 Af Í tnóípín TIÍ Chtiii'LionnÁin ! 
 
 13 a péig, bA pAÚtriAp, pó-jpoi-óe, 
 
 13 a cói]a, cíopcA, cbif'oe, CÁ15 ; 
 
 A c]AAob-poibu CAp mAp ó\\ bui'óe, 
 
 11 A 'O-cóipi'ígib 50 upoitue Ag pÁp. 
 
OF MUNSTER™ 
 
 69 
 
 MOIRIN NI CHUILLIONAIN. 
 
 BY JOHN O’TUOMY. 
 
 Aik : — Moirin Ni ChuilennainP 
 
 Moerin Ni Chuillionain (Little Mary Cullenan) is one of those alle- 
 gorical names by which Ireland is known in Irish song, and which 
 became a favourite theme with our Munster poets. The Irish reader 
 wDl readily perceive that it is of that Jacobite class peculiar to the 
 middle of the last century ; for at that period the poets, excited to the 
 highest degree, gave vent to their deepest passions in order to rouse the 
 fallen spirit of the nation in behalf of the Stuart family. 
 
 This beautiful air approaches that of the “ Beinsin Zuachra ” (Little 
 Bench of Rushes) in plaintive tenderness of expression and melody, and 
 is known in various districts of the south by different names. In Water- 
 ford, for instance, the peasantry call it Moir in Ni Ghiobarlain^* (Little 
 Mary Giblin). In Tipperary, it is called “ The Bose-tree of Faddy* s 
 LandF In all the other southern counties the original name is still 
 preserved— as, indeed, it ought to be, for there^ is nothing so hateful as 
 calling our airs by strange names and after stranger incidents. 
 
 It must be played in moderate time— neither too slow nor too quick, 
 but rather mournfully, like most of the Jacobite airs. 
 
 One evening roaming lonely, 
 
 As pale twilight just began, 
 
 I met the fair, the only, 
 
 The bright Moirin Ni Chuillennain ! 
 
 The maid whom Eire blesses, 
 
 The dignified, the gay, the neat, 
 
 Whose brilliant golden tresses 
 Wave down o’er her waxen feet. 
 
70 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 IDa jté, bA geAb, bA gleoiDce i, 
 lo’óg b Y b’oibue Apt) ; 
 
 IOa peiTTi, bA f'bAcurriAp, peóiuA i, 
 
 IOa fnóg-rhín, bA fntngue pÁtii ; 
 
 IOa beApAC, bÍApoA, beóx)* 
 
 IOa beob-binn DAp binn An bÁb, 
 
 IOa rriAopDA, TiiAipeAC, Tnó]\*ÓA i, 
 
 b)A moDAiTiAib, mionbAD, miocAip, mnÁ’úib, 
 
 ^5 ueAcu pe ni’Aip Do'n 05 rnin, 
 
 'TIoip móiDÍjim jnp binne An bÁb 
 ’TIÁ éAnbAiú A5 CAnuAinn nócAibe, 
 
 A móp-coibb coip imiobb upÁjA; — 
 nÁ’n vé vo pppeA^Ac ceób-píú,* 
 
 Cbuip ceó DpAoibeAcc Ap tlipnigf bÁ, 
 
 'S Ap péApbAD ó neArh An u-peoio jpínn, 
 
 "Oo feóib CpíopD Ain coinne An u-ppÁio. 
 
 T)o pbéAcDAppeAb Do’n ó^-innAoi, 
 
 ’S bA bóic bínn nÁp rhipne a úpÁcD 
 T) péACAin cpéAD t)o peóib í, 
 
 jAn móp-bnibin dá coirmpc pbÁn, 
 
 An Aon CAp pbeApAib bócnA í, 
 
 X)o bpeÓDAij pnn be b-iorriAD gpÁ-ó ; 
 ílo cpeAt) An cpeib ^nA 5 -coTnntn^eA 
 A móp cpíocAib 1npi pÁib ? 
 
 * Coel-iith fairy music, 
 
 fThe death of the sons of Uisneach, in the first century of the 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 71 
 
 So pure, so fair, so blooming, 
 
 So mild, placid-souled and meek ; 
 
 So sweet and unassuming 
 
 A maiden ’twere in vain to seek ! 
 
 Her fair and radiant features. 
 
 Her tall form ’twas bliss to see — • 
 
 The noblest of God’s creatures. 
 
 The loveliest, the best is she ! 
 
 Her face, her brow of marble. 
 
 Breathed music, oh ! far more 
 Than lays the wild birds warble, 
 
 In greenwood glens anear the shore, 
 
 Or his whose fairy metre 
 
 Bewitched Uisnigh’s sons one day 
 More tender far, and sweeter 
 
 Were hers that Christ sent in my way. 
 
 I bowed before the Daughter 
 
 Of Light, Love, and Heavenly Song, 
 And asked her what had brought her 
 To us without a warrior- throng. 
 
 Had she come o’er the ocean 
 
 To melt our hearts and make us wail ? 
 Or owned she the devotion 
 Of Conn’s tribes of Inisfail ? 
 
 Christian era, formed the subject of one of the “Three Sorrows of 
 Story-telling*’ (Tri Truagh na Sgealuigheachta), Set Transactiotis of th$ 
 Gaelic Society^ Dublin. IS 08. 
 
72 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 
 1]" iné*oo feAiic a 5-córhntii*óe, 
 
 CiA luL-bAOif Anoif DO cpÁcc ; 
 
 Om’ ÚAOib Y Ó Lacc mo nÚAÓ-cíoc, 
 
 Uhig CójAn 5 ]ioi*óe Y 5^6 cinoAo ]:eA]i]A: — ■ 
 Sbocu tléitt, Y Y ^ó|A-ChuiTiti, 
 
 ’S pó]A ITlhíteAD mle ^Y^f ; 
 
 Le h-éAD DO rhA]AbAiD beó pnn, 
 
 Ag -pcpopuigeACC A]A mi|Ae ACÁim ! 
 
 An c’Aon d’a|\ ceA|\c be cói|i pnn, 
 
 A5 DeoiAtiigeAcc Amtnc a|\ ]:Án ; 
 
 ’S me DAm’ -ppACAD A5 -pcpoinp^ib, 
 
 "Oo beón pr.n 50 h-tnbe An cÁ]" ! 
 
 An pémicf-^"tAiú do pó]\ g^oiDOAb, 
 
 Hi mó|\ DÍb A Ctl|l Ap pÁjAib, 
 be pAobA]i-neApu ]:]ia|'ad ]:ói|iníbe, 
 
 50 ]:ó|i|"ni5eAc 50 D-C151D Am bÁib. 
 
 ’UÁ céADUA Ag UeACD DAITl ÚÓ|AU1 jOACC, 
 
 O cói|"cÍ5ib nA c]iiiinne bÁn ; — 
 
 Le íi-Aon Do’n c)Aeib ní jeAbAb mé, 
 
 ’S ní bÁmcAOi A cu\\ Am pÁipc; — 
 
 An péinneAC peAjAp cbób Y 
 
 X)’ Áp uni-pmib Ap ]:tii]nnn >6DAim, 
 txéijpD A|i upí cYoi^nibe, 
 
 be trióipín Tlí ChtnbtionnÁin ! 
 
 o- 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 73 
 
 ** O ! I’m thy Fondest-hearted,” 
 
 She said, though now beneath a ban ; 
 From me in days departed 
 
 Sprang Eoghan and each noble clan, 
 
 The sons of Con the glorious. 
 
 And Neill and Art, who filled the throne, 
 Though now the foe, victorious, 
 
 Thus makes me pine so lorn and lone. 
 
 Our Prince and true Commander 
 Is now, too, an exile far. 
 
 Alas ! we both must wander 
 
 Until the avenging Day of War ; 
 
 But through what distant regions 
 I know not, till the Gaels shall come 
 And with their victor legions 
 
 Lead him and me in triumph home. 
 
 ‘‘ Crowds throng to seek and find me — 
 
 Of lovers I have many, in truth, 
 
 But none of all shall bind me 
 
 In Wedlock’s bands but one brave Youth. 
 A Hero bold and portly 
 
 As ever graced the name of Man 
 Will share Three Crowns full shortly 
 With his Moirin Ni Chuillennain.” 
 
9 > 
 
 74 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 ctusie tiA li-eigse. 
 
 SeÁ5<Mi Ua UiiATTiA, ecu. 
 
 A ctufte n<\ h-éigfe eipig yuAy ? 
 
 a n-éA5-c|\uic mé jAn |"UAn, 
 
 5 An *011 me fAn u-fAogAÍ 
 ^5 inpne if5éAL, 
 
 A\^ ci^AUf An ue ’uÁ ’g-céin a|i cnAi|\c, 
 
 'S G-i^ve mo cpoi-oe ’cÁ m’lncinn o|\cl 
 
 'Oo Vaiuo tiom -púx) óm’ np-jAf 05, f 
 5eA|A]\A*ó b|\úc’ nA m-bup 50 -peóp ; 
 
 ]:a*oa me A5 -pnib 
 50 b-]:eicpnn a 5nni|\, 
 
 Aw pAp|\Ai|ie púncAc, ponn, a 5-c' |AÓinn. 
 
 ’S 0i]ie mo c|ioi*óe, ecc. 
 
 CopjAtng 50 béip A n-ei|:eAcc *otiAn, 
 
 A\ 'peinni'ó-p '0|\éAcc X)o nA ftiAg ; 
 
 Sin cn^Aib An u-Aon 
 Le 'pniponn "oon ^éinn, 
 
 ’S A]" 'pcnijimeAC c|iéAn t)o 'óéAn^rAf buAijic. 
 
 ’S 0ipe mo epome, ecc. 
 
 beautiful invocation — “ Pulse of the bards, awaken !” 
 •’ffhas oy, JFresh young branch, Charles Edward Stuart. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 75 
 
 SPIRIT OF SONG, 
 
 BY JOHN O’tUOMY. 
 
 O, Spirit of Song, awake ! arise ! 
 
 For thee I pine by night and by day ; 
 
 With none to cheer me, or hear my sighs 
 For the fate of him who is far away. 
 
 O, Eire, my soul, what a woe is thine ! 
 
 That glorious youth of a kingly race. 
 
 Whose arm is strong to hew tyrants down 
 How long shall it be ere I see his face, 
 
 How long shall it be ere he wins the Crown ? 
 0, Eire, my soul, &c. 
 
 Why, Bards, arise ye not, each and all ; 
 
 Why sing ye not strains in warlike style ? 
 
 He comes with his heroes, to disenthral 
 By the might of the sword, our long-chained isle I 
 O, Eire, my soul, &c. 
 
76 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 'UÁ pibb Y SéAmuf glé, Y ^ 
 
 ’S tiA tligue be céite a uéACC te buAt), 
 UiocpAio 50 béi|\ 
 
 >d b-^puinniorh Y ^ b-]:AobAp, 
 
 ’S An Innif je^b Cibje -fieigpo cuAn. 
 
 0i]Ae mo c|Aoi*óe, ecc. 
 
 l3ppp*o Y jAAobiTAiD, — ‘oeAnjTAi'o iniAig, 
 bptiiuini]'5 bAoiu An béA]AbA*ó duaiivc; 
 Ctii|\p'o nA 5<5^oi*óeib 
 ’tlA n-ionnADAib -péin, 
 
 Sin mife be m’ |iAe Y ftiAp 
 
 ’S 0i]\e, mo cpoióe, euc. 
 
 t)A binne biom pjo a |\i 3 n Y 
 4An gboine 50 b-n|i da DingA a]a bópo ; 
 CtnDiocuA fngAc, 
 
 Tnbtii|i|i’neAc, rhnince, 
 
 'S 50 m-b|nfceA|v An ceAnn nÁ cógAn^Ac beó ! 
 ^S 0i]ie mo c]ioi*óe, ecc. 
 
 A Tnbunie nA llAorh ! nAc ao|iac, -ptiAiiic, 
 
 An bjupo -peo céAcc a|i l3béi|\ An nAbAip ; 
 biAD ^rtnponn De'n Chbéi]i 
 A5 -peinnim nAD-UéAD,t 
 ’S 5AC bibe Do^n éigfe aj DéAnArh DHAn. 
 
 6i|ie mo c|AOi*óe, euc. 
 
 * PiUb agus Seamus, Philip Y. of Spain, and James Francis Stuart, 
 whom the native Irish recognized as King James III. 
 t D^Fead, i, e,, Te Deum. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 77 
 
 Kings Philip and James, and their marshalled hosts, 
 A brilliant phalanx, a dazzling band, 
 
 Will sail full soon for our noble coasts, 
 
 And reach in power Inis Eilge's strand, 
 
 0, Eire, my soul, &c. 
 
 They will drive afar to the surging sea 
 The sullen tribe of the dreary tongue 
 
 The Gaels again shall be rich and free ; 
 
 The praise of the Bards shall be loudly sung ! 
 
 0, Eire, my soul, &c. 
 
 O, dear to my heart is the thought of that day 1 
 When it dawns we will quaff the beaded ale ; 
 
 We’ll pass it in pleasure, merry and gay, 
 
 And drink shame to all sneakers out of our pale 
 O, Eire, my soul, &c. 
 
 0, Mother of Saints, to thee be the praise 
 Of the downfal that waits the Saxon throng ; 
 
 The priests shall assemble and chant sweet lays, 
 And each bard and lyrist shall echo the song ! 
 
 O, Eire, my soul, &c. 
 
 * The old Irish detested the language of the stranger ; they would not, 
 they said, “writhe their mouths with clattering English,” which they 
 considered a senseless jargon. — Stanihurst'*s Description of Ir eland ^ 1586, 
 p. 13, and De Reb. in Hib, Gest.y 1584. 
 
78 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 ol- 
 
 Tor)r) 
 
 Moderate 
 
 Time, 
 
 A > 
 
 •oAri slieAgliAin m uhtiAiriA. 
 
 -Se4ii Bl)e4t) Cbltjot) 4t) 'l)ji4T)'n4)i7. 
 
 
 V- ■ „■)> B-A 
 
 
 \ 1 
 
 /ÍL ^ 
 
 f* r 1 
 
 r r # 
 
 m " 
 
 
 
 u.t -- • 
 
 
 VM>^ 4 ® 
 
 1 — I 
 
 — w 
 
 
 A ^ 
 
 > > 
 
 
 zu. ^ ©n r^r 
 
 
 w ^ P» ^ 
 
 1 
 
 *TT—prT iPT 
 
 
 
 —i. 1 1 ^ t M 1^ 
 
 
 gz. i. a a L- 
 
 __Z 1 
 
 
 
 d 
 
 > 
 
 
 > I ®-1^i 
 
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 U 
 
 • * A* 
 
 ns 
 
 I ^ i i_ 1 
 
 iT «r 
 
 
 d 1 r I 
 
 • I 
 
 I 'X ; ^ #11 
 
 
 * 11 
 
 — 1 
 
 
 
 -n • • ^ » • ei 
 
 ■ La ■"■ 
 
 \J 1 i 
 
 
 r> rn rpm - 
 
 * CE rm rr ^ 
 
 ' J ^ n 11- 
 
 UTS i ■ 
 
 1_ 
 
 É ^ 'i^zk : 
 
 \M7 LiL 1 ■ ^ 
 
 A ^ 
 
 
 >- 
 
 I "T 
 
 _ 1/ * 
 
 ! L r • • 
 
 
 
 
 i — ¥~~r“ 
 
 itr\ i ^ i • 
 
 1_ 
 
 
 l_J 1 u 
 
 Af *0111110 tné 'óíoÍAi' tiiin tÁ, 
 
 ciii|iiof mo btiióiíi cum jiAU-gÁif, 
 TTluriA m-beiDOAt) ArhÁin Duirie 
 
 Am CUIDOACCA Diobf AD, 
 
 If mife bei*óeA*6 pof teif ah Am-cfÁic. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 79 
 
 O’TUOMY’S DUINKING SONG. 
 
 Air: — ‘‘ The Growling Woman,^^ 
 
 The song which we lay before our readers was written by O’Tuomy 
 amid those festive scenes for which his house was remarkable ; and a 
 reply to it, by the witty Mangaire Sugachy will be found on the next 
 page. 
 
 This pleasing air, though quite common in Munster, has, we believe, 
 escaped the notice of Bunting. Like Moirin Ni Chuillionain, the poets 
 made it a general theme for their effusions, some of which are in our collec- 
 tion, and rank high among the Jacobite class peculiar to the middle of 
 the last century. The circumstance which gave rise to this air is rather 
 singular. 
 
 A peasant who had the misfortune to be yoked “ for better for worse” 
 to a scolding wife, who never gave him a moment’s peace, composed a 
 song to which the air owes its name. The first stanza runs thus ; — . 
 
 ** A shean-bhean chrion an drantain, 
 
 Ni bhion tu choidhche acht a cam-rann, 
 
 Leath-phunt tobac do chur ann do phiopa, 
 
 Ni chuirfeach ad chroidhe-si aon t-solas.’* 
 
 ** O, you withered, growling old woman. 
 
 You never will cease scolding ; 
 
 A half pound of tobacco to smoke in your pipe, 
 
 Would not make your heart merry or joyful !” 
 
 T sell the best brandy and sherry. 
 
 To make my good customers merry ; 
 But, at times their finances 
 Run short, as it chances, 
 
 And then I feel very sad, very ! 
 
80 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 UAOf5Ai‘ó bú|i n-DÓicin De’n m-b|\AnDÁn, 
 bhúp n-*oeoc<x nÁ uorhAfAió be b<xn \Ám ;* 
 
 UÁ ’ 5 <^tn|'Af 5 ibbin 5 , 
 be beigion -p-An b-pon n-jbAn, 
 
 ’S Af feApii lonÁ 'n bui'óin biDeAf Ag D|iAnuÁn. 
 
 *00 b’Aic biom-pA ceótuA ’riA D-uiompAn, 
 
 T)o b’Aic biom|"A -ppójic Ajtip bpAiiOAn ; 
 
 T)o b Aiu biompA An ^bome 
 TnuppAinn DÁ bíonAó, 
 cnioeAcuA fAoiúe gAn ifieAbjAAn. 
 
 Aiúpip eóÍAip nA peAn-oÁtfi, 
 
 CApbAf, ób, Ajtip AbpÁn ; 
 
 'PuifAion An jbocAip, 
 
 ^5 iimpu nA bAoice, 
 
 Súo mAp *00 5]AÍ*óin-pi jac íon-cbÁp. 
 
 pReASRA'o'h Airi*oRiAis míiic craiuIi. 
 
 SbeÁgAn Ha UbnAmA. 
 
 "Conn : — ‘^SeAn-beAn CbjAÍon An lOpAncÁin.” 
 
 ^y Dtnne uti DiobAp tiún bÁ, 
 binpinn gAn bpíg bpAnoÁn ; 
 
 ’S CUipeAf DO CtHDlOCCA, 
 
 Ap inpeApbA'ó ctnrhne, 
 
 ’S An-incinn bíonuA do rheAbpÁn ! 
 
 ♦ Ban4amhy Handle ; a measure two feet long used at country fairs by 
 dealers in frieze, flannel, &c. 
 
OF MUNSTEK. 
 
 SV 
 
 Here’s brandy ! Come, fill up your tumbler, 
 Or ale, if your liking be humbler. 
 
 And, while you’ve a shilling, 
 
 Keep filling and swilling, 
 
 A fig for the growls of the grumbler ! 
 
 I like, when I’m quite at my leisure, 
 
 Mirth, music, and all sorts of pleasure. 
 When Margery’s bringing 
 The glass, I like singing 
 With bards — if they drink within measure 
 
 Libation I pour on libation, 
 
 I sing the past fame of our nation 
 For valour- won glory, 
 
 For song and for story, 
 
 This, this is my grand recreation ! 
 
 ANDREW MAGRATH’S REPLY TO JOHN 
 O’TUOMY. 
 
 Aib — “ The Growling Old Woman'* 
 
 0, Tuomy ! you boast yourself handy 
 At selling good ale and bright brandy. 
 
 But the fact is your liquor 
 Makes every one sicker, 
 
 I tell you that, I, your friend Andy. 
 
 F 
 
62 
 
 THE POETS AND POKTRY 
 
 'oeiifiin a 50 
 
 go mime DO btiiDin Le i'teAm’nÁn ; 
 
 ’S go g-ctii]Ai]A gAC n-Dtiine, 
 gioDAm cum bAOi]"e, 
 
 Y fCAri*CA|AD ! 
 
 llVt binrieAf ad bAoice, — ua’d f'eArjDÁm, 
 ’S Tií mibif DA|\ Uriri do fujAAricÁin, 
 loíou 10 m AD DO cui-pe 
 13o gboiue, gAn Uotiad, 
 
 ’S D’uifge DA Dpibe ad -pcADcÁn ! 
 
 lOuipUD DÁ DÍob mA|V blÚD iÁ, 
 
 ’S iriuppAinD DÁ bíODAD ’dA gADD-CAIJir, 
 Tlí -pubcrhA]! do’d ^ui|iiomi, 
 
 Sib]"e DÁ ÍDpnc, 
 
 go |\U1Ú1D bpígpu CUm |lAD-gA1f ! 
 
 1f mmic Do bíoDUif bom-cÁi|ic, 
 
 ’S cui|U]" -pÁ mAOib í be cúbA]i-Án ; 
 
 "Oo cui]up puue 
 gAD cumAr A|\ fuige, 
 
 HÁ imceAcc fAn u-i'bíge gAU ceAU-uÁD ! 
 
 ClA mÚ|\]"ADCA ftl 1 g 1 |l A g-CeADD cbÁl|A, 
 
 'S DO CUIjipeAD UÚ pof gAC gADD CÁ1]AC ; 
 THuda m-beiDeAD fgibbiug ; 
 
 Ag DUme DO DÍobfAD, 
 
 Cunip]A DO buiDiíi cum )"c|aad- cÁin ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 83 
 
 Again, you affect to be witty, 
 
 And your customers — more is the pity — 
 Give in to your folly, 
 
 While you, when you’re jolly. 
 
 Troll forth some ridiculous ditty. 
 
 But your poems and pints, by your favour, 
 Are alike wholly wanting in flavour, 
 Because it’s your pleasure. 
 
 You give us short measure, 
 
 And your ale has a ditch-water savour ! 
 
 Vile swash do you sell us for porter, 
 
 And you draw the cask shorter and shorter ; 
 Your guests, then, disdaining 
 To think of complaining, 
 
 Go tipple in some other quarter. 
 
 Very oft in your scant overfrothing, 
 
 Tin quarts we found little or nothing; 
 
 They could very ill follow 
 The road, who would swallow 
 Such stuff* for the inner man’s clothing ! 
 
 You sit gaily enough at the table, 
 
 But in spite of your mirth you are able 
 To chalk down each tankard, 
 
 And if a man drank hard 
 On tick — oh ! we’d have such a Babel ! 
 
THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 50 rioji A 5 lú 5 -cÁit, 
 
 A 5-coirine 5^6 Aon t)a n-gAbAn f|AÁi*o ; 
 gtoirie rriA ctigAiii, 
 
 'Oo 'ótiine jAn *oiot; 
 
 Sah tn-bilte bei*ó fíof Aip ah Am-cpÁic! 
 
 Ap imceAcc A pif An 'oeAtfiAn cÁipu, 
 
 X)o geAbAi'o gAn *0101, no geAÍb'CÁn ; 
 
 Af ctitnA*ó cÁ h-ionAt) 
 
 A ptllúpx), CA *015 
 
 lonA 'o-utncp'o pÁ cpi lonA bÁfh’cÁn I 
 
 Ip é cbinnnim Ap *óíp *oe *0’ cAm-ceÁpx), 
 
 50 mibbi*o An cip be pbeAtn'nÁn 
 Sbibipí'óe An 13poici*o, 
 
 pb)-pi 50 n-’oíobpA'ó, 
 
 Ap glome no cpi, bnp g-com-pAn ! 
 
 Cuipbe mo cpome nA pedn-OAim, 
 
 TIÍ b-ionAnn \ lAoice Y tneAng SbeÁgAin ! 
 tritippAipe bin be, 
 
 UÁ Ap mipe 'oÁpipib ; 
 
 'S A bpinnnib gnp bíoncA'ó t)’p©< 5 kbb-pÁn ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 85 
 
 You bow to the floor’s very level, 
 
 When customers enter to revel, 
 
 But if one in shy raiment 
 Tak*is drink without payment, 
 
 You score it against the poor devil. 
 
 When quitting your house rather heady, 
 
 They’ll get nought without more of “ the ready.” 
 You leave them to stumble 
 And stagger and tumble 
 Into dykes, as folk will when unsteady. 
 
 Two vintners late went about killing 
 Men’s fame by their vile Jack-and-Gilling ; , 
 Now, Tuomy, I tell you 
 I know very well you 
 Would, too, sell us all for a shilling. 
 
 The Old Bards never vainly shall woo me, 
 
 But your tricks and your capers, O’Tuomy, 
 
 Have nought in them winning — 
 
 You jest and keep grinning. 
 
 But your thoughts are all guileful and gloomy ! 
 
 o- 
 
86 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 AY\ cnoicin piiAoich. 
 
 ■ponn ; — ?in Cijojcji? "pnAoK. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 87 
 
 THE LITTLE HEATHY HILL. 
 
 This delightful air is a great favourite in Munster ; and the Cnoicin 
 Fraoich which formed the theme of the bardic muse must be some 
 romantic hill situate in Cork or Kerry. We subjoin the first stanza of 
 the original song, with our own literal translation ; and we would feel 
 obliged to any of our Munster friends for a perfect copy : — 
 
 “ Js TO-bhreagJi an tarn e air theacTit mi na Bealtaine^ 
 Aigfeachaint a nun air mo Chnoicin Fruoich ; 
 
 *S grian-gheal an t-samhraidh aig cur teas is na geamhartha, 
 
 *S duilleahhar glas na g-crann a fas le gnaoi ; 
 
 Bion lacha ann, bion bardal — hion banamh aig an g-crain ann, 
 Bioii searrach aig an lair ann ’s leanbh aig an mnaoi; 
 
 Bion bradan geat ag snamh ann, san breae aig eirghidhe *nairde 
 *San te do bheidheach air phone bais ann d'eirgheodhach arts /’* 
 
 “ What joyful times ! merry May is approaching, 
 
 I will gaze over on my little heathy hill ; 
 
 The summer sun is warming the fields and the com, 
 
 And the foliage on the trees looks blooming and green ; 
 There the mallard and the wild duck sport and play together. 
 The steed and its rider, the mother and her babe ; 
 
 The spekled trout and salmon springing in its waters. 
 
 And the sick that is dying, health there will find,** 
 
88 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Ar\ blieiuh. 
 
 SeÁ5<3^n Ua UuAmA, ccc. 
 
 Tom eiitioi]t) J. 
 
 -Am Aice C 01 ]" tDÁig, ’cÁ’n tfiAnLA'ó béAfAc itiín, 
 
 If 'oeife uAf itinÁib, ’f Af Aluinn fpéif eAifiuit í ; 
 
 A CAfnfotc rÁcÍAc, bfeÁg-'oeAf, *oféimfíoc biii*óe, 
 guf b’ifi mo 5 fÁ'ó UAf mnÁib, ’bé’n 0ife í ! 
 
 i 
 
OF MONSTER. 
 
 89 
 
 THE MAIDEN. 
 
 BY JOHN o’tUOMY. 
 
 Thb subject of tbis song was a young woman who kept an inn on the 
 banks of the Maig, in the county of Limerick. There is also another 
 song to the same air by Eoghan Ruadh O’Sullivan, of Sliabh Luachradh, 
 in Kerry, beginning — 
 
 **San Mainistir la a d Ugh tahhaime am aonar Ihios, 
 *S heath-uisge at clar am lathairfein gan suim; 
 
 Do dhearcasa hah thais, mhanladh, mJiaordha, mhin, 
 *Na ttammh go Hath san t-sraid cois tudhh an tight. 
 
 “ In Fermoy, one day, in an ale-house I chanced to be, 
 And before me on the table plenty of wines were laid ; 
 I beheld a babe, soft, comely, mild and meek. 
 
 Standing most feeble in the street close by the house.** 
 
 A maiden dwells near me by Maig, mild, meek to see, 
 A beauty transcending all speech, all thought, is she; 
 Her golden hair floweth like waves along the sea, 
 
 O ! she is my love and my light, whoe’er she be. 
 
90 
 
 THE POETS AND POETEY 
 
 An pneASRA'o'h Aiti An m-beiuti, 
 
 An Tn<\n5<M|ie Sújacíi, ccc. 
 ponn : — An bhéiú 6i|ie 1 ” 
 
 Sgtnii I'eApoA T)o*o’ plÁ]", nÁ u]iÁcc 50 h-éAj a píj', 
 
 A|i u-Ain^iji C01]" tDÁig, cé ÁLtiin fpéi]ieArhAiL 1 ; 
 
 Ap peApAC nÁp cÁptAi'ó a-o 'óÁil-pi An béic *00 pi-oim, 
 
 An bAp|i-ponn-UAip btÁic *00 5pÁ*óAp, ’bé’n Cipe, í ! 
 
 "UÁ A CApn-pobu cÁpnAc, ceÁppAc, cpAobAc, cptnnn, 
 
 A peApfA tube ’uÁ jAn cÁnn, jAn UAom, ^An ceírínol; 
 Tlbb TtiAiúeAp be pÁgAib, ní’b cÁib nÁ méinn a mnAOi, 
 TIac peApAC pAn m-bÁb *00 5pÁ*0Ap, bé’n 0 ipeí ! 
 
 Cé pA*OA be pÁn me, Y 5^P cÁ]AbAi*ó Am péic jAn cjiíc! 
 
 jAn Aiuiof, ^An pÁjAib, jAn Aip-o, ^An pgéiTh, gAn gnAoi ; 
 
 ’tlA b-peACA-o X)e trinÁib níop úáúai*ó pAojAX) Am cbí, 
 Jnp ceAngbAp pÁipc be m’ jpAb, ^bé’n Gipe! 
 
 Cé pA*OA be pÁn me, ’p jtip úÁpbA*ó óm’ céibb Ap bAOip 
 be cAicmom 'oo’n m-bÁin-cneip rhAnbAb, TfiAop*ÓA, mín 
 ní pgAppAX) 50 bpÁú béi “ b)bÁc nA péibe,'’ ip í 
 ’UÁ m'Aice coip tTlÁij, ip í jpA-OAp, bé’n 0 ipe í ! 
 
 ^btiAipij A cAtpx)e, be jAp-OAp jbéApuAp píb, 
 buAibig An cbÁp, Y CPÁ5A15 50 b-éAp5A*ó píon ; 
 SuACAig An cÁipu be b-AbAcu, 'p gbAO-ÓAig A pípi 
 IpAe cuAipim pbÁinue nA mnÁ, bé’n 0 ipe í ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 91 
 
 A REPLY TO THE MAIDEN. 
 
 BY THE MANGAIRE SUGACH. 
 
 Aie : — “ The Maid Eire is She,** 
 
 Have done with your praises ! palm not such style on me, 
 Your maiden may be, if you please, gay, mild, and free — 
 But she whom I love it was ne’er your lot to see, 
 
 The beautiful girl of my heart, whoe’er she be ! 
 
 0 1 only to gaze on her locks, that reach the knee— 
 
 Her loveliest figure, that speaks her high degree. 
 
 Nought brilliant or noble hath e’er been met by me, 
 
 To match her illustrious worth, whoe’er she be I 
 
 Long, long has my lot been as that of a blighted tree 
 For Fortune and I, to my woe, could ne’er agree, 
 
 But I never till now in my life was made to dree 
 Such pangs as my darling hath caused me, whoe’er she be I 
 
 Long, long, from one spot to another, in pain I flee — 
 
 For love of this fair one I rove o’er land and sea. 
 
 The Flower and Queen of all maids in sooth is she. 
 
 Who dwells by the meadowy Maig, whoe’er she be ! 
 
 Then strike up the music, my friends — dull churls are we 
 If we drain not the goblet of wine right merrilie ! 
 
 Red cup after cup will we quaff — and this be our plea, 
 That we drink to the Maid of the Maig, whoe’er she be I 
 
92 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 lem-ntJAuliAti whiggiona. 
 
 An triAngAipe SújAch, ccc. 
 
 TPoi)T) PUi^CAiT) Peint)i 5 . 
 
 zd:. b • y -- t • ■i- -rn ii— 
 
 /ITT? 1 ' ^ 1 i 
 
 » ^ » r • j II : 
 
 
 • _J V # J II 
 
 42 q 
 
 JJ -■ ^ ‘ 
 
 
 A bite *oe’n -ptii|iionn nAc gAnn, 
 
 13 a cti]\ACA An Am jac cttiiuce-nei|ic: 
 PÁ ctii5ueA]A *00 tfii]"neAC 50 -pAnn, 
 
 'S AgOlpieACC t)tlic CAbAl|\ Y CUl'OeACCA, 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 93 
 
 A WHACK AT THE WHIGS. 
 
 BY THE MANGAIRE SUGACH. 
 
 Air : — Leather the WigT 
 
 The reader has to thank the Whigs for this soul-stirring air, which was 
 || never before printed. From the time of the Revolution, this party seems 
 to have been an object of hatred and contempt to the native Irish. The 
 following chorus must be sung after each stanza ; — 
 
 Will you come plankum, plankum, 
 
 Will you come plankum, perriwig ; 
 
 Will you come plankum, leather, and plankum, 
 
 Will you come plankum, perriwig. 
 
 The words “ plankum perriwig ” mean to thrash with all your might 
 the Wig, which in Irish is synonymous with Whig. 
 
 The Jacobite poets of Scotland joined their Irish brethren in reviling 
 the Whigs. The following verses are part of a popular song to one of 
 the most ancient Scotch airs in existence 
 
 j •• Awa, Whigs, awa, awa, Whigs, awa, 
 
 Ye’re but a pack o’ traitor loons, 
 
 I Ye’ll ne’er do good at a’. 
 
 Our thistles flourished fresh and fair, 
 
 And bonny bloom’d our roses ; 
 
 But Whigs came like a frost in June, 
 
 And withered a’ our posies. 
 
 Our sad decay in kirk and state 
 Surpasses my descriving ; 
 
 The Whigs came o’er us for a curse, 
 
 And we hae done wi thriving. 
 
 A foreign Whiggish loon brought seeds, 
 
 In Scottish yird to cover ; 
 
 But we’ll pu’ a’ his dibbled leeks, 
 
 And pack him to Hanover.** 
 
 0, heroes of ancient renown ! 
 
 Good tidings we gladly bring to you — 
 
 Let not your high courage sink down, 
 
 For Eire has friends to cling to you. 
 
94 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Ag COI'gAlllU A riATTlAD 
 Le -puinniotTi jac c]AobAHAe cineA*ó-Scoic; 
 S 5 ]Aiof]:ATv A|" Innif jac 
 
 ’S Af pnn A beiDOAf ueAnn riA b-ponnA-l 3 h]\oi 5 , 
 DeA^lbcA A D-CjAeAl^Alb ATI D]AeAm, 
 
 50 caLtha, cAbA]AUAc, coin^TTiiDueAc ; 
 
 go tonnArhA|i, loTinAiADA, *101111, 
 
 PeAlVDA, -pOgtAC, |?UiriillOTflAC. 
 
 bei*© eAfbAi|\u go ]:Ai|Apin5 le ponn, 
 
 A m-l3AnbA, Y ^^gA iÁ *pbeib ID 111)16 I 
 belt) “pfAibm tiA mAjib ’’ a D-UeArhAip, 
 
 T)a CAnriAo Y S^n beAnn Api tTHiinipoip,* 
 
 bei*ó btiipne o IDboipie go beAniAin, 
 
 ’S Ail piii|Aionn-pA ceATin, Y ceine beó; 
 
 tlmcpt) gAC muppAipe peArriAp, 
 
 ’S ni coimipic do bong, nÁ buimneAc !f 
 
 Sin é cngAib pibib cAp -ppinibb, 
 
 An bibe nAc di3|a pAn n-itnipiop ; 
 go g-cinpiD gAC mii|ipAip\e Ap biic, 
 pÁ beAnnAib a -puipce Ag Lucifer ! 
 
 * Pitfc, the Prime Minister of England. 
 
 tThis is an allusion to the siege of Limerick in 1690, when that 
 to wn, although in an almost untenable condition, was held by 10,000 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 95 
 
 Those insolent Sassenach bands, 
 
 Shall hold their white mansions transiently, 
 Ours shall again be those lands, 
 
 Long tilled by our fathers anciently! 
 
 We’ll muster our clans, and their lords. 
 
 And with energy great and thunderous. 
 With lances, and axes, and swords. 
 
 We’ll trample the Saxon under us I 
 
 We’ll have vespers, as always our wont, 
 
 And sweet hymns chanted melodiously ; 
 ’Twill go very hard if we don’t 
 Make the Minister look most odiously I 
 
 We’ll have bonfires from Derry to Lene, 
 
 And the foe shall in flames lie weltering — • 
 All Limerick hasn’t a green 
 
 Nor a ship that shall give them sheltering. 
 
 See Philip comes over the wave ! 
 
 O I Eire deserves abuse, if her 
 Bold heroes, and patriots brave 
 
 Don’t now drive their foes to Lucifer ! 
 
 Iiishmen against 38,500 of the finest troops in the world — ^Dutch, 
 Huguenots, Danish, German, and British veterans, under William III. — 
 Se6 O' Callaghan* s Green Book, p. 114, Dub. 1844, 
 
96 
 
 THE POETS AND POETEY 
 
 ^ cumAinri riA 5-cumAnri jtAc ^orin, 
 
 17151*0 o'Áp 5-cAbAi|i le iiine-goiL; 
 
 -A5 u|ieA-p5Ai|ic 5AC -peAn-poc peAtfiAp, 
 
 'S bAinpom-riA a meAbAip Ap cuio acaI 
 
 ’UÁ piiipionri riÁ ctuppeAp Ap 5-cúb, 
 
 A5 Dptiioim be ciurhAip riA SionriAinTie ; 
 nuAip ciocpAf An ptnpionn 5AP A^Ainn, 
 
 Ip oeirhin 50 b-plAnc-pAtn Whiggiona ! 
 
 l3ei*ó An 5pACAin da d-cacca‘ó bé cnúic 
 l3ei*ó bAp5A, ’5tip bpúc , ^5tip bpipeAÓ oppA; 
 
 5^ 5-cAcpAiD nA D-cpiúp, 
 tluAip AbAinpeAp Áp b-ppíonpA cbtncce ApDAl 
 
 A5 cAipDiob nA rriApA be ponn, 
 
 ’UÁ CApobnp cngAinn ’p a cuiDeAccA; 
 UÁ Neptune A5 p5AipeA*ó nA D-conn, 
 
 ’S ní pcAopAiD An pógA 50 b-1nip-boipcI 
 
 bei*ó Mars a D-uopAc An cpnip, 
 
 An pAppAipe pionn 50 ptnnniorfiAc ; 
 
 11 Í cAppAiD 50 beA5pAiD An opeArh, 
 
 ’S Ap DeApb 50 b-pbAnncAm cuibbe ’ca ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 97 
 
 Up ! arm now, young men, for our isle ! 
 
 We have here at hand the whole crew of ’em ! 
 Let us charge them in haste and in style, 
 
 And we’ll dash out the brains of a few of ’em. 
 
 A tribe who can laugh at the jail. 
 
 Have found on the banks of the Shannon aid — • 
 0 ! how the Blue Whigs will grow pale, 
 
 When they hear our Limerick cannonade 1 
 
 O ! pity the vagabonds’ case ! 
 
 We’ll slaughter, and crush, and batter them — - 
 They’ll die of affright in the chase. 
 
 When our valorous Prince shall scatter them I 
 
 Coming over the ocean to-day 
 Is Charles, the hero dear to us — 
 
 His troops will not loiter or stay, 
 
 Till to Inis Loire they come here to us I 
 
 Our camp is protected by Mars, 
 
 And the mighty Fionn of the olden time, 
 These will prosper our troops in the wars, 
 
 And bring back to our isle the golden time! 
 
 G 
 
98 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 l3ei'ó teAgAD, geAiAjiAo, h]\út\ 
 
 beio -pgAipeAX), ’jup p^AunpAO, p iJipeApbA*ó; 
 
 DÁ 5-CAICIOIÍI jAn CAbAip, 
 
 HuAip gpeADpAp An PpAnncAC * ueine teó ! 
 
 TIÁp CAlbtlOD-pA AlflApC mo pub, 
 
 ’S nÁp La^aid mo bnc be poippeAcc ; 
 
 50 b-peiceAD-pA An jpACAin-pi a b-ponc, 
 
 ’S An peAn-poc OAbbt gAn ^lobbA Aige! 
 
 * The frequent allusions to France and Spain throughout these 
 popular songs were the result of the dreadful treatment experienced by 
 the native Irish during the early part of the eighteenth century. 
 Oppressed by penal enactments which proscribed the religion, property, 
 and education of three- fourths of the inhabitants of the island, the old 
 Irish longed for an appeal to arms, and earnestly desired the co-opera- 
 tion of their expatriated kinsmen, whose military achievements in 
 t-ireign countries had won the admiration of Europe. 
 
 It is now impossible to calculate what might have been the result 
 if some of the Irish military commanders on the Continent had organized 
 a descent on the coast of Munster while the native population were still 
 labouring under the dreadful penal code. 
 
 t An sean-phoc dall, the old blind bucTc-goat^ i. e., George III., who 
 became imbecile at the close of his life. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 99 
 
 Our cowardly foes will drop dead, 
 
 When the French only point their guns on *em— 
 And Famine, and Slaughter, and Dread, 
 
 Will together come down at once on ’em ! 
 
 0, my two eyes might part with their fire, ^ 
 And palsying Age set my chin astir, 
 
 Could I once see those Whigs in the mire, 
 
 And the blind old goat without Minister ! 
 
100 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 -An biitAuti-bViRUinniott. 
 
 Ari niAri 5 Ai]te Sú^Ach, ccc. 
 1Por)ti : — C4il)ri Í)e4r Cttúl'ó'ce t) 4 n)-B(5. 
 
 CB— 
 
 t-n- 
 
 
 r/r\ 1 r « j 
 
 - “tL» * ■ ■ — 
 
 
 a 
 
 — 
 
 
 
 Í ’n "blÁé fejiuinpott, btAr-trubj', béAfAC, 
 l3libÁc-rhioc.<M|i, béA'LcAHA, Ttio*6ATTit;jit ; 
 te X)Á bíÁú-c|Auic x>o cé^f me, 
 
 ^So 'o’fÁg mé gAti qAéirie, 5411 c|ieoi]i ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 101 
 
 THE FLOWER OF ALL MAIDENS. 
 
 BY THE MANGAIRE SUGACH. 
 
 Am : — ** Pretty Girl milking the CoxcsP 
 
 Wi cannot trace the authorship of this delightful air, but such of our 
 readers as have traversed the sunny South ” of a May morning, may 
 have heard it sung by the peasant’s daughter, in the milking bawn, or 
 at the cottager’s hearth of a winter’s evening. The words are by the 
 witty Andrew Magrath, sumamed the Mangaire Stcgach, 
 
 The following stanzas are the “ Ceangal ” (“ Binding ” or Summing^ 
 1^”) to the song — We present an unversified translation : — 
 
 “ A Chmnainn na g-Cumann, mo Chmnann 's mo Rogha tu isfeas. 
 
 Mo Chnmann gach Cumann ba Chumann le Togha na m-ban 
 Is Cumann do Chumann, a Chumainn gan cham, gan chleas, 
 
 Mo Chumann do Chumann a Chumainn, ’s gabhaim-si leat. 
 
 ** My Love of all Loves, my Love and my Choice you are. 
 
 My Love surpassing all Love— the Love and the choice of maids 
 Your Love is a Love, my Love, without guile or stain. 
 
 My Love is thy Love, my Love ; and I take your hand.” . 
 
 0, flower of all maidens for beauty, 
 
 Fair-bosomed, and rose-lipped, and meek, 
 My heart is your slave and your booty. 
 
 And droops, overpowered and weak. 
 
102 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 UÁ A btÁÚ-'potu 50 btÁC-Cltlb A|A OAob-OAIC, 
 If bbÁc-fntii*óue a bo-Aob-c]\ob, jar ymot, 
 If bbÁú-útngfeAc f AiDue ra béice, 
 
 'S Af bbÁú AR uibe geAg di 50 f eóf ! 
 
 A 5fÁ*Ó 51b DO 5f AD-fA UAf béice, 
 
 ’S DO 5fÁDfA1RR DÁ m’félDlf, RÍ f Rió; 
 
 T)o 5fÁDAf UR A 5fÁD 51b TRO cbéib-fi, 
 t^e 5fÁD Dib dod’ rhéiRR 'f dod’ cbó 
 O gfÁDAf CR A 5fÁD 51b be jéAf-feAf c, 
 
 T)o 5fÁD-fA RÍ féARfAD be TTl’ bó ; 
 
 X )0 5 fÁD-f A Y 5 fÁD-fA, TRÁ fAobcAf, 
 
 5 ar 5fÁD ceAfc A5 AOR ReAcjo Deo! 
 
 A fÚR Dlb! mo fÚR CR 50 r’óajad, 
 
 THo f ÚR-f A be m’ fAe cti, Y fróf ! 
 
 'S gUf bélgiof ÍRO fÚR beAC CAf AOIR-beAR, 
 THo fÚR uú Y céibe be m’ bó : — 
 
 A fÚR Dlb RA fÚR 5-CeAfC, RÍ bélgpOD 
 trio fÚR, CRI5, be AOR beAR AD Deólg, 
 
 X)0 fÚR-fA Y RÍO fRR-fA mÁ fgélDCeAf, 
 
 5 aR f ÚR CeAfC Ag AOR ReAC 50 Deó ! 
 
 A CUmAIRR RA 5-CtimARR, RA cféigmé, 
 
 'S 50 b-ftiibim A R-éA5-cfUic ad Deoig ; 
 gtlf CtítnARR DO CRTRARR RÁ CfélJpOD, 
 A CUmAIRR, 50 D-célgeAD-f A fÁ^R b-fÓD ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 103 
 
 Your clustering raven-black tresses 
 Curl richly and glossily round — 
 
 Blest he who shall win your caresses, 
 
 Sweet Blossom all down to the ground ! 
 
 I have loved you, oh mildest and fairest, 
 
 With love that could scarce be more warm — 
 I have loved you, oh brightest and rarest. 
 
 Not less for your mind than your form. 
 
 IVe adored you since ever I met you, 
 
 O, Bose without briar or stain, 
 
 And if e’er I forsake or forget you 
 Let Love be ne’er trusted again ! 
 
 My bright one you are till I perish, 
 
 O, might I but call you my wife ! 
 
 My Treasure, my Bliss, whom I’ll cherish 
 With love to the close of my life ! 
 
 My secrets shall rest in your bosom. 
 
 And yours in my heart shall remain, 
 And if e’er they be told, 0 sweet Blossom, 
 May none be e’er whispered again ! 
 
 Oh ! loveliest ! do not desert me ! 
 
 My earliest love was for you — 
 
 And if thousands of woes should begirt me, 
 To you would I prove myself true ! 
 
104 
 
 lúE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 O cujAf Dtiic cturiAnn \ jeite, 
 
 1Tlo cuTTiAnn-'pAA féAriAt) ni cói]i, 
 
 ’S mo cumAnn a cumAinri, mÁ c|iéi5i|i, 
 ^Ati ctimATin A5 Aon beAn do oeó ! 
 
 A cA]iAi*ó riA g-CAi^AD be céile, 
 
 T)o CA|\Af be -pAoiA-geAn a|a D-cúif ; 
 
 THo CA|VA1D A cA-fiAiD DO c|iéi5pn, 
 
 ’S DO 'flACAiriD A 5-céin beAC DA D-DOOIJ ! 
 ni CA]1A1D DAm CA^IAD CA^IAD, DA célb-pODD, 
 Acd CA|iAb DA béice-p Am b^ieój’, 
 
 ’S mo CAjlAD-fA A CA|\A1D, DIA 
 
 5AD CAjAAID Ag AOD boAD 5O DOÓ ! 
 
 A ADD]"ACU DA D-ADD]"ACU DO céAf mé, 
 
 oe h-ADD]"ACD dod’ -pgéim Y dod’ cbo ; 
 IDidoac do pogA Yad mo f Amuib-p mAp céibe, 
 
 nó DDDpA 5AD bÓApA, J^AD ppópc ; 
 
 A ADDfACC DÁ pADDCAlg-p bAOcbAC, 
 nÁpCÚmpAD DA péigpioc DO bpÓD ; 
 tn’ ADDpACC-pA A ADDpX^CC, mÁ Cpélgip, 
 
 5 aD ADDfACC DÁ pAO ’gA'O AID beoig ! 
 
 A pcóip bib! mo pcóp-pA CAp aod cd, 
 mo pcóp ZÚ 50 D-éAgpAD DAp D-DÓIC ; 
 Ip r^óp mé A pcÓip-blb, ^AD CpéADA, 
 
 ’S gup DÓíc beó jup péic me jad pÓD ; 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 105 
 
 Through my life you have been my consoler, 
 My comforter — never in vain, — 
 
 Had you failed to extinguish my dolor, 
 
 I should never have languished in pain ! 
 
 0 fond one ! I pine in dejection ; 
 
 My bosom is pierced to the core — 
 Deny me not, love, your affection. 
 
 And mine shall be yours evermore. 
 
 As I chose you from even the beginning, 
 Look not on my love with disdain ; 
 
 If you slight me as hardly worth winning, 
 May maid ne’er again have a swain ! 
 
 0, you who have robbed me of Pleasure, 
 
 Will you, with your mind and your charms. 
 Scorn one who has wit without measure, 
 
 And take a mere dolt to your arms ? 
 
 Your beauty, O, damsel, believe me. 
 
 Is not for a clown to adore — 
 
 0 ! if you desert or deceive me, 
 
 May lover ne’er bow to you more ! 
 
 Yours am I, my loveliest, wholly — 
 
 0 heed not the Blind and the Base, 
 Who say that because of my folly 
 I’ll never have wealth, luck, or grace. 
 
106 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 tleioeAD i'cóii Ag Am -pcopAC, rii bAogAL x>^, 
 lOeiDCAD bó-bACC JAR bAO*0ACA|', Y ipoy, 
 ^ -pconi-Dit ! DO -|x0|AAc, mÁ cpéi5i|i, 
 
 f cop AC DA pAO Deoig ! 
 
 pASutugliim An mhAn^^iRe shtis^ig, 
 
 PoRR: “Ar beiRpÍR buACpAD.’'^ 
 
 A CApAID cbRm’uib DÍ05]\Aip, 
 
 A fAOl gbAIR ve pcoc RA R-DAITR ; 
 trio boACAD CRgAD DO pgpibim, 
 
 tio ^R Die toAC mé beic mAp 'cÁim; — 
 
 5 ac AiRgip boAp ’rap cuibe born, 
 
 A ciiirhDeAcc be m’ Aip, be pÁipc, 
 
 Hi JbACAC pi, pApAoip me ! 
 
 Uar cib me jar pcoc, jar pcÁic. 
 
 CiA jeAbbAim-pi do’r btiibiR-pi, 
 
 Si§ibe Ajup tTliippAiRR bbÁic ; 
 
 SCAip DO P5PRDA, Y bAOice 
 
 T)0 pUlgeACAR TRAP Olbiobb fAIg ! 
 
 CbeApAb buc 50 biorhcAb, 
 
 ’S 5AC Rib eibe piApAc mRAib ; 
 
 Ip peAp gup DlÚbCAb ip DÍob DAm, 
 
 ’tlRAip CÍD mé JAR CUID, JAR CAIR ! 
 
 This beautiful air will be found at p. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 107 
 
 How much the poor creatures mistake me I 
 ril yet have green acres and gold ; 
 
 But, O, if you coldly forsake me ! 
 
 Ill soon be laid under the mould ! 
 
 THE MANGAIEE SUGACffS PASTIME. 
 
 Air — ‘‘ Little Bench of Bushes'^ 
 
 My upright and my noble friend, 
 
 My pure son of the Bardic Pace, 
 
 To you I unveil my life : oh bend 
 Your eyes in pity on my case ! 
 
 Save from the old and ugly now 
 I meet, alas ! with no regard ; 
 
 No gay and fair young maid will vow 
 Her heart away to a cashless bard I 
 
 In vain I seek to win my way 
 
 With Sighile* and each blooming one — - 
 
 My merry tale, my gladsome lay 
 Fall on their ears as rain on stone. 
 
 Mine eyes are bright ; I am lithe of limb — • 
 I think myself a dashing blade ; 
 
 But all still look askance on him 
 The bard, without a stock-in-trade ! 
 
 Sighile, pronounced Sheela. 
 
108 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 CacaI vú]\ rtiAC ShioTnoin, 
 
 A Shigile! ’noif ctug An cÁf ? 
 jAib p cngAD rriAC ‘P'hei'ó'Lim, 
 
 ’S mÁ5Aipoi|v nA fsoiLe ]?Á5 i 
 |?eA|A|A DUinne Uadj beAj. 
 tlÁ f5Ain-p De’n fruit if fCAff ; 
 jAn fAic, jAn ctij, jAn oigfeAcc, 
 
 ^cc Af cuitt fiArh juf ftoig nA bfAgAit)! 
 
 A]\ gtAc mo jtAic DO fgAoitpn, 
 
 XjB h-AOibneAf jac cojin cfÁgAim ! 
 
 Jac beAn do gAb Am tioncAD, 
 
 T)o cAOinpn 50 ftiuc Am DÁin. 
 
 JaC DAltc 50 pfAf nAC fUfioCfAD 
 t^e fin-DAif A cofp DO cneArfiAin, 
 Af ItlAngAife Aic be bAOip me, 
 
 CiA ptiD gup b’otc mo cAit ! 
 
 -Aicfipm Do’n m-buibin-p, 
 
 CiA Die teó mo Dut ’ua b-pÁipc 
 Af CACAfAD gup DÍotAf, 
 
 Le b-AoibneAf, Y 50 b-puitim ptÁn. 
 Jup V AicniD DAm nA milce, 
 
 50 cnAOice nÁ b-ibeAc cÁipc, 
 
 'S An HlAngAipe aic nAC cince, 
 tiA f5Ain-pi 50 b-iomtÁn. 
 
OF MUNSTEK. 
 
 109 
 
 And Cathal* Mac-Simon says, — the ass ! 
 
 Come, Sighile,f now ! you have some sense—» 
 
 Mac Phelim is your man, my lass ! 
 
 That pedagogue has no pretence ! 
 
 Wed some industrious youth, who shows 
 He profits by the lore he learns, 
 
 And scout the bard in finest clothes. 
 
 Whose throat engulphs whatever he earns I 
 
 Well! true : — my brain was oft a-whirl 
 From whiskey — or, perhaps, the moon ! 
 
 And if I met a pleasant girl, 
 
 I didn’t like to leave her soon. 
 
 And if I gave her face a slap 
 
 Whene’er she frown’d, what harm the while ? 
 
 Fori ’m a jovial pedlar chap, 
 
 Though some suppose me full of guile I 
 
 Some good folks, whom I don’t much thank. 
 Look down on me — but what of that ? 
 
 I always paid for what I drank — 
 
 And gave, and still give, tit for tat. 
 
 I have known a many a screw, and dust. 
 
 That wouldn’t buy one drop of drink ; 
 
 The Jolly Pedlar surely must 
 
 Be better than such sneaks, I think ! 
 
 ♦ Pronounced Cahal (Charles). f Sighile^ pronounced Sheela, 
 
110 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 TDo biAUit) ! mo *01115 ! mo fsiof-gtiipcl 
 tTIo 'p5eimte, mo goin, mo gÁó ! 
 
 ITlo iou DO ioif5 mo cti ’riAm, 
 
 A\\ fAoice Y ^ 'pl'iocu A|A pÁn ! 
 
 Jati cion, 5An ctno, 5An oigpeACC, 
 gAn ^ei*óim-ceA]ic, 5An coújiAm -pcAir, 
 ’S Uiniic, Y 13 iii]ac, Y ^Aoice, 
 
 50 bniDionrhAii, Y l3oDAcÁin.'^ 
 
 tieAtuAn chitt-chAinmcli. 
 
 >do'óA5Án “Ua llACAibbe, ccr. 
 
 AuÁi'o éif5 Aji nA A5 teimiiiD 50 búcmAji, 
 
 UÁ ’n c-0ctip]" 5 All piuncA]! A5 imceAcc ; 
 
 UÁ phoebup A5 mup5Aibc Y c-éAp5A 50 ciuingbAn, 
 A\ éAnbAic nA 00150 50 poicirh. 
 
 ^UÁiD p5Aoc-beAc’ A5 cúi]ibin5 A]i5éA5Aib if úfSÍAf, 
 UÁ féAf A5iif Dfúcc Af Án mnigib ; 
 
 Of céibe Do’n m-bfúnAC f í, HéAbuAn no TnútfiAn, 
 
 "S 5AO‘ÓAb 5Af Do’n T)iiiic o Cbibb-ChAinnic. 
 
 * Turicy *s Duirc, ’í Daoithe, *s Bodachain, 
 
 Turks, Churls, Dunces, and Clowns. 
 
 By these epithets the poet designates the Williamite settlers who 
 obtained the estates and titles of the Irish Jacobites, after the latter 
 sailed for France in 1691. 
 
 t This song was written in commemoration of the nuptials of Valen- 
 tine Browne, third Viscount Kenmare, who married in 1720, Honoria, 
 
01? MUNSTER. 
 
 Ill 
 
 But oh ! my wound, my woe, my grief, 
 
 It is not for myself or mine — 
 
 My pain, my pang without relief, 
 
 Is nothing how our nobles pine ! 
 
 Alas for them, and not for me ! 
 
 They wander without wealth or fame. 
 While clowns and churls of a low degree 
 Usurp their gold, their lands, their name ! 
 
 THE STAB OF KILKENNY. 
 
 BY EGAN o’RAHILLY. 
 
 The fish -in the streamlets are leaping and springing, 
 All clouds for a time have rolled over ; 
 
 The bright sun is shining; the sweet birds are singing. 
 And joy lights the brow of the lover. 
 
 The gay bees are swarming, so golden and many, 
 
 And with corn are our meadows embrowned. 
 
 Since she, the fair niece of the Duke of Kilkenny, 
 
 Is wedded to Browne, the renown'd. 
 
 daughter of Thomas Butler, of Kilcash, in the county of Tipperary, and 
 great grand-niece of James, first Duke of Ormond, 
 
112 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 UÁ bio^AD Ann gAc cÁrn-ÍAg, f St^oioe-cnoic 50 Iaidiji, 
 *S An n-^eiTTuno ag biÁc a]i jac bibe ; 
 
 Cibb CbAi|' Ó cAi^bAiD, 1 5-ctiibpeAc 50 jpAorriAii, 
 l^e tlig Cbibbe h-Aipne Á|v g-CnpAO ; 
 nVb éAjcóijA DÁ btiAó 'gtnnn, cÁ ^taouad 'ge c]AtiA*ÓAib. 
 O’n f5§Ab nnAó fA btiAocA]! be DjAtnngib ; 
 péA|\bA Ó5 mnÁ UAifbe (a t)be Dib CAbAip bnAO di), 
 -An cpAob cnbpA ip nAifbe a 5-Cíbb ChAinníc. 
 
 UÁ’n Tlío5-f*bAic nA gÁpoAib, Ap ífbib ’p ÁpDAib, 
 
 ’S nA míbce x>Á pAibuin^AD be mtnpinn ; 
 
 Ua n cAoioe 50 b-Á*óbA]iAC, Y coibb jbAp Ag pÁ]" inn, 
 jnAOi ueAcc Ap DÁncAib gAn mibbeAD : — 
 
 UÁ1D ctiAnuAt) bA gnÁcAc pAoi biiAn-pcoipm gjAÁnA, 
 
 50 fUAiThneAc o úÁpbAit) An pnuiDmeA*ó, 
 
 CÁ cniiApcA]A A|v úpÁig’gtiinn, nAc btiAp^An An c-pÁibe, 
 TluACAin, Y t)Ái|\nic, Y 'Oibbiof5. 
 
 CÁm HAii^be Cbibb-Aipne 50 piiAi|ic A5 ób pbÁince, 
 
 ’S bnAn-bioú nA bAnÁrnAnn a g-curriAnn ; 
 
 UÁ1D puAn-poipu Y 'oÁncA dá m-buAbAD Ap cbÁipng, 
 ptiAn-popc Ap ÁibbeAcu, Y binneACC, 
 
 CÁ cbAOcboD Ap C]AnA1*Ó-Cei]"C Y C-AOn cóip A5 bllA'Ó'' 
 cAnn, 
 
 UÁ gné-nÚAD Ap 5]AtiA*óAib gAc n-ouine, 
 
 CÁ’n ppéip Tfio]A Ap puAimenc, Y V^V 5^ puAitfinioó 
 
 5o^n CAOc-ceó, gAn DUApuAn, gAn oAibbe. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 113 
 
 The hills are all green that of late looked so blighted ; 
 
 Men laugh who for long lay in trouble, 
 
 For Kilcash is, thank Heaven, in friendship united 
 With Browne of Killarney, our Noble ! 
 
 Our poor have grown rich — none are wronged or o'er-laden. 
 The serf and the slave least of any, 
 
 Since she came among us, this noble young maiden, 
 
 The Kose and the Star of Kilkenny ! 
 
 Her Lord, the proud Prince, gives to all his protection, 
 But most to the Poor and the Stranger, 
 
 And all the land round pays him back with affection— r 
 As now they may do without Danger ! 
 
 The ocean is calm, and the greenwoods are blooming, 
 As bards of antiquity sung us. 
 
 And not even one sable cloud seems a-looming. 
 
 Since he we so love came among us ! 
 
 The Lords of Killarney, who know what the wrongful 
 Effects of misrule are, quaff healths to the pair — 
 
 And the mnistrels, delighted, breathe out their deep 
 songful 
 
 Emotions each hour in some ever-new air. 
 
 The sun and the moon day and night keep a-shining; 
 
 New hopes appear born in the bosoms of men, 
 
 And the ancient despair and the olden repining 
 Are gone, to return to us never again. 
 
 B 
 
114 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 infill Oil 111 sTie^RAiLu. 
 
 AotiAjAn Wa txAUAiLLe, ccc. 
 ponn : — '^Uonn ]\e CaLaic.’^ 
 
 A péA|\tA jAn p^AiriAt, *00 'Leip-cuip mé a 5-CAÚAib, 
 
 01^*0 tiom t^An peApg 50 n-inpiox) tno fjeót! 
 
 5 tip pAobpAC »00 CA 1 C 1 f 5 A 0 ÚA*Ó ’glip 'OA]ACA, 
 
 U|ié m' c|iáACCA*ó ’riA 5-ceAÚAib, t)o itieítt voé jaii 
 
 cpeoip ! 
 
 ^An biAéAjriA'ó *00 pAcpAinn 'óo’n Ogipc ^Ap caíaiú, 
 
 ’S 50 1i-0ipe ní ÚAppAinn coi*óce *OAm’ 'óeoin ; 
 
 A]\ upéArjrhuip, Ap uaLaiti, a n-jéibiorin, a n-Aiuiop, 
 
 Tlíop téAii tiom A he^t pApAu coip 1n]"e, 5An pcóp! 
 
 CJAAobAC Y CApOA, \ 'OpéimpiOC Y *OÍACAC, 
 
 1p niATripAc Y teAbAip, — a 'oLaoici inAp 6 \\ ! 
 
 1]" péAptAC A 'oeApcA — rriAp péAÍCAn riA mAit)rie, 
 
 ^y caoL ceApu a itiaLa rriAp f5píob pínn a 5‘ctó*ó ; 
 Sgéitfi-cpuiú A teACAin aoLt)a rriAp pneAccA, 
 
 50 íi-AopAc A5 cApniAipc cpe tonnpA'ó An póip ; 
 
 Uug phoebnp ^nA pAÚAib, — uAp béicib At) c-ArhApc, 
 
 ’S U"éAt)An Ap ÍApAt) le 'oíogpAip t)0'o’ cló*ó ! 
 
 Sl.éige'L A mAiriA, — triAp géipib coip caIaic, 
 
 A h-Aobcopp TTiAp pneAcuA ip pAoileAnt)A pnóg; 
 tlí péit)ip A mAiciof t)o téip-cuip a b-ppACAinn, 
 
 CAorh-'Lib cneApoA, Y tnin-pgoic nA n-05. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 116 
 
 THE GERALDINE’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 BY EGAN O’RAHILLY. 
 
 Air : — Sea and Shore** 
 
 A Beauty all stainless, a pearl of a maiden, 
 
 Has plunged me in trouble, and wounded my heart: 
 
 With sorrow and gloom are my soul overladen ; 
 
 An anguish is there, that will never depart. 
 
 I could voyage to Egypt across the deep water, 
 
 Nor care about bidding dear Eire farewell, 
 
 So I only might gaze on the Geraldine’s Daughter, 
 
 And sit by her side in some pleasant green dell. 
 
 Her curling locks wave round her figure of lightness. 
 
 All dazzling and long, like the purest of gold ; 
 
 Her blue eyes resemble twin stars in their brightness, 
 
 And her brow is like marble or wax to behold ! 
 
 The radiance of Heaven illumines her features, 
 
 Where the Snows and the Rose have erected their 
 throne ; 
 
 It would seem that the sun had forgotten all creatures 
 To shine on the Geraldine’s Daughter alone ! 
 
 Her bosom is swan-white, her waist smooth and slender. 
 Her speech is like music, so sweet and so free ; 
 
 The feelings that glow in her noble heart lend her 
 A mien and a majesty lovely to see. 
 
THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 116 
 
 If cfoí*óeAf5 rriAf bAlfAm, a oéiD-geA'L jar Aicif, 
 
 *00 f AOf f A*ó o gAlAf miLue dair’ f Of c ; 
 
 SAOf-gtlC A UeARjA LélglOririCA jar fCAfUAO, 
 
 bheif cféAR-ptiic CAf beARRAib be TRilfeAcc a gbóf I 
 
 píiéiRicf t)’fuib gheAf Aibc, — SfeA^Aig ar caIaic, 
 Séirh-fiúf cbARRA TTIileAD ra fbog; 
 t^AOCf A*Ó JAR UAIfe, Cf AOCCAD be ^AbbAlb, 
 
 Jar cféiRe, jar CAbArh, jar fio j-bf uj, jar fcóp ! 
 
 Jar bféAj roc jtjf fS^jAi j a b-pAOf ai j ^ a m-bAff ai j ,♦ 
 UféAR-COIR bhtlRf Alce Cfio-f A f AOl *00, 
 lli’b f AOf-fbAlC RÁ Of AJAR DO pfélltl cbAIRRO CllAlflb, 
 Jar JAO*ÓAb f1f AR AIRJIf rhÍ0RbA*Ó JAR fmób. 
 
 tii beif ‘ÓAm A fAlRRlb 1 R-01fe ’ra a SAJfAR, 
 
 A R-éipOCC, A b-peAffA, a R-IRcbeACC Y A J-cbÓD. 
 
 Ar béic cbifoe ip peAfp a cpeice, ’jup ueApoAp, 
 tlÁ Helen be’p cAibbeA*ó Riibce pAR R-jbeó ! 
 
 TIi’b AOIR-peAf RAbeAÚA'Ó D’péACAC Af IRAIDIR, 
 
 Ha b-eADAR jar itiAip j, ra pjéiúpioc a bpÓR, 
 
 ITIo jéibioR ! RIO *GeACAif ! rí péADAim a peACAin, 
 
 Upe Ri’ RÓAbAib ARi AipbiR j oí*óce, RÁ bó ! 
 
 * Paoraig agus Barraig^ Powers and Barrys, two ancient and respect- 
 able families in the counties of Waterford and Cork respectively. 
 
 The Powers are descended from “Rogerus Pauperus’* (Roger le 
 Pauvre, or Poer), Marshal to Henry 11. , from whom, in 1177, he 
 obtained a grant of Waterford, the city itself and the cantred of the 
 Ostmen alone excepted. So early as the fifteenth century the descen- 
 dants of Le Poer renounced the English legislature, and embraced the 
 Brehon law and Irish customs. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 117 
 
 Her lips, red as berries, but riper than any, 
 
 Would kiss away even a sorrow like mine. 
 
 No wonder such heroes and noblemen many 
 
 Should cross the blue ocean to kneel at her shrine ! 
 
 Sbe is sprung from the Geraldine race — the great Grecians, 
 Niece of Mileadh’s sons of the Valorous Bands, 
 
 Those heroes, the sons of the olden Phenicians, 
 
 Though now trodden down, without fame, without lands! 
 
 Of her ancestors flourished the Barrys and Powers, 
 
 To the Lords of Bunratty she too is allied ; 
 
 And not a proud noble near Cashel’s high towers 
 But is kin to this maiden — the Geraldine’s Pride ! 
 
 Of Saxon or Gael there are none to excel in 
 Her wisdom, her features, her figure, this fair ; 
 
 In all she surpasses the far-famous Helen, 
 
 Whose beauty drove thousands to death and despair. 
 
 Whoe’er could but gaze on her aspect so noble 
 Would feel from thenceforward all anguish depart. 
 
 Yet for me His, alas ! my worst woe and my trouble. 
 
 That her image will always abide in my heart ! 
 
 The male race of the Powers, Viscounts Decies and Earls of Tyrone, 
 became extinct by the death of Earl James in 1704. His only daughter. 
 Lady Catherine Poer, married Sir Marcus Beresford, Bart.* who was 
 created Lord Viscount Tyrone by George II. 
 
 The Barrys are descended from Robert Barry, who came over in 
 1169 with Eitz-Stephen. 
 
118 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 AW seAn-t)tiirie seomse.^ 
 
 An u-AcAiyi tliUiAiTfi Ingbf, cca 
 
 l^^no-^oiATj t)o f 5 |\eA*OAn An ]^eAn-*onine Seoiji]"e, 
 
 O X)1iiA ! CÁ |\ACAm ? nW AjAtn Hanover ; 
 
 ’HÁ ipoy Hesse Cassel, ’nA bAite beAg corngAi]!, 
 tlÁ 1^0*0 mo feAn-AriiAc, uÁit) Aijncce, 'oóigce ! 
 
 ^ * This beajitifiil air, of which we give our readers two different set- 
 tings, is a great favourite in Scotland, where it is known under the name 
 of “ The Campbells are Coming.” It owes its birth to the Man ffaire 
 Sugach (seep. 24 ). 
 
 This song which we now present is the only one we have met to this 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 119 
 
 GEORGEY THE DOTARD. 
 
 BY THE BEY. WILLIAM ENGLISH. 
 
 Alas for old Georgey — the tool of a faction ! 
 
 “ God ! what shall I do V' he exclaims in distraction. 
 
 Not one ray of hope from Hanover flashes — : 
 
 The lands of my fathers lie spoiled and in ashes ! 
 
 air, if we except the two versions by the Mangaire Sngach, referred to at 
 p. ‘ 24 , where we gave the opening stanza of one, hut omitted the chorus 
 supplied at the foot of next page, which should be sung after each verao 
 of the original. 
 
120 
 
 THE POETS AND POETKY 
 
 UÁ CACA 50 CApA Ap bocriAD, 
 
 T)uad Ap cpAntiAD, Agtip Ap f eólcA*ó ! 
 
 UAifte ShAgpAn 50 h-eAjbAc, ortiAtroA, 
 
 A 5-ctiAnuA belt) cpeAccA, m-bAibue beiD uógcA. 
 
 Til t)ion t)Atn lOpeAUAn, nÁ péApponriA 'pó'óÍA, 
 
 Tlí t)ítif t)Am AbbAin ó geAppAp a pgópriAc 
 Tlí t)íbip DAm T)AnAip, — ni’t CAppAiD aiti cóirijAp, 
 
 Ptiígíó mé rriApb — ’p caiuid pAoi ’n b-póo me! 
 
 ITI0 C1AC I mo ÍAgAp ! rií peAOAp cÁ n-jeobmAOit) ! 
 lAprfiAp CbAÍbiTi, t)o peACAin ha coTfiAccAO, 
 
 A m-bbiAgAiTi beiD mAio bApgAióce, beACAigce, beoince, 
 ’S ctiAp cbipce pbeADAip \ a m-beACAt) 50 t)eó ’ca. 
 
 1 f fUAipc Ap mAiDin ’riA g-ceAbÍA, Y nóriA, 
 
 SiAnpriA ppAbm, Y ^ifpionn jtópmAp ; 
 bpiAcpAD HA n-AbpcAb DÁ 5-CAnA*ó 50 ceótrhAp, 
 
 ’S An gbiAÓAipe jAn Airiim*!- pAn m-bAibe c’póinn Aip. 
 
 * Ad allusion to the massacre of the Mac Donalds, at Glencoe, in 
 1691. 
 
 t GUadhaire gan ainim (literally a Hero without name), allegoric aUy, 
 Charles Edward Stuart, of whom it was treason to sing. 
 
 The Jacobite bards felt peculiar satisfaction in reviling the house of 
 
 “ Oro sheanduine leatsa ni gheabhadsa, 
 
 Oro sheanduine basgadh ’gus breodh ort ; 
 
 Oro sheanduine leagadh ’gus leonadh ort, 
 
 ’S cupla duig ionat chuirfeadh faoi an bh-fod tu !” 
 
 Oh, my old dotard, with j’^ou I’ll not tarry, 
 
 Oh, my old dotard, that the plague may seize you, 
 Oh, my old dotard, that your doom may soon hasten. 
 The tomb lies open ready to receive you !’* 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 121 
 
 * The thunders of Battle boom over the ocean — 
 
 On all sides are Conflict and stormy Commotion ; 
 
 Black Brunswick is shaken with terrors and troubles, 
 And the cities are pillaged on Saxony’s nobles ! 
 
 **Nor England nor Eire will yield me a shelter; 
 
 And Alba remembers the base blow I dealt her, 
 
 And Denmark is kingless — Fve none to befriend me — 
 Come, death ! weave my shroud, and in charity end me ! 
 
 " But vain is our sorrow, thrice vain our beseeching ; 
 Alas ! we forsook the True Church and her teaching. 
 And hence the o’erwhelming and bitter conviction 
 Of her triumph now and our hopeless affliction V* 
 
 Yes, George! and a brilliant career lies before us — 
 
 The God we have served will uplift and restore us — 
 Again shall our Mass-hymns be chanted in chorus, 
 
 And Charley, our King, our Beloved, shall reign o’er us. 
 
 Hanover. The following is the first stanza of one of the most popular 
 Scotch songs of this period ; — 
 
 “Wha the deil hae we gotten for a king, 
 
 But a wee wee German lairdie ? 
 
 And when we gae’d to bring him hame, 
 
 He was delving in his kail-yardie ; 
 
 Sheughing kail, and laying leeks, 
 
 Without the hose, and but the breeks ; 
 
 And up his beggar duds he cleeks 
 The wee wee German lairdie.” 
 
 Hogg’s “Jaco&ite /íeZics o/ScoíZancí,” p. 83. 1st series. 1819. 
 
122 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 sijliite ni slM’ohAHA’oli. 
 
 ^<^’05 (5<^®’0a1-ac) Ua Súil,liobÁin, cco 
 
 l"oi)n : — S)5He “NI 
 
 inAi‘oiri A Tié if *oéA^iAc *00 biofA, 
 
 50 CACAC Am AoriAjA A5 'oéAtiAríi mo priAoince; 
 
 'Oo 'oeA^icA]' Ag ptéi|\iocc 50 1 i-ao]\ac Am cimciolt, 
 AIa*ó bA féime, bA cbAoine, bA cAoine ; 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 123 
 
 SIGHILE m GAEA. 
 
 BY TIMOTHY O’SULLIVAN (SURNAMED GAODHLACH). 
 
 The first peculiarity likely to strike the reader is the remarkabla 
 sameness pervading those Irish pieces which assume a narrative form. 
 The poet usually wanders forth of a summer evening over moor and 
 mountain, mournfully meditating' on the wrongs and sufferings of his 
 native land, until at length, sad and weary, he lies down to repose in 
 some flowery vale, or on the slope of some green and lonely hill-side. 
 He sleeps, and in a dream beholds a lady of more than mortal beauty, 
 who approaches and accosts him. Her person is described with a 
 minuteness of detail bordering upon tediousness — her hands, for instance, 
 are said to be such as would execute the most complicated and delicate 
 embroidery. The enraptured poet inquires whether she be one of the 
 heroines of ancient story — Semiramis, Helen, or Medea — or one of the 
 Dlustrious women of his own country—Deirde, Blathnaid, or Cearnuit, 
 or some Banshee, like Aoibhill, Cliona, or Aine, and the answer he 
 receives is, that she is none of those eminent personages, but Eire, once 
 a queen, and now a slave — of old in the enjoyment of all honour and 
 dignity, but to-day in thrall to the foe and the stranger. Yet wretched 
 as is her condition, she does not despair, and encourages her afflicted 
 child to hope, prophesying that speedy relief will shortly reach him 
 from abroad. The song then concludes, though in some instances the 
 poet appends a few consolatory reflections of his own, by way of finale. 
 
 The present song is one of the class which we have described, and 
 Sighile Ghadharadh (Celia O’Gara) in the language of allegory, means 
 Ireland. The air must be played mournfully, and in moderate time. 
 
 Alone as I wandered in sad meditation, 
 
 And pondered my sorrows and soul’s desolation, 
 
 A beautiful vision, a maiden, drew near me, 
 
 An angel she seemed sent from Heaven to cheei me. 
 
124 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 T )0 pjieAbAf, DO -fVtllClOf, DO D]AU 1 D 10 ]|' ’nA CÓ1|1, 
 
 "Oo rheAi"A-p, do cuigiof, riA|i tiii-pDe daiti fopc 
 A bÍAife 50 inibif a D-iomAbb a beoib, 
 be CAicnioifi, be gibe, be pnne tiA b-óige, 
 be TTiAife, be gbAirie, be binneAcc a gbópúA. 
 
 If gfiAriTTiAf, DféimfeAC, DiAtnf ac, ffAinfCAc, 
 t)bi A CAfn-fobu CrVAobAC, DA fbAODA A flDOAD ; 
 50 bACAbbAC, péAfbAC, 50 féAbuAC, gO fOlbbfCAC, 
 50 CAIDAffAC, Cf AobAC, 50 DIATTl fAC AOlbiDD ; 
 
 A5 f eACAD, Y A5 pbbeAD, Y ^5 fbeAD DA Deoij, 
 tlATD-beAfUAib, DA ffACAib, 'da DitufOAf 50 feójt, 
 50 b-AbuAlb, 5A b-DlbeAD, 50 fficif a 5-CÓrflAD, 
 50 fbÁTDAf AC, CDmAf AC, ODIf AC, ÓfDA, 
 
 Ha ff AUAlb Ag CD1C1TD 50 b-lOlDAbbAC, OlDf AC. 
 
 T )0 CAlCflOC A b-féADfAC A félgClOC A buiDDC, 
 
 50 bADAtDAlb, fAOf* 0 A, 50 TDAOfDA, 5O mÍ 0 DbA*Ó; 
 
 50 fbACAtflAlb, DéAfCAC, gO féADtDAf, 50 fíOCtflAf, 
 50 f AbAlfDeAC, JAOD’bAC, 50 féAfCAC, gO fíODCAC 
 Af Df AJAlb, Af DfOD^Alb, Af CODgDAtfl Áf beÓjAD, 
 Af bADDAlb, Af boDJAlb, Af lOtDAfCAD fbólg, 
 
 Af TDAf CAlb, Af 5Alf5e, Af CDf AD DA D-jbeÓ, 
 
 T)0 CAfUAC gAC ffDlTDlbe CDIfipe, CfÓD-Dub, 
 
 T)0 beAg, Y *00 tUffAIC, AD lOlDAfCAD bfÓlD flDD ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 125 
 
 Let none dare to tell me I acted amiss 
 Because on her lips I imprinted a kiss — 
 
 O ! that was a moment of exquisite bliss ! 
 
 For sweetness, for grace, and for brightness of feature, 
 Earth holds not the match of this loveliest creature ! 
 
 Her eyes, like twin stars, shone and sparkled with 
 lustre ; 
 
 Her tressses hung waving in many a cluster. 
 
 And swept the long grass all around and beneath her; 
 She moved like a being who trod upon ether, 
 
 And seemed to disdain the dominions of space — 
 
 Such beauty and majesty, glory and grace. 
 
 So faultless a form, and so dazzling a face. 
 
 And ringlets so shining, so many and golden. 
 
 Were never beheld since the storied years olden. 
 
 Alas, that this damsel, so noble and queenly. 
 
 Who spake, and who looked, and who moved so serenely. 
 Should languish in woe, that her throne should have 
 crumbled; 
 
 Her haughty oppressors abiding unhumbled. 
 
 Oh ! woe that she cannot with horsemen and swords, 
 With fleets and with armies, with chieftains and lords. 
 Chase forth from the isle the vile Sassenach hordes. 
 
 Who too long in their hatred have trodden us under. 
 
 And wasted green Eire with slaughter and plunder I 
 
126 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 1-p eAjriAc, éAi'5<3s*ó, do 'Léig^poc An bioblAO, 
 
 SuA^AUACA Chéicinn, Y C]Aéiúe nA n-D|\AOiúe; 
 
 A bAiDion Y -A D-céxionntiib^-DiADAcuA, 
 
 be -peAn’cA]^ E|\éAnrhA|A nA U|AAe foi|i 50 tiorhcA. — 
 
 50 5A|"DA, 50 cbifDo, 50 b-oitue, 50 teó|v, 
 
 50 fnA-pDA, 50 I'ntngce, 50 -pnAimce, 50 moDArhtiib, 
 
 50 h-AluAD, 50 h-UlteAD, 50 iriAlCIll A 5 -CÓTnA]AD, 
 
 ’ÍIa 5-CeACDAnnAlli) -pubu-ttlA|AA, tonnA|ADA, 'pnÓ'ÓAThtllb, 
 
 A CAgAljAU A C1]A-pe A|V tll]AeA|'bA‘Ó nnADCAIjA ! 
 
 ITIÁf CA]A]AA15 A 5-céibb ZÚ, A n-éipocc Y ^ n-inn- 
 cbcACC, 
 
 -d b-peAiAfAinn, Am-b|Aéiú|\ib, Angné, Y An^nioinAjACAib; 
 
 A^t]\^Y DAm -péin pn An ^AéimionnAib pogóA, 
 d cAjAAiD An cn Helen, no T)éi'pD|Ae TiAoip ? 
 
 "OYlAeAgAijA An bpmnniobb An-Dbigcib gAn líióiD, 
 
 Hag Aicne Dine mi|'e ’noip btnme nA D-cpeoin ; 
 
 X)o bAj'gAD, DO mibbeAD, DO ctii|ieAD eA|\ ]:eoi]i, 
 be DAbÍA, be DAibbe, be btnbe nA 5-cóbAC, 
 
 TDo rhAbA]\cAi5 mi]"e be Dtnne gAn córh'po5iJf. 
 
 If ^AifiD gtjf AoncAig An Phoenix Af inpnu, 
 
 X)o bAbAfCA jeAf A nA Déij fin do bÍD > 
 
 50 bbAfDA, 50 béAfAC, 50 néACA, 511 nAOIDOAIlDA, 
 gtif b Ainim Di 0 if e bocc ! céibe nA SciobAfc ; 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 127 
 
 She hath studied God’s Gospels, and Truth’s divine pages— 
 The tales of the Druids, and lays of old sages ; 
 
 She hath quaffed the pure wave of the fountain Pierian, 
 And is versed in the wars of the Trojan and Tyrian ; 
 
 So gentle, so modest, so artless and mild, 
 
 The wisest of women, yet meek as a child ; 
 
 She pours forth her spirit in speech undefiled ; 
 
 But her bosom is pierced, and her soul hath been shaken, 
 To see herself left so forlorn and forsaken ! 
 
 " O, maiden !*’ so spake I, “ thou best and divinest. 
 
 Thou, who as a sun in thy loveliness shinest, 
 
 Who art thou, and whence ? — and what land dost thou 
 dwell in ? 
 
 Say, art thou fair Deirdre, or canst thou be Helen ?” 
 
 And thus she made answer — “ What ! dost thou not see 
 The nurse of the Chieftains of Eire in me — 
 
 The heroes of Banba, the valiant and free ? 
 
 I was great in my time, ere the Gall* became stronger 
 Than the Gael, and my sceptre passed o’er to the Wronger !’^ 
 
 Thereafter she told me, with bitter lamenting, 
 
 A story of sorrow beyond all inventing — 
 
 Her name was Fair Eire, the Mother of true hearts, 
 The daughter of Conn, and the spouse of the Stuarts. 
 
 * Gall, the stranger ; Gath, the native Irish. 
 
128 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 ^5 b|Atif5A|iriAc, cubAip)eAc, D^eoil, 
 
 5eA|A|AA*ó, DAtn iceo.'ó, datti cjieime, datr t)eób,* 
 
 50 D-UA5A15 Am coiririe be cumAti, mo fcóp ! 
 
 X >0 beAg^TAf, DO bpifpof, A n-Dbigtl Y A g-COlflACCA, 
 
 T)o feAbbAi *0 lotiAD mo cboirine bé ! 
 
 CA|\AiD DUic SéA|\btif mAC SbéAmtin", AlliogAin, 
 gAljllD 50 D-uéA|AriAl*Ó CA|V C]léArimt11|V AD COliilDeACC; 
 l^egAfA^iA^o 5béi|i-cAÚAib gAODAbAc, Deíg-griíomAc, 
 -peAbbAD DO fbeibc, do coimci, Y *00 coibbce, 
 c|ieA|"5Ai|ic gAR c|\iiifbe be ctiirifrieAcc ra D-c|veoR, 
 ’S Ag UAj'gAD RA DplOIRge dYrIJ fIRRe 'pAR m-bpÓR ! 
 
 50 5-CAicpop, 50 5-cbiiiRpio]i, be ptuRRiom ra fbóg, 
 
 A 5-cAU|iACAib cumAi|" uÁ cuibue do feoDib, 
 
 'Do CAbAip\C A|\ COmA1]1C DO CUmAlRR Y '00 c’|V 0 lRReAC. 
 
 * Since the arrival of the English, in 1169, the native Irish have 
 suffered much for political and religious offences. They have been 
 massacred (Leland), tortured (Leland), starved to death (Leland), 
 burned (Castlehaven), broiled (Cartel, flayed alive (Barrington), sold to 
 slavery (Lynch), compelled to commit suicide (Borlase), and to eat 
 human flesh (Moryson), In one century their properties were four 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 129 
 
 She had suffered all woes, had been tortured and flayed, 
 Had been trodden and spoiled, been deceived and betrayed; 
 But her Champion, she hoped, would soon come to her ai^ 
 And the insolent Tyrant who now was her master 
 Would then be overwhelmed by defeat and disaster ! 
 
 0, fear not, fair mourner ! — thy lord and thy lover. 
 
 Prince Charles, with his armies, will cross the seas over. 
 
 Once more, lo ! the Spirit of Liberty rallies 
 
 Aloft on thy mountains, and calls from thy valleys. 
 
 Thy children will rise and will take, one and all, 
 
 Kevenge on the murderous tribes of the Gall, 
 
 And to thee shall return each renowned castle hall ; 
 
 And again thou shalt revel in plenty and treasure. 
 
 And the wealth of the land shall be thine without measure. 
 
 times confiscated (Leland). They were forbidden to receive educatioi 
 at home or abroad (Irish Statutes). Their language, dress, and religion, 
 were proscribed [ihtd . ), and their murder only punished by fine {ibid,) 
 They were declared incapable of possessing any property, and, finally, 
 compelled to pay large sums to their worst oppressors (ibid,') 
 
 ■0 
 
130 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 stimshe pheAX)>Am i x>lioRniri. 
 
 A Ainoip ciuin ri<\ ^-ciaIí), 
 
 T)éinfi tiomi-A 
 
 A^\\ 50 SLiAb péiiim 1 
 
 ttlAjA nÁ|i C15’ ri-DiAig, 
 
 ’nÁ cbAjA, 
 
 TieovC bic cion a m-btiAniioTÍi ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 131 
 
 PETER O’DORNINVS COURTSHIP. 
 
 Am : — ** The mils ofFeilimJ* 
 
 SUahh Feilim (the Hill of Feilim, from which this song takes its name) 
 is the largest of the group of hills situated about two and a half mile? 
 north-west of the parochial church of Kilcommon, partly in the parish 
 of Abington, in the barony of Owney and Arra ; and partly in the parish 
 of Dolla, barony of Upper Ormond, in the county of Tipperary. It 
 rises 1,783 feet above the level of the ocean. On the top of it is a 
 curious conical- shaped pile of stones, of the slate kind, about forty feet 
 in height. Its first name was Sliabh Fiblin, from Fibhle, the son of 
 Breogarif one of the forty chiefs who came to avenge the death of Ith, as 
 is recorded in the eighth verse of a poem in the Leabhar Leacan (Book of 
 Leacan, col. L, fol. 288), beginning Seacht mic Breogain, &c. (Seven Sons 
 cf Breogan, &c.) 
 
 Within the last twenty years several urns, containing bones, were 
 discovered by a peasant named Tierney, near a Leaba Dhiarmuid aguf 
 Ghrainne (the bed of Diarmuid and Grainne), on the townland ol 
 Knockeravoola, parish of Upperchurch, about four miles east of this 
 mountain. 
 
 Sliabh Feilim is now called Mathair Sleibhe (i.e., Mother, or Parent 
 mountain), from the fact of its being the largest of the surrounding hills, 
 on which also are many Crom Leaes now to be seen. At Ahon Mor, 
 there is a Crom Fcae, At Cnocshaubrittas, there are two, and a Gianfs 
 grave. At Logbrack, a Leaba JDhiarmuid agus Ghrainne, At Cnoc na 
 Banshee, a Crom Leac and pillar stone. At Grainiva, a Crom Lcac. 
 
 Maid of the golden hair ! 
 
 Will you with me repair 
 
 To the brow of the Hill of Feilim ? 
 
 Whither we go shall know 
 Neither a friend nor foe, 
 
 Nor mortal being nor fairy — 
 
THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 beiDGAD mé DUin Am fjiAic, 
 
 CViofAncAD Ann jac jLiaid 
 
 A tite mA]A §|nAn aj éipgí'óe. 
 tTlhA]ibpAinn duiu mA|\ biA*ó, 
 
 An coiac-aHad ’juj' An pAO, 
 
 'S DeAnpAin cauai]i *ótiic oo’n pAji-ci^AobAigi' 
 
 T)A D-ueijin-p teAu fiAji, 
 go uaLaiti fit m-bpAn ; 
 
 Ij' 1AD mo itiAcnAio teió ’m 'ÓIA15 50 h-éigmeól 
 Dío]i Aibi*ó mo ciAtt, 
 tlíop b-^eAfAC DAm pArh, 
 
 CeAnnAc nÁ Díot do DéAnArh ! 
 
 b’otc A^A n-jnÓD A]A ftiAb 
 peitim, gAn biAÓ. 
 
 tTliin A b-^TAgAmAoif acd pA*ó poóbA! 
 
 Cbtnppn A b-]:ACA pArh, 
 go n-^oitpn mo úpAtt, 
 
 Snt A g-cómniiiginn Ann btiAjAin do tAeicibl 
 
 A ctii|"te ! A I'cojt ! 
 
 tlÁ cei|"niD DO Deó, 
 
 An fAiD rhAHipof mo móf-téigion tiom, 
 
 \y DeAi' Do ctii|ipn h\\ 6 ^, 
 
 ’S CtltAIC Do'n C-f JAÓtt, 
 
 ’S Af fcuAmAD A|A gAc fópc fAO|\ me. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 133 
 
 I’ll guard and shield you there, 
 
 I’ll banish from you all care, 
 
 0, Lily, that shine so paly, 
 
 I’ll slay for you the deer. 
 
 And for you, my love, 1^11 rear 
 A bower of roses daily ! 
 
 Could ycu give me your plighted hand, 
 And lead me to Brian’s land, 
 
 ’Tis my kin that would be wailing! 
 For knowledge of worldly ways 
 I merit but slender praise — 
 
 I am always falling and failing. 
 
 Sad, should we fare on the hill 
 With nothing to cook or kill — 
 
 Though I never much fancied railing, 
 I should bitterly curse my fate 
 To stop there early and late 
 
 In trouble for what I was ailing. 
 
 My Cuisle* my life and soul, 
 
 Give up your heart’s deep dole ! 
 
 For nought shall trouble or ail you — 
 ’Tis neatly I’d make full soon 
 For you silk dresses and shoon. 
 
 And build you a ship to sail in. 
 
 * Cuisle^ pulse. Quisle mo chroidhe, Pulse of my heart. 
 
134 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 
 Chuippn ton^ 'ouiu pAoi feól, 
 tIi’L GAiADAn DAm riAc eóL, 
 
 beAz^Án *01 A]i *oóic a *óéAnAm ; 
 ’S nÁ cei]^ni*ó-p jo *oeó, 
 
 50 D-ciiicp'ó op]iAinn bpón, 
 
 muttAc *ptéili) mói]\ péibiPi ! 
 
 O úÁ]il^i*ó 50 ui3 fctiAniAi*ó, 
 
 A]\ 5AC eAlAÓAn DÁ^-CUAbAip 
 
 é TfieAfAim-p gtip ctiiAin TllbiiiifineAC !* 
 Cl'itii|A]:eÁ'ó o|Am *oÁ n-^btiAifpp, 
 oGAc *oo’n cí|\ ú*o fuAp 
 
 Ab-]:A*o ó tn’ ctiAi|AD triíofA. 
 tllo CAbA 1 |lU ó ótiAipm, 
 
 An t)Aibe úx) A b-*|:tiAi|np 
 
 TDAcnA]" ^An |:tjAcu, Y ^oibneAp 
 b’feAji]! DAm -ptniieAc tiAiu 
 A n-Aice nA 5-C|itiAc1i, 
 
 ’HÁ beic A 5 pbbeA*ó óm* ]\viAi 5 'óíoTfiAOin ! 
 
 A cuifbe! A fcó|t, 
 
 1 )' oeife ipÁ *óó, 
 
 11a Helen beónA*ó An ci\éin-]p^A|\ ! 
 
 bmne biom 50 móp 
 ’t1ttAi|\ cltnnim do beóib, 
 
 Hó -peinncAD do me6\\ a|\ céADAib. 
 
 A Momonian trick. 
 
OF MUNSTKR. 
 
 135 
 
 There^s not a. trade in the land 
 But I thoroughly understand — 
 
 And I see its mystery plainly ; 
 
 So, never at all suppose 
 That lives like ours would close 
 
 On the brow of the Hill of Feilim ! 
 
 O ! cajoler from the South, 
 
 Tis you have the girl-winning mouth ! 
 
 Momonia’s arts are no fable ! 
 
 Long, long, I fear, should I rue 
 My journey to Munster with you 
 
 Ere the honeymoon were waning. 
 You would take me away from the sight 
 Of the village where day and night 
 They banqueted and regaled you. 
 Begone, deceiver, begone ! 
 
 ITl dwell by the Cruach's alone. 
 
 And not on the Hill of Feilim ! 
 
 My Quisle, my beaming star ! 
 
 Twice lovelier, sure, you are 
 
 Than Helen, of old so famous. 
 No music ever could reach, 
 
 The melody of your speech, 
 
 So sweet it is and enchaining. 
 
136 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 UimaIL bom Arm-fA -poo ? 
 
 TIÁ )?tilArí5 mé a m-b|ión ! 
 
 A bte, Y gup cu bpeoió Y biiAi]\ me 
 gViOAbAip imipu Agup ót, 
 
 "Oo po^A oo’r tube fópc, 
 
 -dp mtibbAC ptéib móip péibm i 
 
 UÁ *00 geAbbAthriAt) pó móp, 
 le TiA 5 -cóimbonA*ó 50 *oeo, 
 
 d pA*oAipe bpeóió Ajiip buAip ine ! 
 Imipu Agtjp ób, 
 
 TneA*ÓAip A^tip ppópu, 
 
 X>o 5rio*ócAi*ó-pi, Y'oo móp-béAjAri ! 
 THap bí*ó mipe pó 05 , 
 bA mAic beAc me ÚAbAipu, 
 
 d b-pAO óm’ móp-gAO'ÓAluAi'ó ! 
 ImúeAcc beAu pAn póo, 
 dti Áic riAC AiúneócAiri neAc beó, 
 
 dp mubbAC pbéib móip péibm ! 
 
 A bptiiriniobb ^An pmiiAi*o, 
 
 HÁp meAbbA*ó be cbuAiri, 
 
 d peAbu-eóbAip mAp ^piAri aj éi]\5Í*ó ! 
 gbeAbAip meA*ÓAip Ap o-cúip, 
 dgtir r^ipjAR cúrhA*ó, 
 
 be 5 A*ÓAp-coiri citiin, béib-binn. 
 
OF l^njNSTER. 
 
 13T 
 
 0 ! hear me not so unmoved ! 
 
 O ! come with me, Beloved ! 
 
 'Tis you, indeed, who have pained me ! 
 Your choice of every sort 
 Of banqueting and sport 
 
 You’ll have on the Hill of Feilim ! 
 
 Ah ! no more of your promises, cheat ! 
 
 You tell me of things too sweet, 
 
 I know you want to betray me. 
 
 By pleasure, and mirth, and joy, 
 
 Ah ! though you seem but a boy. 
 
 Your learning would soon waylay me ! 
 Because I am innocent and young, 
 
 You have wheedled me with your tongue 
 Afar from those who would claim me, 
 To travel with you the road 
 "Wncre I’d know no soul or abode 
 
 To the summit of the Hill of Feilim I 
 
 O ! Damsel, 0 purest one ! 
 
 O ! morning star like the sun ! 
 
 No soul could mean your betrayal ! 
 You will know all pleasures on earth — 
 We’ll revel in music and mirth, 
 
 And follow the chase unfailing ! 
 
138 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 t)lA1*0 d’ eAC]AA1*0 LuiC, 
 
 LeAUf A cum pubAit, 
 
 chum gCAUAiDe ^ac IDuriA ]\AobA*ó ; 
 l^e h-Aiciof X)o’ti cmy, 
 
 Le ^AfAlÓ CAOin, DbÚlÚ, 
 
 D^AifDioiA 50 'oulcce phéilim ! 
 
 A ciuiu-mApcAij féim, 
 neAm-ifieoriAC, 'péij, 
 
 A caha]' do céim UomcA? 
 t)Á j-cbuiuireAD AU cléi|A, 
 
 50 m-biADmAOi]" A g-céin, 
 
 SjA-piTAiDe 0 céibe a haou |"inn ! 
 
 T 11 Á cigeAD cufA A g-céui, 
 l.e ]:eAbAf do rhóii-beigiri, 
 
 5 beAbAi|A cuimDOAcc ó’ri 5 -cbéitA nAomúA 
 tliAiD mi-pe biom |:éin 
 ’S mo TTiAcriAiD jAU “péim, 
 
 ^5 pbbeAD Y ’m AonA]A coiDce ! 
 
 A cuifbe, A |u 3 iri mo cléib, 
 
 IIÁ ceij'riiD 50 b-éAg, 
 
 50 b-pít]:eAD zú beAC féiri ad c-AonA|A 
 gbeAbAi^i cuiDOAccA ó’ri 5-cbéiii, 
 blAlD cu A 5-cumAnn UA riAom, 
 
 ’S ní b-eAjAb DU1C céim DAopcAin ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 13 & 
 
 All over the neighbouring ground 
 You will spur your palfreys round, 
 
 The nobles on all sides hailing ! 
 
 As happy as the Blest you'll be, 
 
 And pleasantly live with me 
 
 For your visit to the Hill of Feilim ! 
 
 0 ! Cavalier, meek and brave ! 
 
 Of mind so noble and suave ! 
 
 Have you, then, no fear as a layman ? 
 
 If here we plighted our troth. 
 
 By the Church we should speedily both 
 Be brought to the chancel's railing ! 
 
 Yet, still, if you leave me alone, 
 
 And depart to another zone. 
 
 Where your learning will glow so flaming; 
 
 1 cannot but weep and mourn 
 For I never shall see you return 
 
 To the pleasant high Hill of Feilim 1 
 
 0 ! Pulse and Life of my soul, 
 Abandon your ceaseless dole, 
 
 You'll never be left a- wailing ; 
 Our priests and the saints of Heaven 
 AVill never behold you bereaven, 
 
 So fear not slander or fables. 
 
140 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 TnACjAeioion cú mo 
 
 T^ó-5eA|i|A 50 m-béi*ói]i, 
 
 ’S DO ifiAcnAiD -péim oiom^Ac; 
 eAc-pAiD ciiiiri -péim, 
 
 ^5 b|AOfDÚ5A*Ó DO CHID 5A*0A]1, 
 
 TTIa]! Paris a|i -ptiAb Ida. 
 
 TIac me beiD mibbce 50 Deo, 
 
 *Oa D-ueiginn beAc fAD -poD, 
 
 *Oo DeAth-ceAD mo móp-5A0*ÓAluA*ó ; 
 5 aD CApAbt, JAH bo, 
 
 5a 11 Cipoe, JAR fcop, 
 
 Acd beAjAR beAg do bon 6 adai5 ; 
 
 gAR CApAlD Am C0ip, 
 
 ITIaIDIOR RÁ RÓ 1 R, 
 
 ’S CUfA belt A]A AR RÓp céADRA; 
 tltlAip A CpHlRReÓCAD AR CeÓ, 
 
 UtiicpmÍD A m-bpÓR, 
 
 rnubbAc pbéib móip péibim ! 
 
 A com peARg péim, 
 
 Ax\ úp-cpoibe péig, 
 
 bÁp]\ Ap AR pAOgAb be CpíORRACC; 
 1 p beARbAD AR pOCAb béib, 
 
 A CeARgAbpAD piRR A pAOR, 
 
 Hac b'pAjfAiDe 50 b-éAj Áp pgAOibeAD; 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 141 
 
 0 ! only believe my tale, 
 
 And you, of the race of the Gael, 
 
 Will again rise proud and famous— 
 You shall gallop on bounding steeds 
 Over hills and dells and meads, 
 
 As the heroines of olden ages. 
 
 But, woe is me ! if I leave 
 My kindred at home to grieve 
 
 ’Tis bitterly they will blame me ! 
 
 O I what a fate will be mine, 
 
 Without gold, or gear, or kine. 
 
 Or a single friend to stay me ! 
 
 And you, too, night and morn, 
 
 Would meet but Poverty and Scorn. 
 
 When it came on dark and rainy 
 Oh ! where should we find a friend — 
 Our sorrows would never end 
 
 On the brow of the Hill of Feilim! 
 
 Mild maid of the slender Waist — 
 Chaste girl of Truth and Taste, 
 Excelling all other maidens. 
 What a few sweet Words of Life 
 Would make us man and wife. 
 
 With happiness never waning I 
 
142 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 ^y^% Aon rieAC ]:aoi ’n n-^péin, 
 
 IIac CÚ At1 éADAn, 
 
 Tnó|A-cuiD vÁ rhéinn ]'5|\íobúA; 
 AiqteA]' o|\c vÁ m-béi*óeA’ó, 
 
 50 d-cioc]:a*ó An c-éAj, 
 
 ptiA]'5Aibu od’ péinn ní b-'puijAÓ ! 
 
 moimn ni clitiiLtioniiAin/- 
 
 UÁ -pgAniAb Dub Y ceó DjAAOióeAcc’, 
 tlÁ cógptngeAiA 50 bptiinn’ An b]iÁÉ’ ! 
 
 Ai]a ^"eA|AAinn í'AHApng, ^ó*o-cboinn, 
 
 O fe 6 ^y CRIOST) An ^tii|nonn '|"mÁib : — 
 Ua]a -pleAi^Aib mA]AA Ag uó]\tii5eAcu, 
 be gteo-cboiDirh do ctii|i a|\ -pÁn ! 
 
 A|a n-D]\A5Ain iheA^iA, rh ó|i-btiiDeAn, 
 
 O 1 THiói|iín tlí ChuillionnÁin ! 
 
 T)’eAr5A'ó An peACAD, -pA-|iíop ! 
 
 *Oo feoibpnn ]:aoi Dbijcib nÁniAD ; 
 gAn 'pbACA-p A5 pó|A ; 
 
 gAn ]'eoiD ptnnn, jAn cion, gAn ái]ad ! — 
 
 * Copied from a JMS. of 1732, formerly in th^ possession of Sir 
 William Botham. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 148 
 
 I gaze on your lovely brow, 
 
 And from Eve’s bright day till now 
 
 The soul shines out in the features. 
 O ! only take me as yours, 
 
 And as long as life endures. 
 
 My Love, it is you shall sway me ! 
 
 MOmiN m CHUILLIONNAIN. 
 
 A gloomsome cloud of trouble, 
 
 A strange, dark, Druidic mist. 
 
 Lowers o’er Fail * the noble, 
 
 And will while Earth and Time exist. 
 Across the heaving billows 
 
 Came slaughter in the wake of Man- 
 Then bent our Chiefs like willows, 
 
 And fled Moirin Ni Chuillionnain ! 
 
 Alas ! our sad transgressions 
 
 First brought us under Saxon sway, 
 The power and the possessions 
 Of Eire are the Guelph’s to-day. 
 
 one of the names of Ireland — the Isle of Destiny. 
 
144 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 gAC bÁcÍAC bpACAc, beób-biii*óe, 
 
 'Oo’n cóip cpion do |\iiiu ua|\ fÁit, 
 
 A g-ceAnriAp pbAiu, Y ^ g-cóitficígeAp, 
 be trióipín Hi CbiiibbiorjnÁin ! 
 
 X)o DeApcA-p TieAc Ap cbó 'n AOlb, 
 
 *00 pó-bínn ó neAth Arh-*óÁib; 
 
 ’S D’Aiúpip DAm go beób-bínn, 
 
 ^AH ]ió-rhoibb go d-cuici*ó pbÁig : — 
 lAip Amsterdam riA peób pbím, 
 
 Sbeón SuiAÍb* Pl^ibb SÁilb 
 *S nÁp b-pADA ceApz: tia Seói]Ap*óe, 
 
 Ai|v tribóipín Hí CbuitbionnÁiri ! 
 
 *Seon Stiall (John Steele), Pilib Saill (Philip Sail), two objectionable 
 characters. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 145 
 
 The churls who crossed the surges 
 Six ages back, and overran 
 Our isle, are still the scourges 
 Of mild Moirin Ni Cbuillionnain ! 
 
 I saw, in sleep, an Angel 
 
 Who came, downward from the moon, 
 And told me that some strange ill 
 Would overtake the Dutchman soon. 
 On Amsterdam’s damned city 
 
 On Steele and Sail there lies a ban; 
 ’Tis God, not George, can pity 
 Our poor Moirin Ni Chuillionnain ! 
 
 K 
 
THE POETS AND POFTRT 
 
 14(J 
 
 listing clioncliubiMiii ui uioíi'daiíi. 
 
 ‘poijn : — Spe^U-Daiii. 
 
 U)iÁc Y cpeirhpe cAip'oio'L^p, 
 Ain cimcioLLAib pAogAib ; 
 
 O txÁc toipc"* cpé 5^6 ACApAn, 
 
 50 ÍAoi-ft^uict An éip5 ; 
 
 * Jíath Loire, Charleville, 
 
 t Laoi^Shruit/i, The river Lee. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 U7 
 
 CONOR O’RIORDAN’S VISION. 
 
 Air — “ The Mower 
 
 Conob O’Riobdan, author of this song, was a native of West Mus- 
 kerry (Muscraidhe), in the county of Cork, and flourished a.d. 1760. 
 He followed the occupation of parish schoolmaster in his native district, 
 whence he obtained the appellation of “ Conchubhar Máíster ” (Conor 
 Master), by which he is better known at this day, and from which many 
 of his compositions, current among the peasantry of Cork, take their 
 name. He had a son named Peter, who “lisped in numbers, ” but not 
 with that inspiration which fired the father’s poetic muse. He followed 
 the profession of his father, and went by the name of Peadair Maister 
 (Peter Master), but we cannot tell when, or where, either of the Riordans 
 closed his earthly career. 
 
 The present song is adapted to the air of a pleasing pastoral love 
 ballad of great beauty, very popular in the south, of which the followdug 
 is the first stanza : — 
 
 “ Atapaircin bheag agamsa, 
 
 Do bhán, jnbin, reigh ; 
 
 Gan cladh, gan fal, gan ialla lei, 
 
 Achd a h-aghaidh ar an saoghal ; 
 
 Spealadoir do ghlac£ainn-si, 
 
 Ar task no d’reir an acradhú, 
 
 Be aco sud do b’fearr leis. 
 
 No pádh an aghadh an lae.” 
 
 ** A little field I have got, 
 
 Of smooth meadowy lea ; 
 
 Without a hedge, a wall, or fence, 
 
 But exposed to the breeze ; 
 
 A mower I would hire on task, 
 
 Or by the acre, if it pleased him best. 
 
 Or if either would suit him not, 
 
 I’d pay him by the day.” 
 
 Once I strayed from Charleville, 
 As careless as could be ; 
 
 I wandered over plain and hill, 
 Until I reached the Lee — 
 
148 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 50 * 0 -CÁ|aIa a R-gAOjACAO ^leARRA gt^Alf, 
 11 a b-^reAÓbA |iéit) riÁ]i c^tApAigúe, 
 
 bA bpeÁgCA fgélTTl DÁ b-peACA-|'A, 
 
 T)e coittuib riA g-cpAob ! 
 
 5Áip Ajt géAjAib CARCAririAb, 
 tlA bínri, TTHocAiii, péip ; 
 bpeAgAcc fséirfi, Y DACAririAÓ, 
 
 A]y gAc miori-Abc De’n péAp ; 
 bucc pÁife, péiririe, Y peAniiAioe, 
 geAppúA cpéAcu, Y ; 
 
 A 5 -CAp 50 D-EÍgeAD Ap DeAp’niAO, 
 be h-AoibrieAp ra n-éAri. 
 
 T)o úÁpbAib EAom DÁ *óeA]'5A‘ó bAm, 
 be’p prieAp 50 pÁeri ! 
 
 1 f 5 eA]i]\ 5 R]\ éipi 5 Aipbng bAm, 
 beY bíogtip CAp éip, 
 
 UhÁimj péAtcAR tfiALbA-poipg, 
 bA cÁbÍAc, cpAobAc, cApoA-poiLc ; 
 ’S pÁipoe cAoc riA 1i-Aice ’c% 
 
 T)o trieAttpAc ar pAogAÍ ! 
 
 1p gpÁbifiAp, péirfi, vo beAtiri Ai*ó *ÓAm, 
 An cjitnriri-gioitA caoc ! 
 
 ’S A lÁTTI 511 p tél5 Ap ApmAlb, 
 
 An pín-coilj • 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 149 
 
 And there I found a flowery dell 
 Of a beauty rare to tell, 
 
 With woods around as rich in swell 
 As eye shall ever see. 
 
 Wild birds warbled in their bower 
 Songs passing soft and sweet ; 
 
 And brilliant hues adorned each flower 
 That bloomed beneath my feet. 
 
 All sickness, feebleness, and pain, 
 
 The wounded heart and tortured brain 
 Would vanish, ne’er to come again, 
 
 In that serene retreat ! 
 
 Lying in my lonely lair, 
 
 In sleep me dreamt I saw 
 A damsel wonderfully fair, 
 
 Whose beauty waked my awe. 
 
 Her eyes were lustrous to behold. 
 
 Her tresses shone like flowing gold. 
 And nigh her stood that urchin bold — 
 Young Love, who gives Earth law ! 
 
 The boy drew near me, smiled and laughed. 
 And from his quiver drew 
 A delicately pointed shaft 
 Whose mission I well knew ; 
 
150 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 t)o | 1 Á 1 *Ó ATI béic 50 CAjAÚAÍlAC, 
 
 Cu]\ ifAe riA ceAV jAib ; j 
 
 RIO cLéib A DAiiuAiiie, j 
 
 DO f AlgOADAlb, nÁ Déltl ? j 
 
 j 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 A spÁD, A tAog, Y A CA]1A1D cumAinri,, j 
 
 T)io5|iAif mo c\.é\h ! ; 
 
 tlÁ mé AH-éA^mAif u-Aininie, j 
 
 Le h -ínrinriu ua]! h-eif ! ’ 
 
 "OÁitiD Ci|ie Y bAribA, 
 
 ClÁ|i loipc 0ibeA]i jAipmiD, 
 
 Cé 'cÁim|"e D'éi]" ra b-^reApnA-con, 
 
 Jar cuirhrieAD ! '^<\n céiit ! 
 
 If seA^iii 5U|t éi]ii5 i'eAticAi', 
 
 "O’ÁjA 5-coiriuiriri a ]AAon ; 
 
 ^5 cÁ|"Arh upÓAD riA jiAririA 
 "OÁ ri-DÍO^’ Af AR -pAOgAt,* 
 gAR U]AACU A]1 -pjéAÍ, RÁ eACCl\A, 
 >Acd clÁiiA |:ao 13 a 1|\ Y fpeAÍAnAD, 
 lOÁncA péiD -ACApAiriri, 
 
 ’S 1riRpe<\cA*ó péip ! 
 
 * Here the poet laments the persecutions suffered by his brethren of 
 the bardic profession at this period ; because of the exposure which 
 they made of the delinquencies of state officials and men in authority, 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 151 
 
 But that bright maidea raised her hand, 
 And in a tone of high command 
 Exclaimed, ‘‘Forbear! put up your brand. 
 He hath not come to woo 
 
 “ Damsel of the queenly brow,’^ 
 
 I spake, “ my life, my love, 
 
 What name, I pray thee, bearest thou. 
 Here or in Heaven above 
 — ‘‘ Banba and Eire am I called. 
 
 And Heber’s kingdom, now enthralled, 
 I mourn my heroes fetter-galled, 
 
 While all alone I rove !” 
 
 Together then in that sweet place 
 In saddest mood we spoke. 
 
 Lamenting much the valiant race 
 Who wear the exile's yoke, 
 
 And never hear aught glad or blithe, 
 Nought but the sound of spade and scythe ; 
 And see nought but the willow withe, 
 
 Or gloomy grove of oak. 
 
 they were looked upon as the greatest evil the supreme power had to 
 contend with. 
 
152 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 UÁ gAtn fgeAt te 
 'S inpm Duic é; 
 
 5eA|i|\ t;o ivéig^eA'ó An c->duAi]A-lTI1iAC, 
 X)e jeirfiLeACAib ^aodaiI; 
 
 UÁ 5Á|ADA tAOC -pÁ A^AmAlb, 
 
 50 DÁnA A5 céACC CA]A -fAiiije, 
 
 Hi gÁD *Óíb céA|ATnA*Ó A|\ CAlAtTlAlb, 
 
 'S nÁ coin^Thio bn|i iéif í 
 
 beiD \Á CAjl élf 50 h-AIC^AeAC 
 ^5 DAoinib nA 5-clAon ! 
 ^|A|"ACU, télCeACC, C|\Aipi*ÓCeACC, 
 'S cpínneAcc a céAcc ! 
 
 -An bÁ-p rriAp céite teApcA ’ca, 
 
 Ap 5pÁnA gné An peACAÓ o]a|aa ; 
 -A iÁcAip X>é 5AC Ain'beApc, 
 
 X)Á n-jníorhApcAib te léAgAÓ ! 
 
 UAim c|\Ái*cce Ag béApbAÓ SAgpAnnAÓ, 
 
 SAn cíp Ap gAc cAob ! 
 
 ’S cÁiD nA gAoióeib cóni jAnjAioeAc, 
 
 ’S A n-ínncin ip cbAon ! 
 
 Xáí\ do tpéigcib rriAbbAijce, 
 
 jAn cÁbAcc A n-Déi|\c, nÁ 5-CApcAnnACD, 
 
 ’S 5pÁpA t)é j^o n-DeA]imAiD, 
 
 Ve DÍojpAif Do’n U-pAOjAb! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 158 
 
 “But hear ! 1 have a tale to tell,” 
 
 She said — ‘‘ a cheering tale ; 
 
 The Lord of Heaven, I know full well, 
 Will soon set free the Gael. 
 
 A band of warriors, great and brave, 
 Are coming o’er the ocean- wave ; 
 
 And you shall hold the lands God gave 
 Your sires, both hill and vale. 
 
 A woeful day, a dismal fate, 
 
 Will overtake your foes. 
 
 Grey hairs, the curses of deep hate, 
 
 And sickness and all woes ! 
 
 Death will bestride them in the night— 
 Their every hope shall meet with blight> 
 And God will put to utter flight 
 Their long-enjoyed repose ! 
 
 My curse be on the Saxon tongue, 
 
 And on the Saxon race ! 
 
 Those foreign churls are proud and strong, 
 And venomous and base. 
 
 Absorbed in greed, and love of self. 
 
 They scorn the poor: — slaves of the Guelph, 
 They have no soul except for pelf. 
 
 God give them sore disgrace !” 
 
154 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRT 
 
 Ar\ chiiit-phionn. 
 
 poi)i) : — C\}ú)l-T\)‘jor)r). 
 
 A t)-|:ACA*ó uú An Chúit-ponri \ í aj púbA^ a]a riA bóicjie, 
 tTlAit)en f^oAÍ 'OjiiJccA Y jati -piniju a|a a b^iojA ; 
 
 If iom*ÓA ógÁriAc fút-glAf Ag unuc be í pófA'ó, 
 
 Act) ni b-fA5A*ó fiAt) mo fún-fA Af An j^-cnnuAf if t)óicbeó. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 165 
 
 THE CUILFHION. 
 
 XHE Coolnn, or Gul fionn^ literally means The maiden of the fair flowing 
 lochs. In Hardiman’s “Irish Minstrelsy/’ vol. i. p. 251, will be found 
 another version of this song in six stanzas, with a translation by Thomas 
 Furlong, the original of which has been attributed to Maurice O’Dugan 
 (Jiluiris Va Duagain'), SiJi Irish bard who lived near Benburb, * in the 
 county of Tyrone, about the middle of the seventeenth century, but is 
 probably of much greater antiquity. 
 
 The air of this song is by many esteemed the finest in the whole circle 
 of Irish music, and to it Moore has adapted his beautiful melody 
 •"Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see.” 
 
 The three stanzas here given are all that we have been able to 
 procure, after a diligent search in Munster, where our version is in the 
 hands of every peasant who has any pretensions to being a good songster. 
 
 Have you e’er seen the Cuilfhion when daylight^s declining^ 
 With sweet fairy features, and shoes brightly shining ? 
 Though many’s the youth her blue eyes have left pining, 
 She slights them, for all their soft sighing and whining. 
 
 • Scene of Owen Roe’s memorable victory over Monroe in 1646. 
 
156 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 A b-|rACA*0 CÚ mo bÁbÁn, tÁ bjAeÁg Y ^ b-AenA]i, 
 A cub duaIac D]U|"-beÁnAc, 50 fbiurieÁn pof béice ; 
 IHib A|\ An óig-beAn, Y T^of nA nA b-éAOAn, 
 
 Af DÓ1C be 5AC fpjuofÁn gup beAUÁn beif féin 1 ! 
 
 A b-pACA*ó cu mo ppéipbeAn Y i 'CAoh beip An coinn, 
 'PÁinní'óe oip Ap a méApAib Y ^ péi*ócioc a cinn ; 
 
 If é ‘oubAipc An pAopAC bí*ó ’nA liiAop Ap An boing, 
 50 mpeApp beif eige féin 1 , ’nÁ Gipe gAn poinn ! 
 
 momin ni chtiitleAnnAin, 
 
 UomÁf rheic Coicip, CCC. 
 
 CiA b-i An beAn ! no An eób oib, 
 
 ^Oo peobAioeAb Anoif Am bÁim ? 
 
 Ubug ciAbb nA b-fOAp Aip móp-bAOif, 
 bA bóig binn nAc ciocfAio pbÁn : — 
 gbAn-biAÓ ’guf fOApc nA n-og 1, 
 
 ’S fcóp-cpoioe gAC n-Duine An bÁb, 
 5eAb-gpiAn nA m-bAn Aip bo 1 , 
 
 ITIóipín Hi ChuibbeAnnÁin ! 
 
OF MUNSTETK. 
 
 157 
 
 Have you e’er on a summer’s day, wandering over 
 The hills, O, young man, met my beautiful rover ? 
 Sun-bright is the neck that her golden locks cover — 
 
 Yet each paltry creature thinks she is his lover ! 
 
 Have you e’er seen my Fair, on the strand, in her bower. 
 With gold-ringed hands, culling flower after flower ? 
 
 O ! nobly he said it, brave Admiral Power, 
 
 That her hand was worth more than all Eire for dower* 
 
 MOmiN NI CHUILLIEANNAIN. 
 
 BY THOMAS COTTER. 
 
 But who is she, the maiden, 
 
 Who crossed my path but even now ? 
 She leaves men sorrow-laden, 
 
 With saddest heart and darkest brow. 
 0 ! who she is I’ll tell you soon — 
 
 • The pride of every Irishman — 
 
 Our heart, our soul, our sun, our moon— 
 Is she — Moirin Ni Chuilleannain. 
 
158 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 'UÁ 5^iA*0Ai|\e Caua”* ai|\ oeopAioeAcc, 
 Saw G-ó|\tiip pÁ coitiaiiac cÁich ; 
 
 TOo’n gpiAn-puit AlbAn tfióp-iiíog, 
 
 ’gtjf póf, rií b-puib ptiib if peApp ; — 
 Sati m-btiADAin pe peAp hac dóiú binn, 
 be póppAióib 50 h-lnnip pAib, 
 beiD’n cpiAu-pi ceAcc A5 cópúgeAcc, 
 
 A^\\ THhóipín Tlí ChuibteAniiÁin ! 
 
 belt!) ’n llíog-plAiú Agtiiiin popoA, 
 gAn móp-rhoitt 1 ri-1nnip-pÁib; 
 cbiAp Ag ceAcc o'n tlóirh teip, 
 
 A 5-cóip juiDe é Do belt pbÁn : — 
 OéAnpAt) Ácu Aw rhóp-gpínn, 
 
 A^ uópijgeAC'o Aip ctíiD riA mnÁ ; 
 *S RÍ lApppAit) Acu upí c’ póinníx)e,t 
 be Tnóipín Hí ChtiitbeAnRÁiTi ! 
 
 ♦ Gliadhaire Catha, a Battle-warrior. 
 
 t Tri Coroinnidhe, Three Crowns, i.e., of Ireland, England, and 
 Scotland* 
 
 -o- 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 159 
 
 A great and glorious warrior 
 
 Is now struggling fierce in fight — 
 And yet will burst the barrier 
 
 That severs Ireland from the light ! 
 He will combine each scattered host — 
 He will unite each creed and clan — 
 Ah, yes ! we have a Queen to boast, 
 
 In our Moirin Ni Chuilleannain ! 
 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! I see him come — 
 
 He comes to rescue Inisfail — 
 
 And many myriad priests from Rome 
 Will aid him — for, he cannot fail ! 
 
 Search hamlets, villages, and towns, 
 
 Tempt all the best or worst you can, 
 
 But, ere twelve moons go by. Three Crowns 
 Will deck Moirin Ni Chuilleannain I 
 
160 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 CAIUltitl til 11 Attach At 11. 
 
 UiltiAm ’OaI'L Ua h-eApnÁin, ccc 
 
 IPoTjr) : — Cú]Zi][)Tí) N) U41Uc4it)^ 
 
 tneA|'ATnAOi*o, riAc cA^m |Mn, 'oo’n biiAi|iu fAn SbÁiriri, 
 
 Acx> meAblA flije, cutn caua cloi*óiTfi, *00 cAbAipc a 
 * o-c|iAiu ; 
 
 belt) 5 aUa a pf, DÁ leASA'ó |'iof, le lúc Á|i lÁTÍiAilá, 
 A^'U|' tPAC AP l^íj’ CaiciI/HI ní UaHacaih ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 161 
 
 CAITILIN m TJALLACHAIN. 
 
 BY WILLIAM HEFFERNAN (THE BLIND), 
 
 Caitilin Ni Uallachain (Catharine Holahan) is another of those alle- 
 gorical nam^es by which Ireland is known in Irish song. With respect 
 to the prefix “ We,” used before surnames in the feminine gender, we 
 may quote the following extract from Conor Mac Sweeny’s “Songs of 
 the Irish,” where he says, “It is proper here to warn Irish ladies that 
 they commit a blunder in writing their names with 0 or Mac^ instead of 
 Ni. They should bear in mind that O’Neill, Mao Carthy, O’Loghlen, 
 O’Connell, are not surnames like the English Baggs, Daggs, Scraggs, 
 Hog, Drake, Duck, Moneypenny, &c., but simply mean descendant of 
 Niall, son of Carthach, descendant of Loughlin^ ^c., as the Jews say, Son 
 of Judah, Son of Joseph, &c., and that a lady who writes 0 or Mac to 
 her name calls herself son, instead of daughter. What should we say 
 of a Hebrew lady who would write herself ‘Esther Son of Judah ?’ and 
 yet we do not notice the absurdity in ourselves. I therefore advise 
 every Irish lady to substitute Ni pronounced Nee for 0 or Mac. J ulia 
 Ni Connell, Catharine Ni Donnell, Ellen Ni Neill, will at first sound 
 strange, but they are not a whit less euphonious than the others, and 
 use will make them agreeable. In Irish we never use 0 or Mac with 
 a woman’s name, and why must it be done in English ?” 
 
 Fully coinciding in these observations of our esteemed friend Mr. 
 Mac Sweeny, we adopt the prefix “ Nif in preference to the 0 in 
 surnames of the feminine gender, throughout this book. 
 
 In vain, in vain we turn to Spain — she heeds us not. 
 
 Yet may we still, by strength of will, amend our lot. 
 
 O, yes ! our foe shall yet lie low — our swords are drawn I 
 For her^ our Queen, our Caitilin Ni Uallachain ! 
 
 L 
 
162 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 JcAittiim Díb, riAc ifAX>A a biiA*ÓA]ACA An 5 Ái|a, 
 
 A]im ]:ao 1 í)ai|i DÁ j-ceApAD tínn, Y ptiADAp tÁrriAig; 
 1 f cApA cptnnn do ppeAbpAmAoip, Y t>^<^cAc, ÁpD, 
 T)Á m-beiú rriAc An Kig Ag CAiciíín llí tlAbbAcÁin ! 
 
 1p pADA pmn Aj pAipe Apip, te puApgAib D’pÁgAlb, 
 TlÁp pcAbAipÍDe, ^An bAbcAip*óe, ’nÁ bnA*ó ’nÁp bÁnn ; 
 1301*0 bApcA bíonuA Aip bAppA CAOioe, Y puAim A^p 
 Le TTiAc An Ríj, cnm CAicibín tlí llAbbAcÁin ! 
 
 Ra ineApADAoip cAibe cíop Áp punAipe pcÁiD, 
 
 HÁ cAibbicín, ’nA 5-cpApADAoip A cnAibb-beAg cnAiiiA ; 
 
 CiA pADA btnje Di be peApAib cóirhceAC, ^An puAirii-neAp 
 D’pÁ§Aib, 
 
 ^uÁ pÁiú An Ríg A 5 -CAicibín 11 í tlAbbAcÁin ! 
 
 1p pADA ADbAoiúe, cApoA cío|iÉA, ’p ^ f5iiAb-]pobu bÁn, 
 
 'S A DeApcA pin Aj AtfiApc coip cuAncA bpeÁJ ; 
 
 1p bbApDAbínn do cAnAn pí, ^tip btiAn bíop pÁipc, 
 lDip riiAC An Ríg ’^tip CAiuibín Tlí tlAbbAcÁin ! 
 
 TIÁ ineAfADAOip, nA pppeAbAipi'óe, jtip bnAn Áp b-pÁip, 
 
 ’S 5tip jeApp A bÍD nA ^bAfA a pjAoibe, ’nnAip ip cptiAig An 
 cÁp; 
 
 50 n-DeÁpnAD b)iA poirh pobnb Israel, De’n móprhtiip 
 
 cpÁig, 
 
 ’S 50 b-]:óipeA*ó An Ríj opu, a CbAiuibín 11 í tlAbbACÁin ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 163 
 
 Yield not to fear ! The time is near — with sword in hand 
 We soon will chase the Saxon race far from our land. 
 What glory then to stand as men on field and bawn, 
 
 And see all sheen our Caitilin Ni Uallachain ! 
 
 How tossed, how lost, with all hopes crossed, we long have 
 been ! 
 
 Our gold is gone ; gear have we none, as all have seen. 
 But ships shall brave the Ocean’s wave, and morn shall dawn 
 On Eire green, on Caitilin Ni Uallachain I 
 
 Let none believe this lovely Eve outworn or old — 
 
 Fair is her form ; her blood is warm, her heart is bold. 
 Though strangers long have wrought her wrong, she will 
 not fawn — 
 
 Will not prove mean, our Caitilin Ni Uallachain ! 
 
 Her stately air, her flowing hair — her eyes that far 
 Pierced through the gloom of Banba’s* doom, each like astar; 
 Her songful voice that makes rejoice hearts Grief hath 
 gnawn, 
 
 Prove her our Queen, our Caitilin Ni Uallachain I 
 
 We will not bear the chains we wear, not bear them long. 
 We seem bereaven, but mighty Heaven will make us strong. 
 The God who led through Ocean Bed all Israel on 
 Will aid our Queen, our Caitilin Ni Uallachain ! 
 
 * Ireland’s. 
 
 r 
 
164 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 A Tnhtii|\e Díbf! a cAjiAD cAoin lAtiii'g, gAc tiAip nÁ]\ 
 
 b-pÁl]AU, 
 
 /AjAib 1opA ! Ap pon riA n-^AOioeAb-bocu, ip cptiAig An cÁp I 
 bncu An ipbipu do cup Ap DÍbipu, Áp puuAipe tnnÁ, 
 
 ’S A céibe píp-ceApc, do coacu uAp uaoido, jAn buAipc nA 
 
 DAlb ! 
 
 CeAnjAb. 
 
 UÁ gne gÍAn Aip Phoebus, Y bonnpAD cpÍD, 
 
 UÁ An pAO péAÍcA A j-curipA cpumn ; 
 
 UÁ nA ppéApcA pÁ p^éiin-gbAn, ^An pmúiu, gAn uéirhiob^ 
 
 tloiifi lléx ceApc nA péinne, ’p a cpúp CAp comn. 
 
 UÁ Áp j-cbéipe A g-CAoifi-guic, A púib be Cpíopu, 
 
 ’S Ap n-éijpi 50 péiineAc, 'p a j-cuttia Dub Díob : 
 ^AODAibbocc 1nnip Oib^e, 50 pn^Ac, píoDAc, 
 lloirh ShéAmup'^ rhic SeAinuip, 13iuic cAp uoinn. 
 
 ♦ In the first stanza, the poet alludes to the regal honours paid to 
 James Francis Stuart, at Madrid, in 1719, when Cardinal Alberoni and 
 the Duke of Ormond planned the expedition to Scotland in his favour. 
 He committed a fatal mistake in not making a descent upon Ireland 
 where the old Irish and northern Presbyterians were most anxious to 
 have “The auld Stuarts back again.” 
 
 Had he accomplished his design of sending the Dwvke of Ormond and 
 
 O- 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 165 
 
 O, Virgin pure ! our true and sure defence thou art ! 
 
 Pray thou thy Son to help us on in hand and heart ! 
 
 Our Prince, our Light, shall banish night — then beameth 
 Dawn — 
 
 Then shall be seen our Caitilin Ni Vallachain! 
 
 SUMMING-UP.* * 
 
 Phoebus shines brightly with his rays so pure, 
 
 The moon and stars their courses run ; 
 
 The firmament is not darkened by clouds or mist, 
 
 As our true king with his troops over the ocean comes. 
 
 Our priests are as one man imploring Christ, 
 
 Our bards are songful, and their gloom dispelled ; 
 
 The poor Gael of Inis-Eilge in calm now rest 
 Before James, *!• the son of James, and the Duke^ who 
 over ocean comes. 
 
 General Dillon to Ireland, the Irish government could not have sent the 
 troops to the Duke of Argyle, which dispersed the Scotch Jacobites in 
 1716. Hoolce, Stuart Papers, 
 
 * We have given a literal translation of these two stanzas, as Mangan 
 did not versify them, 
 t The Chevalier de St. George. 
 
 Í J ames, second Duke of Ormond. 
 
IGO 
 
 THK POETS AND POETRY 
 
 m^h seARttis. 
 
 HiltiATn cca 
 
 THE HUMOURS OF GLYN. 
 
 
 — F^n-r 
 
 
 'it-f/ 
 
 _w ! 1 . 
 
 ir 1 
 
 r r y i i _ 
 
 irTi ^ F T J • 
 
 
 vm7 0 . .. n ' ^ ' 
 
 9h 
 
 il 1 W-i 
 
 
 ■■ 
 
 A phÁDjiAig tiA rí-Á|i|iAnD ! a 5-ctuin’ tzú da 5Á|\púA, 
 ^ 5-cluiD1|l AD píé-|lÁCA,^' AD pOflDAD, Y ^ 
 
 'ó<\\ CtlAtAip rriAp ÚÁ1D1C 50 CÓlje tlttAD AD jÁ|\DA, 
 Thurot DA plÁiDue te h-iomApcAD fsoip ! 
 
 * Tie means a row, such as would occui; in a country shebeen 
 
OF MUNSTEK. 
 
 167 
 
 A WELCOME FOR KING CHARLES. 
 
 BY WILLIAM HEFFEENAN (THE BLIND). 
 Air : — “ Humours of Glynn.^' 
 
 This air was very popular in the town and vicinity of Clonpiel. The 
 Olynn, from which it takes its name, is a small romantic country village, 
 situated at either side of the Suir, midway between the towns of 
 Garrick and Clonmel. 
 
 Having, from our infancy, heard this air traditionally ascribed by the 
 peasantry of the district, to a celebrated piper named Power, a native 
 of the locality, we, some time ago, wrote to John R. O’Mahony, Esq., 
 of Mullough, for information on the subject, and the following extract 
 from his letter will probably satisfy our readers : — 
 
 “Glynn,” says Mr. O’Mahony, “was more than a century ago the 
 residence of a branch of the Powers, to which family it still belongs. 
 One of them, Pierse Power, called Mac an Bharuin (the Baron’s Son, for 
 his father was the ‘ Barun^ or Baron, of an annual fair held here), 
 was celebrated as a poet and musician ; and there is a tradition among 
 his descendants, that he was the author of the popular air of “ The 
 Humours of Glynn. * ” 
 
 O Patrick, my friend, have you heard the commotion. 
 The clangour, the shouting, so lately gone forth ] 
 The troops have come over the blue-billowed ocean. 
 And Thurotf commands in the camp of the North. 
 
 house. It is derived from plCj contention, and raca^ an epithet by which 
 a country public-house is known among the natives. 
 
 + Commander Thurot (whose real name it is said was O’FarreU) and 
 
168 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 PjieAb ! bio AD -peA-pATh ! gbAc meAri’mriA*ó ’p ^^05 ’noip ? 
 
 JpiofAig riA peAbAic-pi ad c-Aice cum ppóipc, 
 beiDOAD puiciDODA péiDo bc cboiDeAth A m-beiD pAobAp Aip, 
 ’S pACAm A ri-éiripe<^ccpAOi bpAUAib Áp beó^Airi. 
 
 €-ipDi5 A jAODAib-boicc ’uÁ cpÁiDce méipbij, 
 gbACAij búp D-upéAU-Aipm jAip^e 'r. búp d-dóid, 
 bíob Hurrah 50 pú^AC ! Anoip o cÁ ’ri ppíonnpA 
 
 ’S A gÁpDAige 50 DÚbAbcAD Aj cAppAiuc ’n búp 5-CÓip ? 
 Eurroo ^au DocmAb ! bíoD Deoc Ap au m-bópD AgAib, 
 Suij^ÍDe 50 pocmAD bepoibibiop ceoib? 
 
 UÁ’u bÁipe Ag Áp muinap, ’p An bA ’co Ap An nAtfiAiDe, 
 
 ’S 50 bpÁú beiD Áp pAoice Ag imipc ’p aj ób. 
 
 AuÁ 'n HúcA^ pAbÁiDip niÁp piop jac a pÁiDueAp, 
 
 An cpobAipe ceAnn-ÁpD Y *< 5 ^ buime gAn bpón ; 
 
 Seoippe 50 bÁn-bAj — ’p Cumberland cpÁibce, 
 
 Pitt Ann pA Parliament CAiúce Aip a cóin ! 
 
 Colonel Cavenac landed with 700 French troops near Carrickfergus in 
 1760, according to the old song — 
 
 The twenty-first of February, as I’ve heard the people say, 
 
 Three French ships of war came and anchored in our bay ; 
 
 They hoisted English colours, and they landed in Kilroot, 
 
 And marched their men for Garrick, without further dispute.** 
 
 They immediately took possession of the town, and remained in it for 
 five days, after which they sailed away, having obtained the supplies of 
 provisions and water, for which they had landed. 
 
 On the 28th the French vessels were attacked and captured, off the 
 Isle of Man, by three English frigates, commanded by Captain Elliot. 
 Thurot was killed in the action, after a most heroic but ineffectual de* 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 169 
 
 Up, up, to your post ! — one of glory and danger — 
 
 Our legions must now neither falter nor fail : 
 
 o 
 
 We’ll chase from the island the hosts of the stranger, 
 Led on by the conquering Prince of the Gael ! 
 
 And you, my poor countrymen, trampled for ages, 
 Grasp each of you now his sharp sword in his hand ! 
 
 The war that Prince Charlie so valiantly wages 
 Is one that will shatter the chains of our land. 
 
 Hurrah for our Leader! Hurrah for Prince Charlie! 
 Give praise to his efforts with music and song ; 
 
 Our nobles will now, in the juice of the barley, 
 
 Carouse to his victories all the day long ! 
 
 Rothe* marshals his brave-hearted forces to waken 
 The soul of the nation to combat and dare, 
 
 While Georgy is feeble and Cumberland shaken. 
 
 And Parliament gnashes its teeth in despair. 
 
 fence against a vastly superior force. The contemporary ballad tella 
 us that, — 
 
 “Before they got their colours struck, great slaughter was made, 
 
 And many a gallant Frenchman on Thurot’s decks lay dead ; 
 
 They came tumbling down the shrouds, upon his deck they lay. 
 
 While our brave Irish heroes cut their booms and yards away. 
 
 And as for Monsieur Thurot, as I’ve heard people say, 
 
 He was taken up by Elliot’s men, and buried in Ramsay Bay.*» 
 
 This affair has been greatly misrepresented. Thurot merely landed 
 to procure provisions, as his men were almost starved, having only one 
 ounce of bread daily to live upon. — M‘Skimmin’s Sistory of Carrick^» 
 fergus^'^^ ** Life of Thurot f by T. C. Croker. 
 
 * One of the Rothes of Kilkenny, then in the French service. 
 
170 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 TIa Heelans* da D-cAiniAinupAoi plAiDib nAD-upt3pArinAi1> 
 ’S A b-pibioriAD pADA DA pppeAgA cum ceolb, 
 
 TlAinnce Ap jac rriAob-cnoc — be b-ÁÚAp íia p^béipe ; 
 cup pÁibce poirh SbéApbup a bAibe ^da c'póiun. 
 
 é píg-pÁD DÁipípe é — AU pbé-pACA, Y An u-Aoib’neAp,. 
 ^n l'géAb bpeÁgA be b-ínnpinu pAiD tfiAippioin ^ac bó ; 
 TlAcóbAi^ 50 cbAoibce — jAn póic’ pin, jAn píoncA, 
 
 ^An ceóbuAD, gAn pAOiúe, jAn bAibue, jAn bón I 
 
 IxAobAlg gAC jAbbA-pOC, beAJAI^ p ^AD, 
 
 Ctnpig Ap UAbArh btjp n-AiúpeAc au cótp, 
 
 UÁ Seoippe Y A TTitiincip 50 bpónAc bAj cbAOibue, 
 
 'S c’póinn nA D-upí píogACDA ní cAppAiD 50 Deol 
 
 bhAin-utieAbhdch ’s dn mlidi5hi3ion.t 
 
 dp triAigDion Y Ap bAin-upeAbAc do pinn T)ia 50 b-óg Díom^. 
 Tlí bínn bioni An cpeiDibb-pi ^AbAib címciobb mo nuADCAip ; 
 bA beAn-pófDA Ap mAiDin mé, o’n CA^bAip corfiAccAc, 
 
 'S Ap bAin-cpeAbAc m’Ainim Ap úeAcu Do’n cpÁónónA. 
 
 * Meelans, the Highlaeders. 
 
 fWe cannot trace the author, or rather the authoress^ of this song. 
 That it was composed during the campaign of King James in Ireland 
 need not be questioned. According to the highest authority on that 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 171 
 
 The lads with the dirks from the hills of the Highlands 
 Are marching with pibroch and shout to the field, 
 
 And Charlie, Prince Charlie, the King of the Islands, 
 
 Will force the usurping old German to yield ! 
 
 0, this is the joy, this the revel in earnest, 
 
 The story to tell to the ends of the earth. 
 
 That our youths have uprisen, resolving with sternest 
 Intention, to fight for the land of their birth. 
 
 We will drive out the Stranger from green-valleyed Erin — 
 King George and his crew shall be scarce in the land. 
 And the Crown of Three Kingdoms shall he alone wear in 
 The Islands — our Prince — the Man born to command ! 
 
 THE VIKGIN, WIFE, AND WIDOW. 
 
 A virgin... and widow... I mourn lone and lowly, 
 
 This morn saw me wedded, in God’s Temple holy. 
 And noontide beholds me a lorn widow weeping. 
 
 For my spouse in the dark tomb for ever lies sleeping. 
 
 episode in our history, it cost England nearly eighteen millions sterling 
 to overcome the 1,200,000 Irish who took up arms in 1689. Macarics 
 Excidium edited for the Irish Archceological Society, by J, G. O' Callaghan, 
 
THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 UÁ “pmuic Ap mo cpoioe-p riÁ fjAoil^eAO 50 h-éA^ do, 
 poAD hem D]iucc Ap riA jleAnncA, riÁ ceó AjA ra fléibce; 
 Ta córh|AA*ó DÁ -píiíorh *óuic 50 caoir DOAf dor caoL dai|a, 
 1f é mo lÁ h\\6m ar cjAeioilt-p^ oÁ ÍRRpRc éAjAij'! 
 
 1f DOAf DO ClOCpAD cloioeATTl DUIC A|A mAjACAIgeACC A|A 
 CAot-eAC, 
 
 110 Ag -pélDe RA 1l-ADAl-|ACe VO gADAIjA-blRRO A1]A -pAOUAjA ; 
 Uhó^pÁD AR ceó ve m’ÍRciRR Y a|a beiRR-mAoil ar 
 u-'pt.éibe, 
 
 AgRj' Ái|AeócAmAoiD tJAiRR CR iÁ buAiluo llíg SoAmuf ! 
 
 1p mó]A mó]A é m’eAjlA 50 b-puil do rhinRuitv a b--|:tAA]AÁR 
 
 tiom, 
 
 iriAjA RÁ|A lltigAf Y fSlAOADAf RllAllA CORRAjAC AR piílt 
 
 RApAb ! 
 
 T)Y^AC CR UA|\ A1|A 0|Am a DlAR-jjAÁb bA C|ARA5 DAm, 
 
 Acd D’impgeAg AR peAbt a]a mo arr^acd ar RAip rd ! 
 
 nio tflAbbACU béA-ppAIRR DVoiR-beAR RA m-beiDOAC beijAU 
 -peAlA DÁ b-1A]A]AAb, 
 
 tlÁ DéARpAD A DÍCCIobb ^AR AOR ACA |\1A]AAD ; 
 
 tHAp ÁibbeÁR cAibce AjA cAibb mé mo ciAbbbeif, 
 
 ’S -pe^^A bjAeÁgA-DeAf RÁ 5]AÁRA RÁ jpÁlDpeAD AD DIAIg-p ! 
 
 * Creidhilly death-bell, knell. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 173 
 
 On my heart lies a cloud, and will lie there for ever. 
 Hark ! hark to that death-knell that dooms us to sever. 
 Oh ! well may my eyes pour forth tears as a fountain, 
 While dew gems the valley or mist dims the mountain. 
 
 King James mourns a hero as brave as e’er breathed — 
 
 O ! to see him, when mounted, with bright blade unsheathed. 
 Or high on the hill-side, with bugle and beagles. 
 
 Where his foot was a deer’s and his eye was an eagle’s. 
 
 I shrieked and I cried when his blood gushed like water, 
 But treachery and baseness had doomed him to slaughter. 
 He glanced at me fondly to comfort and cheer me ; 
 
 Yet his friends love me not, and they never come near me* 
 
 Accurst be the maid who can smile on two lovers ! 
 Around me the shade of my lost husband hovers. 
 
 And oh ! never more can I think of another. 
 
 Or feel for a lover save as for a brother ! 
 
 The first stanza of this poem bears a great resemblance to Gerald 
 Griffin’s beautiful verses “ The Bridal of Malahide”: — 
 
 “ Te saw him at morning. 
 How gallant and gay 1 
 In bridal adorning, 
 
 The star of the day: 
 
 Now weep for the lover— 
 His triumph is sped, 
 
 His hope it is over ! 
 
 The chieftain is dead I 
 
 But, oh for the maiden 
 Who mourns for that chief, 
 With heart overladen 
 And rending with grief ! 
 She sinks on the meadow 
 In one morning’s tide, 
 
 A wife and a widow, 
 
 A maid and a bride I’* 
 
174 
 
 THE POETS AXD POETRY 
 
 Sldlliue Rljll SeARIAS. 
 
 eójATi Rua-ó 41a SúilleAbÁin, ccc., A.X). 1783. 
 
 ■poqt) : — SeásAi) O’ilujbjii At) oble4t)t)4. 
 
 Moderately ^ 
 
 Slow. (^ 4 %• 
 
 =n=i^ 
 
 ^ ir ^ !W -| 
 
 
 N ^ ■* *! 
 
 i-ir^ ^-j- 
 
 
 -«— « 'T#- 
 
 A . - j -• * J j- 
 
 Cr • — 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 m 
 
 d * é 
 
 
 § 
 
 é 
 
 0 -:»i 
 
 trio cAf ! mo cAoi ! mo ceAfnA-o ! 
 An ]:Ác útJg ctAoi*óue An eAi'bA’ó ! 
 ^Aige, 'OjAAoice, Y 
 
 *OAim Agiif cbéipl 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 175 
 
 A HEALTH TO KING CHARLES. 
 
 BY EOGAN O’SULLIVAN (THE REU). 
 Aie, ; — John 0^ Dwyer of the Glyn, 
 
 This Jacobite relic by Eoghan Buadh, is adapted to tbe well-known 
 air of Seaghan 0 Duihhir an Ghleanna, of which the original song, with a 
 translation by the late Thomas Furlong, will be found at p. 86, vol. ii. of 
 Hardiman’s “ Irish Minstrelsy.’* 
 
 Colonel John O’Dwyer, for whom the song was composed, was a 
 distinguished officer who commanded in Waterford and Tipperary, in 
 1651, but after the capitulations, sailed from the former port with five 
 hundred of his faithful followers for Spain. 
 
 The O’Dwyers were a branch of the Heremonians of Leinster, and 
 possessed the present baronies of Kilnemanach, in Tipperary. From an 
 early period they were remarkable for their courage, and after the ex- 
 patriation of the old Irish nobility, several of the family distinguished 
 themselves abroad in the Irish Brigade. In the last century General 
 O’Dwyer was governor of Belgrade, and Admiral O’Dwyer displayed 
 great bravery in the Russian service. 
 
 Source of lamentation ! 
 Bitter tribulation, 
 
 That I see my nation 
 Fallen clown so low ! 
 
6 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Jar DÁin da ]\\om te h-Aicioj', 
 
 Jar ^ÁiDce 5 ]\írr dá ^-carrad ; 
 
 5ar fÁtR-c]itiic bÍRR DÁ fpiAeAgAo; 
 
 A m-bÁR-bpo^Aili) |iéi*ó ! 
 
 5aC pÁlb D’ptnb tnbíblD CeARRAip, 
 l^ÁlDip, ÍAOCDA, CApA ; 
 
 IDa jRÁCAC pAIRCeAC, jlAÚAC, 
 
 LÁR-Olbce Aip pAobA]A ! 
 gAR pcÁC, gAR bui'ÓeAR,'^ gAR peA^ARR, 
 
 -<X|A ip míbe tReApAD 
 
 TIa SeÁ^AR tlA I^Rlbip AR ^l^beARRA, 
 
 A beic pÁjcAD gAR Game l 
 
 UpÁlC A pAOip Am beAbAD, 
 cÁfArh Dícf RA peAbAc ; 
 
 UbÁiRit) pjRim ^AR p5AipeA*ó, 
 
 O bÁifiAib Morpheus ! 
 
 'PAOi'm DÁib 50 píbireAc, peAfgAip, 
 
 ■CÁThAC, círn, ^ar uAipe, 
 
 me Aip díc mo ÚApAió 
 D’ÁpDAi5 mo Reub ! 
 
 5 aR PpÁp A UÍJeACC DO DeApCAp, 
 
 IpÁiRgeAc jpÍRR upe m’AipbiR5, 
 
 50 b-ÁbuiRR, Í05AIP, Alblg, 
 
 UÁice be m’ cAob. 
 
 gtip bpeÁjCAD bÍRR, 5AR bbADAp, 
 
 S^Áib Y “<^0151 ]i, A beACAR ; 
 
 11 A R tflÁRbAD miR J be’p CAlbbeA^ 
 
 ^ÁpOA RA UpAe ! 
 
 I\eadings in other copies — mAOIR. t ©AJ. í Helen. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 177 
 
 See her sages hoary, 
 
 Once the island’s glory, 
 Wandering without story 
 Or solace, to and fro. 
 Mileadh’s* offspring knigl.tly, 
 Powerful, active, sprightly. 
 They who wielded lightly 
 Weighty arms of steel. 
 
 Left with no hopes higher. 
 With griefs ever nigher, 
 Worse woes than O’Dwyer 
 Of the Glens could feel ! 
 
 Last night sad and pining. 
 
 As I lay reclining, 
 
 Sleep at length came twining 
 Bands around my soul ; 
 Then a maiden slender. 
 Azure-eyed, and tender, . 
 Came, me dreamt, to render 
 Lighter my deep dole. 
 
 Fair she was, and smiling, 
 Bright and woe-beguiling ; 
 Vision meet for wiling 
 Grief, and bringing joy. 
 None might e’er compare her 
 With a maiden fairer — 
 
 0 ! her charms were rarer 
 Than the Maid’s of Troy. 
 
 Mileadh pronounced Meeliy Milesius. 
 
 M 
 
THE POETS AND POETPY 
 
 IDA CAbl^AC, CÍOJAÚA, CA-pOA, 
 UacLaC, DbAOlueAC, DACAC, 
 SjAinneAC, qAin^^eAC,* -pADA, 
 pÁingeAc 50 
 
 A biÁc-fotc binneAC, beAbAi]A, 
 CÁpiriAC, bifeAC, 'pnAiriAc; 
 
 O ÁpiD A cinn riA n-DÍAÚAib, 
 UÁiú-beAbAi^% béi. 
 lOhí fjÁlb riA g-CÁOpi Aip\ bA]"A, 
 
 Upe bÁine An bíc 'nA beACAin ; 
 triÁnDACc, mine, \ niAipe, 
 
 UÁice ’nA 'pjéirh ! 
 
 ’S A -pArh-iAoi'^ |AÍn be’|A ceAbt' 
 UÁinue bAoic gAn cApAD ! 
 SÁpuA’p lonAnn mAbA 
 ApD-pniDDue, CAob. 
 
 A b]AÁ§A mAp gnAoi nA b-eAbA, 
 
 >dn cpÁú Do binjeAn Aip AbAinn ; 
 
 tló pnÁm nA uAoiDe mA]AA, 
 
 Aip bÁn-connAib cpéAn, 
 bÁn-cpob AobDA, beAbAip, 
 
 1 p pÁtfi Do pírheAC Aip bpACAib ; 
 CÁgA, míobuAÓ, peAnnAig, 
 
 Tlóince ’gnp éipg. 
 
 CÁpnA*ó Y coímeAf^Aip peAbAC, 
 5Áip nA g-cboiDeAiTi DÁ n-gpeADA, 
 IdIáú nA g-cpAob Y GAbCA, 
 
 A m-bÁpp-cbticAip ^éAg, 
 
 * P|AAinnpeAC, 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 179 
 
 Like that damsers olden 
 Flowed her tresses golden, 
 
 In rich braids enfolden, 
 
 To the very ground ; 
 
 Thickly did they cluster 
 In a dazzling muster, 
 
 And in matchless lustre, 
 
 Curled around and round. 
 
 The red berry’s brightness, 
 
 A.nd the lily’s whiteness, 
 Comeliness and lightness, 
 Marked her face and shape. 
 She had eye-brows narrow, 
 
 Eyes that thrilled the marrow, 
 A.nd from whose sharp arrow 
 None could e’er escape. 
 
 Her white breasts were swelling, 
 Like the swan’s while dwelling 
 Where the waves are welling 
 O’er the stormy sea ; 
 
 And her fingers pat in 
 Broidering upon satin 
 Birds at early matin 
 Warbling on the tree. 
 
 Fishes, beasts, and flowers, 
 Fields, and camps, and towers, 
 Gardens, lakes, and bowers, 
 t Were so fine and white ! 
 
180 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 ’S 5ii]i y-Airhe tinn 
 
 ’S DÁin ^An ^TtiiJeALt dá 5 -c<xnn<x'ó ; 
 
 A iiÁiDui'b 5pnn Le bt<M]"e 
 tlÁ -pÁrh-c]Hiic Orpheus ! 
 
 ITÁim, A]i p, te -peA^AD, 
 
 IpÁ^CA A 1 |V DÍÚ mo CAjlAD ; 
 
 Pa 01 ÚÁ 1 |\ AJ D]AÍ 0 ‘ 0 A]A T)AnA] 1 , 
 '0’Á'p*OAi5 tno teun ! 
 
 JAD cÁin, gAn c]nc, ^aii ceAnriA]', 
 
 5 aD A]Atlf 'IIÍ5 mA]A cleACCA]', 
 jAn uÁin, jAn btii*óeAn, gAn peA]\Ann, 
 A|At)-rheA]", tiÁ |\éim ! 
 
 Am cpÁin bocc cnAoice, cAice, 
 
 A 5 uÁb 50 ^tiigeAC o'm bAlbAib, 
 
 AljA Á*ÓAb 5AC DAOIj'Ce D^Aicme, 
 
 ShÁcAri, 51 * 0 ’ cbAon ! 
 
 50 h]\Át 11Í ctiibe btiic bAbAi^xc, 
 pÁi|\c cum 5]AÍnn do ÚAbAi]\c ; 
 oe tn’Áiinorii d puig’teAC ai]\iti, 
 
 5^]ada aju]" mAO|^. 
 
 t)A |1 pÁpÁn DÍb DO TTieAfAf, 
 
 5ti|A ptÁ]p 5AC m DO bAbAi]\ ; 
 
 mA|\ fÁb ó'n E-jníoTÍi ’da|\ beApuAf, 
 
 pÁipueAc belt béi ; 
 
 ^Ati poÁf x)on |\ío5 5ii]A AiceAf, 
 
 PÁt A CÍgeACC DAIR Aice, 
 
 A |AÁp A c|iAoib, Y ^ b’Aimni, 
 
 'Paia|\a*ó a béAf. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 181 
 
 WanderÍDg through the mazes 
 Of her lyric phrases, 
 
 I could chant her praises 
 All the day and night ! 
 
 0 ! thou land of bravery 
 Cried she, ‘‘ sunk in slavery, 
 Through the tyrant knavery 
 Of the stranger foe — 
 
 Tribeless, landless, nameless, 
 Wealthless, hostless, fameless 
 Wander now thine aimless 
 Children to and fro. 
 
 Like a barren mother 
 Nursing for another 
 Cubs she fain would smother. 
 
 So I feel to-day. 
 
 Sadness breathes around me, 
 Sorrow’s chains have bound me. 
 They who should have crowned me 
 Perish far away !” 
 
 Could I, think you, waver ? 
 
 No ! — these words I gave her — 
 
 O, thou fair enslaver, 
 
 Thou hast won my heart. 
 
 Speak on, I entreat thee, 
 
 I may never meet thee, 
 
 Never more may greet thee, 
 
 Speak, before we part !’’ 
 
182 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 lÁn-cocc CAOi jup Aiqnp 
 ^]\ HA pAOIÚe* f TlATHAI^ ; 
 
 An ÁicpeAb cpice CliAipit, 
 
 ChÁig curriAipg téi. 
 
 *S cAp pÁib 50 p^íopDpA-ó Aicnie, 
 *OhÁnA, biompAC, Aibi§, 
 
 A cpAb DÍoú-cup T)AriA]\ 
 T)ÁriA, Ap A péini. 
 
 Am pÁipc-pi juibeAc jac ]'eAbAc, 
 
 Aua jATi cpioc be peAÍAD, 
 
 PaOI ÚÁip HA OAOippe A5 I'eApAlTI, 
 
 SÁp-coibe "Oé ! 
 
 5ac cpÁiú cHm CRIOST) puAip peAHHAit), 
 pÁip Y íoóbAipc peApb ! 
 
 CpAÓ be pi 06 Y jeAppAD 
 Chath, A^tip^éAj; ! 
 
 Ah pÁgHAc, Rij 5AH AiHimY 
 Aua *00 -pop pÁ pgAmAb ; 
 
 5aH ppÁp A ÚÍJeACU A H-J^lAAOAm, 
 
 AlUpeAb HA H-^AODAb. 
 
 *The total extirpation of the Irish natives was strongly advocated in 
 the English political pamphlets of the seventeenth century. One of them, 
 printed at London; in 1647, contains a tirade against the Irish too 
 brutal for quotation, and concludes by invoking an imprecation on all 
 •vho would not make their swords ‘^starke drunk with Irish blood.” 
 Two years afterwards, Oliver Cromwell followed this advice so reli- 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 183 
 
 So she then related, 
 
 How our land was hated, 
 
 CashelJ devastated, 
 
 And its chieftains slain. 
 
 But,’^ she said, we are striving, 
 Hosts are now arriving 
 Who will soon be driving 
 Tyrants o'er the main 1" 
 
 O ! Thou who inspirest 
 Eire’s bards, and firest 
 Heroes’ breasts in direst 
 Woe through bitter years^ 
 Unto Thee each morning 
 Who didst dree such scorning, 
 Scoffing, scourging, thorning, 
 
 I cry out with tears ! 
 
 Send him bact^ and quickly 
 Who now, sad and sickly, 
 Boams where sorrows thickly 
 Press and crush him down ! 
 
 giously, that his name among the Irish peasantry is still synonymous 
 with murder, ruin, and desolation. 
 
 t An faghnach High gan ainim. The exiled or wandering King without 
 a name — Prince Charles Edward Stuart. 
 
 tin 1647, Cashel was sacked by the Earl of Inchiquin’s troops. For 
 an account of the hideous massacre, see Rev. C. P. Meehan’s “ Irish 
 FVanciscans ” and “Hierarchy,” p. 360. 
 
184 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 ’S An cA]i--p|0]Aou coiTÍiúeAC, TneATTitnlt, 
 AcÁ nA fuige ’nÁ]A m-bAiLce, 
 
 1/6 CA]AnA cloiOeATTl DO ^^AipCAD, 
 
 -dp clÁp leAÚAn Tléilt. 
 
 50 “h-AicpeAb Chuinn da d-uajac, 
 
 SpÁinmg* gpoiDe le ceAnnAp; 
 
 ’S 5A]ADA lAOipeAC peApAD, 
 
 UÁin DO luce pAoli)Ap. 
 
 11Í b-ptnl p]\AiD pAn ]\igeAcc ’nÁ cACAip; 
 11 Áp b’ÁpD A D-ueince Aip lApAD, 
 LÁn-ctJiD pi on DA pgAipeAD, 
 
 ’S gÁpDACAp plÓAp, 
 
 T)Áin Aj btHDeAn nA leAbAp, 
 txÁip Y “ pAinnee pADA 
 ClÁippeAc CAoin da pppeA^AD, 
 
 ’5U1' fsiéip ! 
 
 dg pÁibuingAD An Ixij cAp caIaic, 
 
 ’S ni úpÁccpAp linn Aip Ainim, 
 
 ’S A cÁipDe D1Ú5A15 peApDA, 
 
 SlÁince tno E,ex! 
 
 ♦ Les Irlandois’* (says Boullaye Le Gouz) “ ayment les Espagnols 
 comme leur freres, les Frai]9ois comme leurs amis, les Italiens comme 
 leurs alliez, les Allemands comme leiir parens, les Anglois et Ecossois 
 sontleur ennemis irreconcilables .” — Voyages et Observations^ 447. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 185 
 
 And disperse and scatter 
 All who in these latter 
 Times have striven to shatter 
 Eire’s rightful Crown ! 
 
 O ! the French and Spanish 
 Soon our foes will banish ; 
 
 Then at once will vanish 
 All our grief and dread, 
 
 City, town, and village 
 Shall no more know pillage, 
 
 Music, feasting, tillage, 
 
 Shall abound instead ; 
 
 Poetry, romances, 
 
 Paces, and long dances,’^ 
 
 Shouts, and songs, and glances 
 From eyes bright with smiles! 
 Our King s feasts shall Fame hymn. 
 Though I m.ay not name him, 
 Victory will proclaim him 
 Monarch of the Isles. 
 
 (The Irisli love the Spaniards as brothers, the French as their friends, 
 the Italians as their allies, the Germans as their kinsmen, but the 
 English and Scotch they regard as their irreconcilable enemies.) 
 
186 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 inghion A11 -phAoiu o’n n-jtevMin * 
 
 SiúbAit A ctii*o ! bí’ó Ag gbtJAifeAcc, 
 jAn fCA*o, 5An ]:tiApA*ó ; 
 
 UÁ’n oí*óce gAipiT) f*Aríi|\A*ó ; 
 
 bío^ÓAm A |iAon a|\ púbAb ? 
 
 UbeAbAi|A AoibneAf, bAibue mó]iA, 
 
 ’S lAA^ÓAjAc be m’ ÚAoib a|a ctiAneA*ó ; 
 
 "S A Cbpofc nÁjA 'pó-b]ieÁ 5 
 
 ATI b-pAoiceAc |:a'oa ó’n n-JbeAnn ! 
 
 UÁ mé bÁn *00 nAi]ie 
 
 Upé jAc beAjic 'OÁ n-*oeÁ|tnAÓ ; 
 
 inA|\ 1-p btiACAibb mé bí*ó 'oáha; 
 
 'S *0’ iincig tiAim mo gjAeAnn ! 
 tlí beó mé mí ’nÁ \\hte, 
 tnA|v A b-pA^Ai-o mé póg Y p^ibce, 
 
 ’S ceAt) píne píop be *0’ bÁin-crieip, 
 
 A Ingíon An pliAoiu ó ’n n-gbeAnn ! 
 
 1 f iom*ÓA cAibín ppéipeAniAib, 
 
 "Oo gbtiAippeAt) biom nA b-AonAp ; 
 
 TllobbAim péin a ujiéijce, 
 
 A 5-coibbue bÓAb 
 
 * Gleann (Glyn), a small village situate on the banks of the Suirj 
 midway between the towns of Garrick and Clonmel. An annual fair is 
 held here on the twenty-eighth of May. The Suir runs direct through 
 the village, dividing it into two — hence, the following proverb among 
 the natives : — 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 187 
 
 WHITENS DAUGHTER OF THE GLEN. 
 
 Come, let us trip away, love, 
 
 We must no longer stay, love. 
 Night soon will yield to day, love ; 
 
 We’ll bid these haunts farewell. 
 We’ll quit the fields, and rather 
 New life in cities gather ; 
 
 And I’ll outwit your father. 
 
 The tall White of the Dell ! 
 
 I am filled with melancholy 
 For all my bygone folly ; 
 
 A wild blade and a jolly 
 I was, as most can tell ; 
 
 But woes now throng me thickly, 
 
 I droop, all faint and sickly, 
 ril die or win her quickly. 
 
 White’s Daughter of the Dell ! 
 
 There is many a Kate and Sally 
 Who’d gladly stray and dally 
 Along with me in valley. 
 
 Or glade, or mossy cell — 
 
 Bioch a leath air an d-taohh air nos aonach an Ghleanna'' 
 
 “ Let it be fairly divided, like the fair of Glyn.’’ 
 t A large tract of land east or south-east of Garrick, lying near an 
 opening in the hills immediately over the Suir, and not far from the 
 demesne of Tinahalla. 
 
18 S 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 "OÁ TYi-beiomi];' ceiLe, 
 
 Ag ÓL A rí-*Ou]AÍ<\i^ phéite,^ 
 
 trio tÁifi ]pAoi ceAtiR ino céAD-'peA^ic, 
 
 T)o ctii]Apnn Í cum -puAin ! 
 
 A CA^\^r^ bAiHAAifiAiL, 'I'peipeArhAit, 
 
 ’Ha D-cug mé peA]AC mo ctéib Dtiic ; 
 
 Ip é ’n *00 tug mé ’pAOip ouic, 
 
 Chuip An pAojAD-pA upe m’ com ! 
 
 Hi beó Ap muip uÁ Ap péAp me, 
 
 ’S cAop^Aim puib mo ctéib ’rriAc; 
 
 1 p é mo bpóri 5A11 mé ip mo céA'o-peApc, 
 
 PaOI DUltteAbAp jtAf UA J-CpARtl ! 
 
 T)Á m-bei*óirin-pi bÁ bpeÁg jpéirie, 
 
 -dm pui*óe A]\ beínn au u-pLéibe; 
 du bon-*oubf céippeAc, 
 
 dg peinim óp mo ceAuri ; 
 
 13a DeAp Do p5píbpinri bÓAppA, 
 
 ’S b’íorigriAD beó iriAp léigpiri, 
 d ii-jpAO beiú pírice cAob beAU, 
 d Ingíon AU phAoic ó’n u-gbeAuri ! 
 
 * Thurles, in the county of Tipperary. 
 
 t Zon-dubh, The Blackbird. This bird was a great favourite with 
 our Gaelic Poets. There is a poem attributed to Oisin on the Blackbird 
 of Doire an Chairn (Derry Cam), in the County of Meath. The following 
 are the two first stanzas : — 
 
 Pinn sin, a loin Dhoire an Chaimn I 
 Ki chualas an ard san m-bith, 
 
 Ceol ba bhinne na do cheol 
 Agus tu fa bhun do nid. 
 
 Aen cheol is binne fa’n m-bith, 
 
 Mairg nach eisdir ris go foil ! 
 
 A mhic Alphruinn na g-clog m-binn, 
 
 'S go m-beartha aris air do noin. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 189 
 
 0 ! were we in Thurles together. 
 
 And each had quaffed a mether,^: 
 
 We’d sleep as on soft heather. 
 
 My sweet One of the Dell ! 
 
 You bright, you blooming Fair, you I 
 Tis next my heart I wear you ! 
 
 The wondrous love I bear you 
 Has bound me like a spell ! 
 
 Oh ! both by land and ocean 
 My soul is all commotion, 
 
 Yours is my deep devotion, 
 
 Dear Damsel of the Dell ! 
 
 Oh ! were I seated near her, 
 
 Where summer woods might cheer her, 
 
 While clearer still, and clearer. 
 
 The blackbird’s notes would swell, 
 
 I’d sing her praise and glory, 
 
 And tell some fairy story 
 Of olden ages hoary, 
 
 To White’s Rose of the Dell ! 
 
 I Methcr, in Irish Meadar^ a drink ÍDg- vessel used by the ancient 
 Irish. 
 
 Melodious are thy lays, 0, Blackbird of Derrycarn 1 
 I have never heard in any quarter of the globe 
 Music sweeter than tliiiie 
 While perched beneath thy nest. 
 
 Music more melodious is not in the world, 
 
 Alas ! had you but listened to it a while 
 0 son of Alphruin of the deep-toned hells. 
 
 You could again your prayers resume. 
 
 See Oisin^s poems, where he contends with St. Patrick, about tJi« 
 «trident voices of his choristers, with which he contrasts the tuneful 
 warbling of the Derrycarn blackbird. 
 
190 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 ’DomlitMtt Y\A 5Reine. 
 
 <t)Ott)114U T)4 
 
 5lié)ne. 
 
 1—«"^ f 
 
 — i9í Z n 
 
 
 Li—i — ^ i-- r 
 
 
 vy n 
 
 
 
 
 CotTiAom Y Frolic — cuija "oe 
 
 A]\ T)1iorhnAt.t riA Jl^éine! 
 tHÁ cuA^At) pb A újAéigce! 
 
 50 5-CAiépeAc -pé -peAccrriAin Ag ói a * 0-05 be Ann a*& 
 ’S nÁ ctnuireAc nÓAb Aiji, 
 
 Id AnArh T)ir céitbe a^\ ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 191 
 
 F 
 
 DOMHNALL NA GREINE. 
 
 Of Donall na Greine, the hero of this song, little is known. We find 
 the following allusion to him in a Jacobite ballad by the Rev. Patrick 
 O’Brien, which appears at p.310. of this volume. 
 
 “ Beidh hata maith beabhair, 
 
 Air Dhomhnall na, Greine, 
 
 Da chathadh is na spmbartha le mér-chroidhe.** 
 
 Dorrihnall na Greine^ 
 
 Shall have a fine beaver, 
 
 Which will toss to the skies with delight. 
 
 Our own opinion is, that Domhnall was a fellow w^ho loitered his time 
 idly basking in the sun, as his coguomen na Greine (of the sun) would 
 indicate, and consequently became a fitting subject for the poets to dis- 
 play their wit upon. 
 
 On this air the Scotch have founded their ‘*Bucky Highlander,” 
 which was by some wag burlesqued in an Anglo-Irish rhyme beginning 
 thus 
 
 Potaties and butter would make a good supper 
 For Bucky Highlander, 
 
 For Bucky Highlander. 
 
 Of Arthur Wallace we know little ; but we have seen some records of 
 a family of that name living in Cork about a century ago — patrons of 
 l»oets and poetry — and it is probable that “ Arthur ” was a distinguished 
 member of this family. 
 
 Wild Domnhall na Greine ! — his frolics would please ye, 
 Yet Wallace, confound him, 
 
 Came trickishly round him ! 
 
 He’d sit, without winking, in alehouses drinking 
 For days without number, 
 
 Nor care about slumber ! 
 
192 
 
 THE POETS ANT) POETRY' 
 
 *00 fé ceACjAAp—ni j-é cAfAoit), 
 
 b’AHATTl 5^11 gléAf é, 
 
 T)oífinAÍt HA 5]iéine ! 
 
 UpooAi^ie, bucAipe— *oÁ b-fuil b-]:Aipon é, 
 
 CtJifle riA 
 
 >Ari SpAÍpAijAe U]AéiúeAc ! 
 
 T)o téigi^'eAc pé cAiiteAc a]\ niúcAÓ Y ai]! cApAc*o, 
 
 Sin cult) t)Á béApA, 
 go n-oeAUAxi) pé péi*óueAc ! 
 
 T)Á m-bogAÓ Y t)Á meAbbA ó oibce 50 itiaioioh. 
 be bÍAOAp ’p bj^éA^A, 
 
 GACCpA Y pgéAluA ! 
 
 b’Ápt) A béiin-pAÚA — Y c]AtiAi*ó A buitbe bACA, 
 
 A5 ueAccAimpip péA-ómA, 
 
 T)o ú|^oit)]:eAc pé c0at)ua. 
 
 bA pAiÚAib int) geA]Ap<^'ó be bú jAib bÁn*i-pAt)A, 
 be Abii]"uiAom éACCAC, 
 
 11 o Hercules g]\éA 5 Ac. 
 
 tlí z:]\éine é Ap uAbAth ’11 Á a]i utiiiiii mA]iA, 
 
 T)o pnÁTÍicAc An Cipne 
 An pcoii\m no ’n péit)e. 
 
 Tlíb Aon neAc idá mAipon nÁ]x pÁjAAiT) a ^-cbeAfA-ó, 
 bY^J^l^if *00 XDéAnAin, 
 bbí pé pó t|AéiceAC. 
 
 ♦ Spalpeen {rectius^ spailpin), a person followÍDg the spade — a spade 
 
 officer. 
 
 ■ ^-4 
 
OF ]\rUNSTER. 
 
 193 
 
 O ! jovial and funny — a spender of money — 
 
 A prince at his Table, 
 
 Was Domhnall the Able ! 
 
 The Soul of Good-breeding, in fashions his leading 
 Was copied and stuck to 
 By tradesman and buck too ! 
 
 Old crones, of diseases, of coughings, and sneezes, 
 
 He’d cure without catsup, 
 
 And quarrels he’d patch up. 
 
 With flattery and coaxing, with humbug and hoaxing, 
 And song-singing daily. 
 
 He’d pass the time gaily. 
 
 O ! he was the spalpeen* to flourish an alpeen If 
 He’d' whack half a hundred. 
 
 And nobody wondered ! 
 
 He’d have taught a rightnewway to Long-handedLughaidh^ 
 Or Great Alexander, 
 
 That famous Commander. 
 
 On water and land he was equally handy, 
 
 He’d swim without fear in 
 A storm o’er Lough Eirin ! 
 
 Not a man born of woman could beat him at GomanX 
 Or at leaping could peer him, 
 
 Or even come near him ! 
 
 \ Alpeen {j'ectiusy ailpin), a wattle. Used at country fairs in faction 
 fights. X Hurling. 
 
 N 
 
194 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Tilt ceÁ|\D riÁ eAtADAn riÁ|i f"ÁpAi*ó ^aw oocaia, 
 
 ’S níoji ctii]AeA*ó b|iéA5, 
 
 A\\ T)hórhnAtt riA 5]\éirie. 
 bA cÁitiúi]A, bA gobA é, b’feAii 5béA]'’OA pouAiDe é, 
 ’S t) ’pspeAC pé éA*OAC, 
 
 Couún Y Gamhrick ! 
 
 5]iéA]'Ai*óe pó rhobuA é, P]Aiiicéi|\ bjieÁj beAbAp é, 
 "OhéAnpAC pé céACOA, — ^ 
 
 13 ’ptii|ApeAc riA b]AéAn]AA*ó'^— 
 
 5béi]"éi]A An peAbA]A, bA 'ÓAOipe bí a j-CopcAió é, 
 T)orhnAbb iia ‘gpéine, 
 
 "Oo peinneAc ai|\ ceAOAib ! 
 
 be b-AoL Y cLoca, do DéAnpAc pé obAip, 
 T)poiceAD A|v An 0i|Ane, 
 
 Hó cÁpj-nA Ap An D-upéAn-rhuip! 
 t)ÁD COIUe, DO *ÓéAnpAC 50 CApA, 
 
 UhpeAbcAc An cpéAmfitnp, 
 
 A nnn cnm nA Upéi^e ! 
 
 Groom iriApcAc é, nAC puAip piAin a beAgAD, 
 SheinneAc pé a]a píob, 
 
 ’S Ap jAc pópu pAnpA. 
 
 * F<illow. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 195 
 
 Every artisan s tool he would handle so coolly — 
 From the plough to the thimble, 
 Bright Domhnall the Nimble ! 
 
 A blacksmith and tailor, a tinker and nailer, 
 
 A weaver of cambrick. 
 
 Was also the same brick ! 
 
 He made stout shoes for winter — he shone as a printer. 
 He’d shape a wheelbarrow, 
 
 A plough and a harrow ! 
 
 His genius for glazing was really amazing, 
 
 And how in Cork city 
 He’d harp to each ditty ! 
 
 In a week’s time, or shorter, with stones and with mcrtar, 
 He’d rear a high stronghold. 
 
 And bridge that would long hold. 
 
 With wood from the valley he’d build a gay galley, 
 
 To cleave the deep waters 
 To Greece of the Slaughters ! 
 
 He reigned a musician without competition. 
 
 And coursed like a jockey. 
 
 O’er ground the most rocky. 
 
THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 196 
 
 l 30 f\'o Aguf teAbAi*0 *00 ’óéAn]:Ac 50 uAp^iX), 
 *S *óéAriAc pé bpí]"*oe, 
 
 T)o cpoiceAR riA CAopAC. 
 
 •O'olpAC *oeoc beAnriA \ é péin dá ceATiiiAc 
 Ap bbApoA riA bpiAcpA, 
 
 CbÁriAC 50 ciAbrriAp. 
 
 X)béAPpAc pé Pitcher *00 puigpeAc pAR 5-cipciri, 
 CboirigtiieoDAc Geneva , 
 
 T)’óbpAc riA Ladies ! 
 
 be reAbAr A cuioeACUA n'leAbbpAc pé cuix) aca, 
 CAibinib Ó5A ! 
 
 Siri^ib ’p pó]"DA ! 
 
 DbéAnpAc pé bAUA *o’oippeAc *00 ’ri OApbog 
 peipibig *00 ’ri lApbAb ! 
 
 SpiAR Agup T)lAbbAlU. 
 
 Tlíb ceób *oÁp pppeAj^AÓ, a peompAÓ, no a b-AbbA, 
 11 Ác b-ptnb Aip A rhéApA, 
 cnmpAc pé bÓAppA. 
 
 IpbíoriiéA A ceAngA, a m-l 3 éApbA nó a bAnoionn, 
 SgpibceAC pé jAibeibge 
 
 Dutch Agnp • 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 197 
 
 Tvvas he that was able to make bed and table — 
 And breeches to match you, 
 
 Of sheepskin he’d patch you. 
 
 No churl and no grumbler, he’d toss off his tumbler, 
 And chat with a croney, 
 
 In speech sweet as honey. 
 
 For the Fair and the Richer he’d shape a neat pitcher 
 For gin or for sherry, 
 
 To make the heart merry. 
 
 With married and single he’d oftentimes mingle, 
 And many ’s the maiden 
 He left sorrow-laden. 
 
 A wig for a noble he’d make without trouble, 
 Hat, saddle, and bridle — 
 
 He couldn’t be idle ! 
 
 All airs, pure or garbled, that ever were warbled 
 By harpers or singers. 
 
 He had on his fingers 1 
 
 Greek, Erse, English, Latin, and these he was pat in, 
 And what you might term an 
 O’erwhelmer in German ! 
 
198 
 
 THE POETS AND POETPY 
 
 Hit Aon beAn a j-Cojicao nÁc 'itá^^ta'ó a n-DocA]\ ! 
 oppA ACD ptnéiDe ! 
 
 X)o ciocpAioip cAob Leip ! 
 l/C niéAD A rhipniD — T)o pApAio pe aii DoiiiAn, 
 
 Sin Ajtnb A cpéice, 
 
 'OoinnAti iiA 5]\éine ! 
 
 1P0T)1) : — BeAT) 41) Tljlll FuA'O. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 199 
 
 Long, long, they’ll regret him, and never forget him, 
 
 The girls of Cork city. 
 
 And more is the pity ! 
 
 What more ? By his courage he topped all in our age — 
 To him, then, be glory ! 
 
 And so ends my story. 
 
 THE RED-HAIRED MAN’S WIFE. 
 
 TriE following is the first stanza of Bean an Fhir Ruadh (The Red-Haired 
 Man’s Wife), which is quite common among the Munster peasantry ; — 
 
 Bo thugas naoi mi a h-priosun ceangailte cruaidht 
 JBulta air mo chom *s mile glas as sud suas I 
 Bo thugasa sigh mar do thdbharfach aladh cois cuain 
 B’fhonn a bheith sinte sios le Bean an Fhir Ruadh. 
 
 I spent nine months in prison fettered and bound. 
 
 My body chained and secured with locks. 
 
 Bounded as the swan on the wave 
 
 In hopes to sit down beside the Red-haired man's wife. 
 
200 
 
 THE POETS AHD POETRY 
 
 ueAchu riA n-geAriA piA'oliAine* 
 
 SeigAn Ha CtiinneAjÁirj, ccc. 
 
 — Se454T) Bui-oe. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 J J I J 
 
 ffl 1 Itt 'll 
 
 
 ' ^ 
 
 m é\ m 
 
 h-T- 
 
 vw n J 
 
 ■ 
 
 r .. 
 
 ! 1 i J r 
 
 nJ 
 
 it 
 
 
 bbbsbI 0 
 
 Patiaiio 50 n-éi]'ciom a ceAUAi]i a|a caojax), 
 
 *S geAttAim 50 jAéij^reAt) Ati u-Aiix) TIÍ05! 
 
 'An ceAngAt-pA ai|i 5hAOi*óeibb, a^ T)AnApiAib clAonA*ó, 
 A li)-|:eAjiAnnAib 0ibeApi riA tÁri--p5piíob : — 
 
 ♦In Bunting’s Irish Music will be found a beautiful air called 
 *^Geadhna Fiadhaine^^ (Wild Geese), with words by Dr. Drennan, the 
 United Irishman, 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 20i 
 
 THE KETURN OF THE WILD GEESE. 
 
 BY JOHN O’CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 Aib Seaghan Buidhe,'* 
 
 The epithet Seaghan Buidhe (Yellow Jack) was applied to the followers 
 of William III. We have no less than ten different songs to this air in 
 our collection ; but the true Seaghan Buidhe is one in which the accom- 
 plishments of an individual with this cognomen are humorously de- 
 scribed, and which we give on next page. 
 
 Of the author, Seaghan O' Cuinneagain^ there is no memoir. 
 
 O, wait till I reach but the year Fifty-four, 
 
 And I promise the High God shall free you ! 
 He shall shiver your Sassenagh chains evermore, 
 And victor the nations shall see you ! 
 
202 
 
 THE Poets and poetry 
 
 riA 'poéA]ACA'Ó, 
 
 Le h -Ann]:^^ ar éijitig, 
 
 T>0 'ÓeA]AC|'‘A]t O blléA|AA 50 U]AÁ15 lí, 
 
 ’S 50 cAtAú-po|\u Ciprie, 
 
 A 5 5AfY<5^*ó ShéAptuip ; 
 
 A upeAp^Aipu AR upéADA pn SheÁgAiri blHii*óe ! 
 
 CAffAi-o riA íi-éArit.Aic dá ri-jAipmúeAp 
 An Apm 50 jléAfDA j^ar ppÁp ptnnn, 
 
 Ag CAbAip be SéApbtip — ar CAictrnbe ip u]Aéine, 
 'OÁp peApAirh o d’óa^adap cnÁrriA ^hínn I 
 CpeACpAID Y céAp^TAID, 
 
 ’S pgAippD RA b]\éAn-C01]\C, 
 t^A5]:A1D Y pAobpAlD A R-gÁpDAlge, 
 
 beA^pAp RA péipDe, 
 
 UÁ CeAVjAC, CpAOpAC, 
 gAR pAice, gAR éADAC, jAR SeÁjAR buibe ! 
 
 SEAGHAH BUIDHE. 
 
 Air maidin de domliDaig ag gabhail sios an bothar, 
 Go b-atuirseacb, bronach, gan or puinn ; 
 
 Casag orm oigbhean bbí snighte go coracb, 
 
 ’S i f aire air an roguire Seaghan Buidhe ! 
 
 *The departure of the Irish Jacobites, in 1691, still spoken of by the 
 people as The Flight of the Wild Geese,’* marks one of the most mourn* 
 ful epochs in our sad history. It was indeed a memorable and mournful 
 spectacle ; women and children severed from their husbands, and all 
 family ties rent asunder. The partiug sails were pursued by moans 
 and lamentations, that excited even the sympathies of the English 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 203 
 
 The thunder and lightning 
 Of battle shall rage — 
 
 ’Twixt Tralee and Berehaven it shall be— 
 
 And down by Lough Eirin 
 Our Leader shall wage 
 
 Fierce war to the death against Seaglian Buidhe ! 
 
 The ‘‘ Wild Geese shall return, and we’ll welcome them 
 home — 
 
 So active, so armed, and so flighty 
 A flock was ne’er known to this island to come 
 Since the years of Prince Fionn the mighty—* 
 
 They will waste and destroy, 
 
 Overturn and o’erthrow — 
 
 They ’ll accomplish wdiate’er may in man be ; 
 
 Just heaven ! they will bring 
 Desolation and woe 
 
 On the hosts of the tyrannous Seaglian Buidhe ! 
 
 SHANE BWEE. 
 
 One Sunday morning as I rambled on the road. 
 Sorrowful, gloomy, and penniless, 
 
 I happened to meet a comely young maiden, 
 
 A watching the thief known as Seaghan Buidhe, 
 
 and foreign troops, and still find a mournful echo in the memory of the 
 Irish people. It is said that the weather was unusually gloomy, as if 
 the sun itself had been unwilling to behold so sad a spectacle of 
 fathers torn from their children— husbands from their wives, and, more 
 touching still, of brave men torn from the busom of their native land, to 
 fill the world with the fame of their valour, and the glory of that nation 
 
204 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Ba thailiuir, ba gbobha e, ba pbrinteir breagba leabhar e, 
 ’S geallaim gan amhras gur breagba sgriobhach, 
 Dheanfacb se fionta de bharraibb na g-craobb, 
 
 ’S do sbnambfacb an taoide go tion sios ! 
 
 B’fbear e ar an maide, *gus b-fbear e ar an m-bearrnadb, 
 B’fbear e la cbasda na suistigbe, 
 
 B’fbear e la an earraig ag grafa na m-banta, 
 
 ’Gus b-fbear e ar binse na giuistis. 
 
 Cuirfeadsa an roguire feasta dba fboguirt, 
 
 A g-Corcaidb, a n-Eocbuill, ’s a di- Tralee, 
 
 Ni leombtbadb aon oig-bbean gabbail tboruinn an botbar 
 Le b-eagla an roguire Seaghan Biiidhe / 
 
 Le -peAlAUAl'b AB -OOtl-ITliieiC peAUBAIT) DAp 
 
 50 D-cAjAiD mo li)|AiAr:pA te a 5-c]aíc ; 
 
 A]\ B-eAjlAlf BAOrhcA 50 5-CAfA1*0 AB-éirif'eACU, 
 
 A 5 -CeAl-l.A BA -pAOl^f^olAD -pÁl^A-l^ÍBB ! 
 
 T)Á mAljBBB DA él]" pB 
 Acz -peACCTÍiAiB DO ÍAecib, 
 
 S 5 AB bAbAi|ic Ai]\ cbAOB-DLiJce SbeA^AiB l3htii*0e! 
 
 Le h-AUAb bA AO]AAC, 
 
 1TleA]A, ACpiHBBeAC, éADC|\Om, 
 t )0 gbAB^TAlBB DOÍéim CA]A AB m-bÁB LaOI ! 
 
 wbicb they were never to revisit.— Military Memoirs of the Irish 
 Nation,” by M, O’Connor. Duffy and Sons, Dublin, 1845. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 205 
 
 He is a smith and a tailor — a fine printer of books, 
 And I have no doubt he can write well ; 
 
 He can make wines from the blossom of trees. 
 
 And can swim and dive in the ocean. 
 
 He is the best at the cudgel — the first in the gap, 
 The first to thresh his corn : — 
 
 The first in spring to till his land, 
 
 And more skilled in the law than a judge ! 
 
 Henceforth I'll proclaim this wandering rogue, 
 
 In Cork, and in Youghal, and in Tralee, 
 
 For none of our maidens dare tsavel the road, 
 
 For fear of the sly rogue called Seaghan Buidhe ! 
 
 And oh ! may the God who hath kept evermore 
 This isle in His holy protection — 
 
 Bring back to His temples His priests as before, 
 And restore them to Eire’s affection ! 
 
 To end ! may I sooner 
 Be slaughtered in war. 
 
 Or lie sunk in the waves of the Grand Lee, 
 Than with spirit for Freedom, 
 E’er cease to abhor 
 
 The detestable statutes of Sea^han Buidhe ! 
 
206 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 sebedt 111 blmiAn * 
 
 -dot) buióe ITIac Cui]Acin, ecu. 
 
 d Uhéif 5A|iÚA 5101510!. — A béiú rriAifeAc béAj'Ac, 
 d cjiAob-crieA-poA céiPi-l.eA-p *00 tfiAÚAib pot UÁit;"f- 
 d Aon-l.A-pAi^i 'l"5éirhe riA n-Aot-'bAn te céite, 
 d béAÍ-UAnA An DéiD-git riA 'La 1 !)A] 1 úa ]'Án*i. 
 
 If uféAn ueAcu do úpéiúete féiDiin-niAiú nA féiLe, 
 
 ’S u-Aot-cfob be DAonnAcu if UAbAfUAC uÁf5, 
 
 Do ’n UAifuiotlAC u]\éiú-tA5 — do ’n AimiD 5An éipocu, 
 Do ’n 'LA5Af te 1i-AOfCAcu if ct 3 a 5-cAli)Aif f a f5Áú. 
 
 111 Af bÁf)\ A)\ 5AC téAn-tou DO rheAf Alb ino céADfAb, 
 
 'S D fÁ5 DeAÍb 5 All céitb mé Atn itieAÚAc iriAf ’cÁim, 
 
 Jtlf CAlbblOfAD ÍAOCf AD bA CAbAljl DAITI él 510 n, 
 
 PeAfA coin éACCAc CliAifib ’f ChbÁif.J 
 
 * Daughter of Christopher O’Brien of Ennystimon, and wife of Sorley 
 Mac Donnell. 
 
 t Tail. Cas, the son o£ Conall Eachluaith, on whom, after the 
 death of Core, Criomhthan, monarch of Ireland, conferred the sove- 
 reignty of Munster, was surnamed Dolahra Mac Tail^ from his foster- 
 father, who was a smith, and the founder of the Dalcassians, whose 
 posterity were called Clan TaiL — See “ 0‘Flaherty’s Ogyg.*^ Part III. 
 p. 310, 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 207 
 
 ISABEL NI BRIAN- 
 
 UY HUGH BUIDHE (THE YELLOW) MAC CURTIN. 
 
 O, swan of bright plumage ! O, maiden who bearest 
 The stamp on thy brow of Dalcassia’s high race, 
 
 With mouth of rich pearl- teeth, and features the fairest, 
 And speech of a sweetness for music to trace ! 
 
 O ! how shall I praise thee, thou lovely, thou noble ! 
 
 Thou prop of the feeble, thou light of the blind ! 
 
 Thou solace and succour of wretches in trouble. 
 
 As beauteous in body as bounteous in mind ! 
 
 Alas ! these are woes from which nought can defend me, 
 My bosom is loaded with sorrow and care, 
 
 Since I lost the great men who were prompt to befriend 
 me. 
 
 The heroes, the princes of Cashel and Clare ! 
 
 X Charles O’Brien, Fifth Lord Clare, who on Whitsunday, May 23rd, 
 1706, commanded a regiment of Irish infantry in the battle of Ramilies, 
 fought between the Duke of Marlborough and Marshal de Villeroy. 
 O’Brien was mortally wounded in that action, and his regiment captured 
 two English colours, which were deposited in the chapel of the Irish 
 Benedictine nuns at Ypres. 
 
 We subjoin the epitaph on Lord Clare’s monument in the Church of 
 
208 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 T}o ceAPjlA]" Le tihadca'Ii, ]:Laic ceAnii]"A do * x \ cÚAi^’rie, 
 
 O AnriciHiim via n-5tiAif-li)eA|iu, \ o AtbAin Á|vt 
 X)o cbAinn un ChotbA tlAif itiip, UeAniAi]i f 
 
 UtiAc4TI1itiriiAin, 
 
 A ri-DÁn pn Y ^ n-DUAt^A];' ha H-AicpeAc ó Y fÁf, 
 
 C]AeAD DAtil^'A HÁ btlADpAIHH AH bAHH-lHA]lCAC HAfAb, 
 
 Ah CpAHH-CAUAIf ”* CHHAfAC, gAH CAI'AD A|l A bÁl1H ; 
 JAH ^TAHH-beApC, JAH UIHIAltbeACU, ACC CeAHH]"ACC le 
 CHAbbACC, 
 
 Ah pbAHHDADO pilACAD CpO CAIfC UÁlL 
 
 the Holy Cross, Louvain (demolished in 1785), copied by de Burgo, tho 
 learned Dominican bishop of Ossory, who died 1771 ^ — 
 
 Hie jacet 
 
 Him us , D.D. Carolus . O’Brien, 
 Ex . stirpe . Regum . Hibernise ; 
 Par . o-omes . de Clare . et Maigh-airty 
 etc. etc. 
 
 Campi . Marischallus . 
 Legionis . Hibernicse . Colonel 1 us, 
 Qui . plurimis . heroicis. 
 
 Pro . Deo . Rege . et . Patria 
 Peractis . facinoribus. 
 
 In . Preelio . Ramiliensi 
 xxiii . Maij . MDCCVI . vulneratus 
 Triduo . post . Bruxellis , obirt 
 Aetatis, suae xxxvi. 
 
 R.LP. 
 
 Posuit. pia ejus conjiix. 
 
 Illma. Dom. Carola. Bulkeley. 
 
 * Crann caithis, a May-pole. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 209 
 
 But, glory and honour to thee ! — thou hast wedded 
 A chieftain from Antrim, of chivalrous worth, 
 
 Of the great Colla^Uais the Swift — they who headed 
 So proudly the conquering tribes of the North ! 
 
 To that bold cavalier hast thou plighted thy duty, 
 And he is a hero whom none can surpass — 
 
 [ His valour alone was the meed of thy beauty, 
 
 I Thou Kose of the Garden of golden Dal Cas ! 
 
210 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 -An pAiST)in pionn. 
 SéAtnti]" TTiic Con|"Ai'oin, ccc. 
 
 TPoT)t) 2li) PÁn'0)ií) Tionn. 
 
 Moderati 
 
 
 r r^' n 
 
 T in J \ f 
 
 
 
 ^ * 1 ! 
 
 vM; " 4 ' * 
 
 “T W ' - 
 
 
 JZ 
 
 :^=»- íTT 
 
 pTl 
 
 "■(J# iJ 
 
 
 1 i^r 1 ^ 
 
 r 
 
 z=:nz za 
 
 
 
 
 irTv^ 
 
 
 -r rr^^r 
 
 ^ 1 i r 1 ' 
 
 
 
 UJ 
 
 
 1 " 
 
 njf . 
 
 L 1 L U 
 
 -11 H ^ 
 
 L 
 
 
 
 
 [\ ^ A 
 
 A- ' 
 
 
 J 
 
 -- T - J «I® 11 
 
 
 
 r /® • . 
 
 
 J • ® rl r 
 
 
 w - 
 
 
 » ■ th — t 
 
 “t: 
 
 
 ~tj' — 
 
 ■ . _ KrLm.Z - 
 
 Z/ U 
 
 " 17 W 
 
 - 1 ! A® 1 1* m 
 
 . n , 1-1 1 N - • 
 
 
 J J flJ * l -Lil 
 
 P 1 1 ll ■• # 1 1% n . 
 
 
 
 
 
 n ^ ^ n 
 
 n_ v JW •. 1 1 rl r 
 
 r\ 4 r — -r^ c 
 
 
 ■á ^ ^ T> W 1 
 
 
 
 * M ' . . - 
 
 #! L ! 
 
 IÉ J ! 1 i 1 ! ÍT^ 
 
 W?\ i 
 
 ^ 1 1 1 
 
 * d 1 11^ 
 
 i T Ji^ 
 
 — 1 * J J q! -gL 
 
 AcÁ fséAt 136^5 AjAm te íi-ái|aiotti *oib, 
 Ai]i ‘péAtcAn itiAifeAc *00 c^aái'ó mo cpoi'oe, 
 1/6 h-éijion uAicnirh ’-p X)Á ^nAoi, 
 
 A n-géibionn ^aIai^ gup f-Ág me ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 211 
 
 THE FAIR-HAIEED CHILD. 
 
 BY James Considine. 
 
 James Considine, of Ath na g-Caorach (Sheepford) in the county of 
 Clare, author of this beautiful song, flourished about the close of the 
 last century. 
 
 A lady from the south (a Tijiperary girl) kindly gave us the following 
 fragment of a much older version, which is generally sung by the 
 ))easantry about Cahir, Clogheen, and Clonmel, and of which we give a 
 literal translation at the close of this song : — 
 
 A g-Cluain geal Meala ta ’n Paisdin Fionn, 
 
 A bh-fuil a croidhe ’s a h-aigne ag gaire liom ; 
 
 A da pluc dhearg mar bhlath na g-crann, 
 
 Is truagb gan i ’dir mo dha lamha ’gam. 
 
 Is tusa mo mhaon-sa, mo mhaon-sa mo mhaon-sa, 
 
 Is tusa mo mhaon-sa, ’s mo ghradh geal, 
 
 Is tusa mo mhaon, *s carra mo chroidhe, 
 
 Is truagh gan tu ’dir mo dha lamha gam 
 
 Da m-beidhin-si seachtmhuin an ait a m-beidheadh greann. 
 
 No dir dha bhariaille Ian de leann ; 
 
 Gan aon am aice acht mo Phaisdin Fionn, 
 
 Go deimhjn duit d’olfain a slaiiite. 
 
 Is tusa, &c. 
 
 Da m-beith sud agamsa airgiod 's or, 
 
 Ba boga geala ’s caoire ar moin. 
 
 An charraig ud ChaisU na piosaidhe oir. 
 
 Do mhalairt ni iaifuin mar cheile. 
 
 Is tusa, &C. 
 
 The air must be played with spirit, and the chorus sung after each 
 stanza. 
 
 A maiden there is whose charmful art 
 Has fettered and bound my love-sick heart ; 
 From thence her image will never depart 
 But haunts it daily and nightly. 
 
212 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 1|" peAjllAC, bACAÍÍAC, CÁ DÍAOI, 
 
 ’íIa cpAob-potu c|\AÚ<\c, 50 pÁingioc fíoi', 
 5^6 RA b-AÍA A -pnÁrh Ap Unj, 
 
 ’tlAh-éAOAn geAnAtriAil, riÁipeAc ! 
 
 1p cAot A niAlA A]A btÁic-DeA]Ac pín, 
 
 Chiiip j-AogAD 50 DAinj^ion Am lÁp 50 cínri ; 
 Ha CAopA A pbAipriri be f 5 Áib An Aoib, 
 
 50 u]\éAn nA beACAin gbAin mÁnbA*ó. 
 
 A béAb ^Y uAnnA p Af Áibne j^nAoi, 
 
 A DéiD-mion CAibce ^An cÁim a mnAoi, 
 
 1p béip jnp binne nÁ cbÁi]ipoc CAoin, 
 
 5ac béA]ApA cAnAn An bÁin-cneip. 
 
 Venus, bAnAbrpA bbÁic, nA jnAoi, 
 
 Helen 5 ]\eAnuA cug Áp nA U|aaoi ; 
 "OéipD|ie* mAipeAC pe ’p pAjbAO 11 aoi]" 
 
 50 pAon A n-0ATriAinn, Y b]iÁiú;\e ! 
 
 A pgéim, Y A b-peA]ipAinn, ní cÁipe Diob, 
 
 An béiú-fi cAiiAim cug bÁpp o tnnAoib, 
 
 ’S Ap bAoc An DeA]\mAD l3bÁicniD gpinn 
 
 Uhug eAg Do CbujiAi rínc b)Áipe ! 
 
 / 
 
 UÁ gbéipe An c-pneAcuA jac upÁic ^nA píb, 
 ’S x^né nA mAinA-DeAp bbÁcrriAp cpuinn ; 
 Sgéim A peAngA-ctnpp Ábumn cAOib, 
 
 ’S An c-Aob A CAicniorh nA bÁn-cpoib. 
 
 * Deirdre. For the fate of Deirdre, NTaoise, and his brethren, at Eamhain 
 (Emania), see transactions of the Gaelic Society, Dub. 1808. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 213 
 
 How glitters and curls each lock of her hair, 
 All golden over her bosom fair ! 
 
 As the swan on the wave, so it on the air 
 Floats hither and thitherward brightly. 
 
 From her piercing eye, so blue and bright, 
 Shoot arrows on arrows of Love’s own light, 
 And the red rose vies with the lily’s white 
 In her brilliant queenly features ; 
 
 No pearls can rival her dazzling teeth. 
 
 Her lips are like coral above and beneath ; 
 And never was harp on a wild wood heath, 
 Like the voice of this fairest of creatures I 
 
 Not she, that dame who was Eire’s pride, 
 
 Not Helen of Troy, famed far and wide. 
 
 Not Deirdre, who when King Naoisi died. 
 
 No more in Emania would tarry, 
 
 Could vie in features, figure, or air, 
 
 With this young damsel of beauty rare. 
 
 Not even the maiden, Blanaid fair. 
 
 Who slew brave Curigh Mac Haire.* 
 
 Her heaving bosom and beauteous neck 
 Are white as the snow, and as pure from speck, 
 Her arms are meet for gems to deck. 
 
 And her waist is fine and slender ; 
 
 * Curai Mac Daire’s tragic fate is related ia Keating’s Ireland^ Half- 
 day’s edition, p. 405, Dub. 1811. 
 
214 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 11Í te h-AtriAi^c 50 bpAc a|v tín^, 
 HÁ éARÍAIC 'peAfATTl bÁ|A|A RA ^-CpAOlb, 
 til \ grié riÁ fArhtutu te -pAgAit ai|\ cip, 
 TIac téi|\ x>\ uApptJinc a]a bÁr.-bpAic. 
 
 *00 béigpnri -peAUCA]^ cbÁi]i riA ri- 5 A 0 i*óeAb, 
 
 ’S |\éim riA bpeACAti do c|aá*óai5 tro ciioioe! 
 riA pfAbm bA griÁc 50 bíriri, 
 
 >(^5 cbéipe A5 cARuinri a D-cpÁcA. 
 úéADA pppeAgAiíiri gÁibúeAc Reel, 
 
 *00 beijipprin gAÍApAib pbÁinue cpoibe, 
 
 Ap ÚAob riA pAicce Ríop cbÁc mo griíoni, 
 DéAriArh Aipce riÁ cpÁcuAiiTi ! 
 
 PéAC-pA A CApA 1 *Ó C 1 A b’peApjA Dt 11 C piRR, 
 
 Jar pppé, JAR peApAR rriAp uÁim, jar btiiDiR, 
 tlÁ cpéice peA]\b beioeAc bÁR do puimp, 
 
 X)o beAppAC A1Úip Y DRIC ! 
 
 T)Á péip pR UAppAlRJ Am DÁlb, 5AR pgíc, 
 
 ’S DéiR mo cAbAip ó ’r m-b<xp po air cÍAOibe, 
 AR ué DO CeARRAIg bo JpÁpA piRR, 
 lOéAppAb cAiciorh ’p pÁjAib dúirr. 
 
 In gay Clonmel dwells the fair-haired child, 
 
 Whose heart and soul at me have smiled ; 
 
 Her two rosy cheeks like the red apple shine, 
 
 My grief, she is not in my arms I 
 
 You are my fond one— my fond one-— my fond one, 
 You are my fond one and gradh croidhe / 
 
 You are my fond one— my heart’s only treasure, 
 My grief you are not in my arms ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 21f 
 
 And there never was seen, by sea or land, 
 
 Beast, bird, or fish, but her delicate hand 
 Could broider it forth on silk so grand, 
 
 And glowing, yet soft and tender ! 
 
 I have pondered, with tears, the rueful tale 
 Of the Saxon’s conquest over the Gael; 
 
 I have heard the chant, the melodious wail 
 Of the priest in his matin duty : 
 
 I have played my land’s harp o’er and o’er, 
 
 And was pierced with grief to my bosom’s core 
 But nothing could touch or move me more 
 Than the charms of this young beauty I 
 
 0 ! come then unto me, darling dove ! 
 
 1 am sure I can make you a better love. 
 
 Than a pompous, purse-proud fellow would prove^ 
 Though I neither have lands nor treasure. 
 
 0 ! come to my arms, my Fond, my True ! 
 
 ’Tis a step, I vow, you never will rue. 
 
 For He who died for both me and you 
 
 Will give to us bliss without measure. 
 
 Were I for a week where mirth prevails, 
 Or ’twixt two barrels of foaming ale, 
 
 No one beside me but my paisdin fair I 
 Her health I would quaff in a bumper. 
 You are my fond one, &c. 
 
 If I had plenty of silver and gold, 
 
 Herds, and cattle, and lands to boot 
 That huge Rock of Cashel in bits of gold. 
 No other I’d take but you, love I 
 You are my fond one, &c. 
 
216 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 nei’oli-chnoc mwA sijVie. 
 
 Seoi]i|'e TlobA]iu,* ecu. 
 
 If f Atxx mé Aj ^btiAifeAcu Af utiAifif5 mo ^fA-o, 
 
 A]\ fuit) coibtue 'oúbA UAijneAc Am fUA^A'o be fÁn ; 
 ^ f Amiiib ni b-fUAf Af — 51*0 jtif ctiAf*otii5eAf a bÁn, 
 O gbbAife riA UuAUA 50 bfUAC geAb ha 111 Á15. 
 
 Tlo feóÍA'ó me ’n iiAigmof crioic tiAifbe mriÁ fi^e, 
 
 T)o cAf At) ofm fuuAife ha fgiiAb-fobu ha ftnge ; 
 bA CAf , t)bA01UeAC, t)tlAbAC, A CHACA bé fíof, 
 
 -df 5AC UAOb t)A JHAlbbe t)A bHAfgAt) A^ AH H-JAOlU. 
 
 T)o cAfA'ó mo 5fÁ*ó Ofm, ’f bA HÁf biom jah f tiige ; 
 
 T)o ciHf eAf mo bÁrh Af a bfÁgAit) ’f Af a cic ; 
 
 1f é ’t)HbAif u fi biom, fAg me ? HI b-Á*óbAf t)iii u f ihh, 
 HlAf if beAH t)ubAc t)o ’h aic me t)o úÁfbAi'ó fAH 
 m-bftiigiH !’’ 
 
 ♦ We cannot trace the history of Georpje Roberts, to whom the 
 authorship of this beautiful fairy song is attributed. 
 
 Not belonging to that peculiar race of beings — the good people,** 
 we cannot, dare not, say anything about their movements, for such as 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 217 
 
 THE DARK FAIRY RATH. 
 
 BY GEORGE ROBERTS. 
 
 Long, long have I wandered in search of my love, 
 
 O’er moorland and mountain, through greenwood and grove. 
 From the banks of the Maig unto Finglas’s flood 
 I have ne’er seen the peer of this Child of the Wood. 
 
 One bright Summer evening alone on my path, 
 
 My steps led me on to the Dark Fairy Rath; 
 
 And, seated anear it, my Fair One I found. 
 
 With her long golden locks trailing down on the ground. 
 
 When I met her, though bashfulness held me in check, 
 
 I put my arm gently around her white neck ; 
 
 But she said, “ Touch me not, and approach me not near ; 
 Í belong to this Rath, and the Fairy Host here.’^ 
 
 meddle in their affairs are said to seldom escape unscathed. Any of 
 our readers, anxious about their “doings,” may consult Crofton Croker, 
 historian to the Munster fairies, and only illustrator of Irish fairy 
 mythology before the public. 
 
218 
 
 IHE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 CÁ cuAic, no CÁ h-oite<xn 'ouic, no ’nA g-ClÁ]! tniiAC t)o 
 bioin ? 
 
 T1Ó mÁ Y btiAi]iu *otiic fuit) bÁnn bom, \ cAbAi]A -pbÁn -pAoi 
 ^Ac btiióin ? 
 
 An cu ^n |"uuAi|\e geAb tlbÁúnAio cug -pAigeAO-f a ujAe’m 
 c^ioibe 
 
 11 0 'n cuAc mibf, mÁnbA*ó, — tug Paris do ’n Uiaaoi ! 
 
 ^'tli b-Aoin neAc Do’n D|iéim pn ine^em” ADubAi|\up, 
 Acc CAibn CAOin gAob’ÍAC ó bi CAob ÚAÍb do ^n ci]\; 
 
 TIÁ]i pn pof A cAob DeA|" be Aoin feA]\ -pAn c-fAoigeAb, 
 I305 DÍom DO jÓAgA, ’cÁim DéAnAc ó ’n m-bptngin ?” 
 
 DÚbAc Y béAn bom cn a ceAD-^^eApic mo c]Aoibe, 
 
 X>o 5 ]AiiAb’nA mA]A cao|aa, da béA^A A^ An pn ; 
 
 1f 1 AD -pbnAijr'e Cbnoic-^t'éi^^ *00 úÁjAbAib ad bon, 
 
 X>o |AtiAi5 CAÁ ód’ gAODAbuA go -péij-cnoc mnÁ pge ! 
 
 T)o ctniApin be m’ c^Aoibe -pceAc mo cAoin §Aicbion mnÁ, 
 ITI0 DÁ bÁim ’nA címciobb Y *00 b’ Aoibinn bom í ^ÁgAib ; 
 IOa b]AeÁ5A DeA-p a bpiAOigce DijbA, CAobA, jAn cÁim, 
 tnA|A pbÁnAiu nA b-oiDce, Y 5 ^^ 
 
 130 ctiipeAp mo jéAjA a]a a cAob-com mA]A fntiibim, 
 
 Ap pAn DÁ |Aéi]A pin 50 méApAib a cpoije; 
 
 Sínue be nA CAob DeAp bA rhéinn bompA bnige 
 Acc UAimpe béim pí mA]A éAn Ap An jcpAoib ! 
 
r 
 
 OF MUNSTER. 219 
 
 Ah V' I spake, '' you are burdened with sorrow and 
 care ; 
 
 But whence do you come 1 From Clar Luirc or else- 
 where ? 
 
 Are you Blanaid the blooming, the queenly, yet coy. 
 
 Or the dame brought by Paris aforetime to Troy 
 
 Fm neither,’ she said, '^but a meek Irish maid, 
 
 Who years ago dwelt in yon green-hillocked glade. 
 
 And shone all alone, like a lamp in a dome. 
 
 Come ! take off your arms ! Ill be late for my home !” 
 
 O, Pearl of my soul, I feel sad and forlorn 
 To see your bright cheeks fairy-stricken and worn. 
 
 From your kindred and friends far away were you borne 
 To the Hill of Cnoc-Greine,^' to languish and mourn F 
 
 And I said to myself, as I thought on her charms, 
 
 ‘‘ O, how fondly I’d lock this young lass in my arms ! 
 
 How Fd love her deep eyes, full of radiance and mirth, 
 Like new-risen stars that shine down upon earth !” 
 
 Then I twined round her waist my two arms as a zone, 
 And I fondly embraced her to make her my own ; 
 
 But, when I glanced up, behold ! nought could I see. 
 
 She had fled from my sight as the bird from the tree ! 
 
 Anglicised Knockgreny, i. The Hill of the Sun. 
 
220 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 beAn loubh An ^VileAnnA. 
 
 yo\)X ) : — Be4T) 4)utj AX) '3M\eAX)X)A. 
 
 -fHi 
 
 Moderately yar 
 
 
 
 Slow. zf- 
 
 ^j.i ! ni 
 
 it-y-ui 
 
 -!^S7f=N 
 
 J ^ -1- 
 
 r 
 
 -A-H — f -■|^-'^ 
 
 — id — 'd'~ m — 
 
 1 
 
 i 1 
 
 • 
 
 
 #* I n . 
 
 =1=^±= 
 
 ESaz zczzpfa: . 
 
 — ■ 
 
 
 1 — ^ 
 
 ^ÍÍ-J 
 
 =F=r . 
 
 — 1 ■ — ^ 
 
 \J ^ ^ 
 
 P- -é-J — J ^ 
 
 — — ’é m 
 
 ^ : * -■‘-" 
 
 AcÁ bó ’5 Am A]\ An ftiAb, 
 
 ’S cÁim be -peAb nA X)iai5, 
 
 O cAitbeAf mo ciAÍb be nnA*ócA]A! 
 
 "Oa -peóbA foip Y fiA|\, 
 
 >dnn jAc Á1C x)Á n-jAbA'ó An J^nAn, 
 
 50 'o-cionnutn'óeAnn a niA|\ Am ú|iÁrnónA! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 221 
 
 THE DARK MAIDEN OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 We cannot ascertain tlie authorsliip of this air, but the words which 
 accompany it are attributed to Emonn an Ghnoic (Ned of the Hills), who 
 flourished about the year 1739, and of whom we shall have occasion to 
 speak hereafter. 
 
 The allusion to ‘‘ Georgey” in the third stanza, meaning the second 
 monarch of that name, shows it to have been composed early in the 
 eighteenth century. 
 
 There is much simplicity in the style and composition of this song ; 
 perhaps more than in any other in our volume ; from which we may 
 infer that it is the production of a peasant of the humbler class of 
 society. 
 
 The air must be played in slow time, and rather mournfully. 
 
 On the hill I have a cow, 
 
 And have herded it till now, 
 
 Since a fair maiden stole my reason. 
 
 I led her to and fro. 
 
 Wheresoever the winds blow. 
 
 Till the sun shines at noontide in season. 
 
222 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Tlti<M|A 'péACAim Ann fÚD, 
 
 ^nn jAc Á1C A Tn-bí*ó’ mo \\ún 
 UmceAn óm’ ynt ip^vt DeojAA! 
 
 A tlig Dlb nA J-CÓTTIACC ! 
 
 50 b-^poiiniA A|i mo cni]", 
 
 til A]i i|A lOeAn X)iib on n-^beAnn do byieoDAi^ me ! 
 
 beAn T)ub An gbbeAnnA ! 
 
 -An bheAn "Onb do b’-peAi^iiA! 
 
 beAn T)tjb bA bei|"e ^Áij^e 
 11 a b-]:iib A 5 ]\UAb mA|i An aIa, 
 
 S A pib mAp An pneAccA ! 
 
 ’S A com peAn^, tinjib, Ábnnn, 
 
 Hi o^ÁnAc CAibce, 
 
 O bbAibe Aua CbiAC 50 5 ^'‘bbim ; 
 
 tlÁ Ap puD 50 UtiAim til tribeÁpA! 
 
 Hac b-pnb Aj; upiAÍb ’p A5 uAppnng, 
 
 Ap eACAib DonnA DeApA 
 
 A5 cnuc beip An m-beAn t)iib Ábnnn ! 
 
 JbeAbAinn-pe beAn pAn IHurhAin, 
 Upinp bAn A bAigeAnn, 
 
 Ajup beAn o pig jeAÍ Seoippe, 
 beAn nA bnbAb bnbe 
 *0 pÁipgioc mé be nA cpoibe 
 beAn Ajnp da mibe bo be, 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 223 
 
 I glance above afar, 
 
 Where my true-love shines a star — 
 
 My spirit sinks, hardly to rally. 
 
 O, mighty King and Lord, 
 
 Thy help to me accord. 
 
 To win the Dark Maiden of the valley I 
 
 Dark Maiden, first and best, 
 
 Who hast robbed me of my rest, 
 
 O, maiden, most beautiful and tender; 
 With swan-like neck so bright. 
 
 With bosom snowy-white. 
 
 With waist so delicate and slender, — 
 Not a youth from Dublin town 
 Unto Galway of renown, 
 
 Or thence to Toomevara, but is laden 
 On steeds bounding free. 
 
 With love-gifts to thee. 
 
 My loveliest, my Dark own Maiden ! 
 
 In Momonia* I could find 
 Many damsels to my mind. 
 
 And in Leinster — nay, England, a many, 
 One from Georgey, without art. 
 
 Who would clasp me to her heart. 
 
 And a beauty is the lass among many. 
 
 * Munster. 
 
224 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Ingion Ó5 <\n 
 
 Aca 50 ceinn DubAc diac]aac, 
 
 A5 iA]i]iAi*ó ini]"e D’^A^Aib be pó^^AÓ ! 
 
 ’S *oÁ b-pAgAinnpe péin mo pógA ! 
 
 13 e rhnÁ DeAfA An DorfiAin 
 
 Ay 1 An loheAn T)ub ó ’n n-JbeAnn *00 b’peAjip 
 bioni. 
 
 An ué cibireAc mo ceAc, 
 
 ’S ^An Do Dion Aip ACD feApj, 
 
 IIa fnjo ’mnc coip uAoib An bócAiji ! 
 lluAip éipgibeAnn An beAC, 
 
 Démjion a neAD, 
 
 be 5inAn ’p ceAj^ An u-pArhjiAib ! 
 nnAip éippbeAnn ptiAp An u-pÍAU 
 pAiiAn inpceAon ifieAp, 
 
 Acx) A^ cnnc bei]" An An m-bpAinni'e ip 0150, 
 tTlo cAibín pbnpAc, DeAp, 
 
 T)’éAbAi*ó HAim be pppeAp, 
 
 Tllo cnj céAD pbÁn 50 Deó bé ! 
 
 ■0 
 
OF MUNSTKll. 
 
 225 
 
 The daughter of the Earl, 
 
 Who walks in silk and pearl, 
 
 Would fain have me netted in her thrall yet, 
 But could I have my choice, 
 
 How much would I rejoice 
 To wed thee, my Dark Maiden, of all yet i 
 
 My hut may stand unseen, 
 
 But ’tis thatched with rushes green, 
 
 ^.nd around it the bee is a hummer^ 
 
 And it shines day by day. 
 
 In the glory and the ray 
 
 Of the Eire-loving sunlight of Summer. 
 
 But when maidens grow old. 
 
 They are viewed with glances cold. 
 
 And we chuse, then, the gay and youthfiii* 
 hearted. 
 
 Thou hast left me, blooming flower. 
 
 In a dark and evil hour. 
 
 But I mourn thee as one who has departed. 
 
 P 
 
THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 226 
 
 itighion til uheAiiditi:. 
 
 T)oThnAt'L riA l3uiLe, ecu.* 
 
 AUÁ tite gAll -pgATTIAL 'o’^UlL 5l^eApAlt.U riA fÁ]A'peA|l, 
 If foinneAn*oA a ueAfOAf fÁi'óiTi) miL, 
 
 TIÍ fAicim A fdriitiiL A5 uAif*oiot riA ffÁi*oe, 
 
 >An-inniol.iuAcu peAffAn — a 5-CÁ1I, Y ^ 5-ctó'ó, 
 riA ]\ún í An múipnín iriAfjAtAc, 
 btÁú nA n-i3bALL i a ‘o-ui3ip An u-pAiiip a*ó 
 L nibín ÍACAnuA — aIa An ctnppbÁin, 
 
 ^n pinne-beAn pAt)A-cfoib Átuinn Ó3 ! 
 
 1]' mojtjbÍAc, mtiipeAfAc, tnbbeAnnAc, ómbr.Ac, 
 CoCAÍbAC, cbtJÚAIf, A^ pÁp 50 peóp, 
 
 A cApn-pobu cfAipinneAc, pionnA-geAb, pÁinneAc, 
 CnouAc A^ utiiuim j^o bÁpp a bpó^: — 
 
 50 upínpeAc, uÁcbAC, ubÁiú-uiub, uAiúnioihAC, 
 
 CÍOfÚA, CÁpnAC, CÁbbAC, CAmApfAC, 
 bípeAC, bAff A-boj, bACAbÍAC, bbÁlÚ, 
 tDÍAOlÚeAC 'OfobbAC, Y 
 
 * Of Domhnall na Buile (i. e. Domlinall the mad or crazy) the reputed 
 author of this ballad, we have nothing to say, except that his claim to the 
 authorship is disputed, some asserting it to be the joint production 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 227 
 
 THE GERALDINE’S DAUGHTER. 
 
 BY DOMHNALL NA BUILE. 
 
 There’s a beauteous lily, a blooming flower, 
 
 A damsel of the Geraldine’s race — 
 
 I know not her peer in city or bower, 
 
 For comely figure or lovely face ; 
 
 The love of my soul, my life and my light she is ! 
 Sweet as the apple-tree blossom, and bright she is, 
 
 A dazzling, a white- breasted, white-plumaged swan. 
 Is she, this wonder of radiance and grace ! 
 
 Her tresses fall down in many a cluster. 
 
 Braided, yet free, on the emerald ground. 
 
 Shining with glorious and golden lustre. 
 
 And bright green ribbons flowing all round, 
 
 They beam on the sight serenely and shiningly — 
 
 O ! I have gazed on them fondly and piningly ! 
 Gracefully plaited and braided they are. 
 
 Yet in luxuriance flowing unbound ! 
 
 of Seaghan Clarach Mkic Domhnaill^ and JJilliam Dali O^Hearnain cele- 
 brated poets, who, it is said, composed each half stanza alternately. 
 
228 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 bion Cupid HA 1 i-aúa*ó 50 geAr.Aiiiuit, 5]'\Á*óniA]\, 
 If fiffeAH AH teAHb D fuij Paris Doib ; 
 
 if fotPuf HA teACAlH A5 CAlfirilfU 50 *OAHA, 
 boHHfAÓ AH C-fHeACUA te f^Alt AH fólf. 
 RÍH-fOf5 féib-jlAf, peAftAC ^eAiÚAf ac, 
 bfAOIÚe CAotAÓ A1]A ÓADAH íeAHAbAC, 
 CftHHH-CÍC CÓf A If ^eAHAmHAIje 5HÁIC, 
 
 ’S gite AH cuim-cAitceí HÁf PÁiriui^eA'ó fóf. 
 
 1f biHHe juú 5eAff-5Uib, bAlfAin-btiig, hiáhIa-ó, 
 Ah teinb-f cahahh te f^iii-juc ceót ; 
 
 A 5 feiHHiiH-cifu 5<^bt-po)Au ceApAi*oif *oÁirhe, 
 
 Ah ftHfeAHH t)o úeAjAifj AH cbÁiffeAc ooib ; 
 PAOlbeAHH rílAOfbA, béAf AC, bAHAmÚlt, 
 
 HAOlbeAHOA, ÚfélgceAC, 'ÓéAfCAC, gfeAHHAlÍlAf, 
 tHibf-beAH ti]\fAHiAc, rhi0CAi|\, 5AH cÁiiii, 
 
 ’S D peAfUAlb A CUrhAlHH CÁ CÁ1H gAH Cfeoijv ! 
 
 1f miHpOAf *00 ’11 AIHJIf A IvAÚAIf ^O fAIÚ-gllC, 
 1301HeAHX)A, *0f AgAHUA, A Hl-beAf f H A1H 5beÓ, 
 
 *S Af uuible *oÁ iHACAf ceAHgAb be SeÁgAH jeAÍ, 
 
 Cuf A*Ó HÁf b^A1H*01f A D-CÁbAlfHO AH Ólb I 
 
 A IHÁCAIf Ú1]\-célb, CIUIH-CAOIÍI, CAfCAHHAC, 
 
 CV1U5 SlfflAIH CoHHUAO, Y UÚfHAe 'La 1*010HX)A, 
 ChÚgAlHH, Y RIAfCf A CAbiriA, CÁlg, 
 
 Chum fOAfArh a 5-coifi]AAC, f a h-^ájada fbóg. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 229 
 
 Love glows and sparkles from all her features, 
 An d all the graces that Love bestows — 
 
 You see in the face of this first of creatures 
 The brightness of snow, the bloom of me rose ; 
 Her blue eyes shine ever tender and tenderer, 
 
 And her fair eye-brows ever seem slenderer, 
 
 And pure is the bosom, and pure is the heart 
 Of this fairest flower of any that blows. 
 
 The songs of her fallen land she singeth 
 Sweetly and softly, with tone and fire — 
 
 Each glorious air and melody ringeth 
 Forth all silvery from her lyre. 
 
 A maiden she is of rich hospitality, 
 
 Noble, and gifted with every high quality, 
 
 Innocent, good, but so lovely withal. 
 
 That her beauty has wrought desolation most direl 
 
 I 
 
 She hath a pride in the fame of her father-— 
 
 A hero fierce on the battle-plain — 
 
 And her lover, who never was slow to gather 
 Bright wreaths amid the festival train. 
 
 And her mother, the bold, the learned, the meek-minded, 
 Shield and support of the feeble and weak-minded ; 
 
 One, who if battle threatened the land. 
 
 Would stand unmoved ’mid its reddest rain. 
 
230 
 
 THE POETS AND POETKY 
 
 D-uAjAc -pcAii ^onnbAji, ^rÁic-gtic, 
 
 CuiriAfAc, rieA|\cTfiA|A, 1 pAO^ iÁn An E-|:eoiL; 
 
 pionn-'f'tAic fontnf do ^Iacac te 5 ]aá*ó í, 
 
 A n-DÍíge nA h-oA^tiiLf An bAin-cneif, rrioDAtfiuit : — 
 Lucy gtéijiol féirh TIi 5lieA|iuit.c i * 
 
 T)o c]iu nA n-gt'ÓAjAc D-c|ieAn, -peAD o’eA^-gAipi p, 
 
 ScAnj-beAn niAifeAC, nA tAbA]iuA yhm, 
 
 puAiji ctn bcAnnAcc ó’n n-DÁiTfi 50 dco. 
 
 * At page 33 there is a slight allusion to the heroine of this ballad 
 — a lady named Fitzgerald, a native of Ballykenely, in the county of 
 Cork, which was a portion of the family estate at the time, and is 
 still held by their descendants. So captivating were her personal 
 charms that she became the theme of the Munster i)oets, by whom 
 she was celebrated in more than a thousand and one ballads, two 
 of which we have given in our present volume. She had a brother 
 named Pierse, a celebrated poetj of whom many anecdotes are re- 
 lated by the peasantry of his native district, one of which is a« 
 follows : — 
 
 One day passing a nook, close by his land, where the tide flowed in 
 
 
OF ]MUNSTER. 
 
 231 
 
 May there soon come a hero to seek her — 
 Some stalwart lord of a kingly race — 
 
 None could he find higher-minded, yet meeker, 
 None of more beautiful figure and face. 
 
 From the grand Geraldines, foes of iniquity. 
 Sprang she, this maiden of Grecian antiquity ; 
 Blessings are on her from poet and sage. 
 
 And her glory all Time can never efface ! 
 
 from the main ocean at high water, and meeting a brother bard ho 
 accosted him thus : — 
 
 Ceisd agam ort a shair-fhir, 
 
 Os tu is deanaighe d’fhag an cuan ; 
 
 Ca mheid galun saile 
 
 Tan g-Crampan sa Chill Moluadh? 
 
 To which he receved the following sarcastic reply : — 
 
 Ni feidir a thomhas le cairtibh, 
 
 Ata se laidir luath ; 
 
 San mheid iia faghadli slighe Ban Ath dhc, 
 
 Geabliadh se an fanadh o thuaig. 
 
 It would be impossible to convey the extraordinary wit of this answer 
 in an English version. 
 
 --0 
 
232 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 LEATHER AWAY WITH THE WATTLE, O! 
 
 UoinÁ)" rhic Coici|\, ccc. 
 
 A |\Aoi]A Y 50 *óéAnAc, 
 
 Aif cnoic An cóib ;* 
 
 T)o fui5 ine 'i^eA'l aj éi]^DeAcu, 
 
 Lejuic nA n-eAn A5 cAncinn ceóiL; 
 
 * The Cove of Cork, now Queenstown. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 233 
 
 LEATHER AWAY WITH THE WATTLE, O ! 
 
 BY THOMAS COTTER. 
 
 This spirited air escaped the notice of our most eminent collector. 
 Bunting. 
 
 The worai are the production of a violent Jacobite. By leathering 
 away with a wattle, he implies his determination to decide all political 
 differences by an appeal to “ physical force.” 
 
 The wattle was a stout cudgel, or A Up in, in frequent requisition at 
 country fairs and faction fights early in the present century. 
 
 Cearnaid, or Cearnuit, referred to in the third stanza, was a beauti- 
 ful bondmaid of Cormac, King of Ireland in the third century; She 
 was obliged to grind a certain quantity of corn every day with a quern, 
 or handmill, until the king, observing her beauty, sent across the sea for 
 a millwright, who constructed a mill on the stream of Kith, which flows 
 from the fountain of Neamhnacli^ to the north-east of Tara; and all 
 ancient authorities and traditions agree that this was the first mill 
 erected in Ireland. — See Petrie's Essay on Tara Rilly' 4to. Dublin : 
 1839. Keating's Ireland^ vol. i., p. 418. Dublin ; 1809. 
 
 Last night, when stars did glisten, 
 
 By a hill-side near the Cove, 
 
 I sat a while to listen. 
 
 The sweet bird’s pleasant lays of love. 
 
234 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Le m’ cAOlb ■óeA]'icA|' •ppéijibeAn, 
 bA f*Ao*orh<\p, 'pnui'óce, 'pn<x|'X)A, <\ fnój; 
 A *otAoi--f'otc cjAACAc p 0 A|aLac 
 'ó<^]\ pAt) Aj ueAcu 50 h-Aiu riA *oeói5. 
 t)A jeAt A ^né iriAp pneAccA pLéib, 
 bA loeAp A pjeii-h, cpeAu, Y a cló*ó, 
 
 *S Ap ppAp *00 pppeAj Ap céA*OAlb, 
 
 Leather away with the Wattle^ 0 !’* 
 
 A bpAoiúe ceApuA, cAohA, 
 
 Aip A 1 i-éA* 0 An cAip, ^Ati priAp, jah ptnól, 
 bA pin A pop5 rriAp bpAon ^ÍAp, 
 
 pte o bi Ae-ÓAp Ap b<ipp An peóip ; 
 
 Sn eAcuA ^eAh jAn Aohtiing, 
 
 50 5eAp A 5-CAÚ he X)Aiu An póip 
 níop b AicniT) T)o ’n eigpe, 
 
 CiA 'co pcAon nA heACAin 015; 
 
 Ay cneApx)A cAorh — *0’ Aicpip pséAÍ, 
 
 go m-beiu An tlégp a^ ueAcc a 5-copóin, 
 be Y b-ponn A belt peAb A5 éip‘oeAcc, 
 be ‘‘ Leather away with the Wattle, 0 ! 
 
 X) piAppAigeAp péin ‘oo’n ppéípbeAn, 
 
 An péix)ip 5ti]i un An bpuinjiott 05 ; 
 
 A rriACAipe nA bAoc meAp, 
 
 A 5-CAÚ nA.UKAC Lep mibheAb upeoin, 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 235 
 
 A damsel tall of stature, 
 
 With golden tresses long and low, 
 
 Which — loveliest sight in nature ! — 
 
 Down to the bright green grass did flow; 
 And breast as fair, — as snow in air, 
 
 Without compare for beauteous show, 
 
 Stood near, and sang me sweetly, 
 
 “ Come, Leather away with the Wattle, 01* 
 
 Her eyebrows dark and slender. 
 
 Were each bended like a bow; 
 
 Her eyes beamed love as tender 
 As only poets feel and know ; 
 
 Her face where rose and lily 
 
 Were both pourtrayed in brightest glow; 
 
 Her mien, so mild and stilly, 
 
 All made my full heart overflow. 
 
 A tale she told, — of that Prince bold 
 Whose crown of gold the Gael doth hold. 
 
 I hearkened all delighted 
 
 To ‘‘ Leather away with the Wattle, 0 !** 
 
 I asked this lovely creature 
 Was she Helen famed of yore: 
 
 (So like she seemed in feature) 
 
 Whose name will live for evermore— 
 
236 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Hó ’ri mhy T)éipD]Ae, 
 
 O 01tl0 cLAtin tln^neAc mó]A, 
 
 Ho ’n be<Mi DÁ R-^oipceAp CeApnuiu, 
 
 >Ai|a c<M|"e jÓAp cuip muition DÓib, 
 Melpomene, — Cassandra peirh, 
 tTlinpinn, IHeiob, no ’n Aingip 05 
 'S jtip binne bom do bpiAupA, 
 
 11Á “ Leather away with the Wattle, OP 
 
 ID’ppeA^AiiA DAm An ppéii\beAn, 
 
 A m-bpiAupA binne, blApoA, beoib ; 
 
 A D-ueAngAin mibp jAoioeibge 
 
 X)o ctnp 50 cAorii An ceApu a 5-cóip ; 
 
 Cl A pibe cu be b-éipeAcc 
 
 A n-jLeipe 501b ha m-bpuinpobb 05, 
 
 W Ainim-pi ni béip duic; 
 
 A]\ peAD An rhém do CAnAip pop. 
 triipe An mAigoen — 1nnip Cib^e, 
 
 be pADA A b-péinn pÁ jbApAib bpóin ! 
 
 A^ cninc 50 5-cboippin jbAobAc peApoA, 
 Aip “Leather away with the Wattle, OP 
 
 Cl A UpeApjApAD 50 pAOn bAJ, 
 
 11 a céADCA D’puipeAnn >dipc ’p Co^Ain; 
 T)o bAbbAib Áp n-éigpe 
 
 DO cuipeAD Áp 5“cbéip Ap eApbAD bóin 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 237 
 
 Or Deirdre, meekest, fairest, 
 
 Whom Uisneach’s sons wrought direful woe— 
 Or Cearnuit, richest, rarest. 
 
 Who first made mills on water go — 
 
 Or Meadhbh the young, — of ringlets long, 
 
 So sweet her song along did flow. 
 
 Her song so rich and charming, 
 
 Of “ Leather away with the Wattle, 0 
 
 And thus in tones unbroken. 
 
 While sweet music filled her eye, 
 
 In accents blandly spoken. 
 
 The damsel warbled this reply — 
 
 Albeit I know and blame not 
 Your marvellous poetic lore, 
 
 You know my ancient name not, 
 
 Though once renowned from shore to shore; 
 I am Inis famed , — of Heroes named. 
 Forsaken, lost in pain and woe. 
 
 But waiting for a chorus. 
 
 To Leather away with the Wattle, 0 r 
 
 They died in war for ages. 
 
 The brave sons of Art and Eoghan ; 
 Mute are our bards and sages, 
 
 And oh ! our priests are sad and lone. 
 
288 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Ai]a uaii'dio'L *00 ’n b-'pl.Aic 6 accac, 
 go il-01|ie UAbApÚAI^ -pOAfOA cojióir», 
 
 ’S ]rjac]:aió puic ar béApt.A 
 
 be ceAÚA pbéA]A ua]i caLaiú pop, 
 
 Ap peApArhiiit, péApoAC, — poitb, pAop-ÓA, 
 CÍARRA gAO-ÓAb -^AX) COAp AJ Ót 
 ’S 50 CAOin DÁ pppeAJAD Ap ÚeÁDA, 
 
 “ Leather away with the Wattle, 0 !’* 
 
 CAoine chitbe cais.*» 
 
 CpeAD DeAripAmAoiD peApoA jar A‘ómAD, 
 
 . AuÁ Deipe RA 5-coihhue Ap hÁp ? 
 
 Tlib UpÁCU A]A Chitt CllAip RÁ A CeAghAC, 
 
 ’S RÍ bAIRpeAp A cblRg-f* 50 bpÁc ! 
 
 Ar Á1U ÚX) ’ra j-coTTiRtugeAc ar "OiA-beAR, 
 puAip ^Aipm ’p irieibip UAp irra, 
 
 iDhlDeAC lApbAIDeJ AJ CAppUlRJ CAp COmR ARR, 
 ’S AR C-AippiORR bÍRR DA pÁ*Ó. 
 
 * Kilcash, a small country village situated about six miles east of 
 the town of Clonmel, at the foot of Sliabh na m-han mountain, and 
 formerly the seat of a branch of the Butler family, and a place of note 
 in its time. The only vestiges now remaining to attract the traveller’s 
 attention are the walls of the castle. 
 
 ‘‘ This venerable mansion, for many centuries the residence of a 
 branch of the Butler family, and attractive theme of travellers and 
 tourists, was finally prostrated in the jeixT 1800, and the materials sold 
 for a trifiing consideration to a Mr. James Power, a merchant of 
 Carrick-on-Suir, by (the then) Lord Ormonde, father to the present 
 
OF MUNSTEK. 
 
 239 
 
 But Charles, despising danger, 
 
 Will soon ascend green Eire's throne, 
 
 And drive the Saxon stranger 
 Afar from hence to seek his own. 
 
 Then, full of soul, — and freed from dole, 
 Without control the wine shall flow ; 
 
 And we shall sing in chorus. 
 
 Come, Leather away with the Wattle, 0 
 
 A LAMENT FOR KILCASH. 
 
 Oh, sorrow the saddest and sorest ! 
 
 Kilcash’s attractions are fled — 
 
 Felled lie the high trees of its forest, 
 
 And its bells hang silent and dead. 
 
 There dwelt the fair Lady, the Vaunted, 
 
 Who spread through the island her fame. 
 There the Mass and the Vespers were chanted, 
 And thither the proud Earls came ! 
 
 representative of that noble family.” — See Ljmch’s grand edition of 
 Castlehaven^s Memoirs, p. 23, note.* Dublin : 1815. 
 
 The song is probably the composition of a student named Lane, 
 whom Lady Iveagh educated at her own expense for the priésthood, 
 and from whose per another song will be found in Hardiman’s “ Irish 
 Minstrelsy,” vol. ii., p. 267. 
 
 t Cling, death-bell, or knell. 
 
 X larlaxdhe, Earls. To escape ^‘the machinations of Shaftesbury and 
 the party who wished to excite another persecution against the 
 Catholics of England, by the fabrication of Popish plots, pretended 
 
240 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 If é mo cf oAc-f A* *OA ! Y toAn-goifu ! 
 
 T)o geACAIDO b]A eÁjA néACA Af I 
 
 An Avenue e^nuA f aoi f* AouAf, 
 
 ’S 5An fof5 Af Aon cAob do ’n Walk ! 
 
 An Chnifu bfeÁgA a pbeAc An bf Aon di, 
 
 ’S An ^AfjAAD féim 50 cbÁc, 
 
 ’S 4n boAbAf no mAfb do iéA^cAf 
 An c-0Afbo5* Y Lady ^Veaghlf 
 
 Hi cbtiinnim fiiAim Iaca nÁ 561 Ann, 
 
 TIÁ pobAif A5 DÓAnAD Acbif coif cuAin ; 
 
 Ha pn nA m-boACA ctnn fAocAip 
 
 UbAbAffAC mib A^iif cei]\ do ’n c-fbiiAi^! 
 
 Hi’b ceob binn mitif nA n-éAn Ann, 
 be b-ATTiAfc An bAe bub tiAinn, 
 
 HÁ ’n cuAicin a m-bÁff nA n-^éAg Ann, 
 
 OY Í ctiiffeAc An fAo^Ab cum fUAin. 
 
 HiiAif cijeAD nA ptnc fAoi nA fbéibue, 
 
 ’S An gnnA be nA D-cAob, Y bon ; 
 
 VeACAn pAD A ntiAf be bÓAn, Aif 
 
 An m-bAibe ftiAif Sway Ann jac r\\\ ; — 
 
 conspiracies, and meditated assassinations, Lord Castlehaven came to 
 Ireland, and died at his sister’s house in Kilcash, county of Tipperary, 
 Oct. 11, 1684.” — Lynch’s Castlehaven Memoirs, p. 26. 
 
 * Bishop Butler of West-Court, Callan, a man eminent for his un- 
 affected piety, and sanctity of life. 
 
 \ Lady Iveagh, “ Margaret Bourke, eldest daughter of William, Earl 
 of Clanricarde, first married to Brian Magennis, Viscount Iveagh; and 
 
OF MUNSIER. 
 
 241 
 
 I am worn by anguisb unspoken 
 As I gaze on its glories defaced, 
 
 Its beautiful gates lying broken, 
 
 Its gardens all desert and waste. 
 
 Its courts, that in lightning and thunder 
 Stood firm, are, alas ! all decayed ; 
 
 And the Lady Iveagh sleepeth under 
 The sod, in the greenwood shade. 
 
 No more on a Summer-day sunny 
 
 Shall I hear the thrush sing from his lair. 
 No more see the bee bearing honey 
 At noon through the odorous air. 
 
 Hushed now in the thicket so shady, 
 
 The dove hath forgotten her call, 
 
 And mute in the grave lies the Lady 
 Whose voice was the sweetest of all ! 
 
 As the deer from the brow of the mountain, 
 When chased by the hunter and hound, 
 Looks down upon forest and fountain. 
 
 And all the green scenery round ; 
 
 secondly to the Hon. Col. Thomas Butler, of Kilcash, county Tipperary, 
 where she died 19th of July, 1744. She was a lady of great personal 
 charms, and a bright example of every female virtue. Her piety, 
 charity, and universal benevolence, are eloquently described in the 
 funeral sermon preached after her death, by the Rev. Richard 
 Hogan, and printed in Kilkenny.” — Hardiman’s “Irish Minstrelsy,*' 
 vol.ii., p. 417. 
 
242 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 An 'f'Aicce iDjAeÁgA Aoibirin tiA^AAobcACA, 
 
 ’S jAn a]i Aon uAob ó’n c-pn, 
 
 pÁipc AR Phaddoch ’ra Dairy^ 
 
 THaji a m-bióeAc ar eibiu aj dóaraó a fgíú. 
 
 A CÁ ceó A5 ctiicim a|v c]iAobA*ó arr, 
 
 11 Á gbARAR ]\e 5 ]RAR, RA bÁ ; 
 
 UÁ fTnÚlD A5 UU1U11R o ’r -ppél|l arr, 
 
 ’S A GRID tiif5e ^obéip Ag upÁgA; — 
 
 Hi X Cobb, RÍ ’b CUlblOR, RÍ ’b CAOp’ ARR ! 
 
 AcX) cboCA RTAob cbocÁlR, 
 pAipC AR pojAOip* JAR CjAAob ARR. 
 
 ’S 'o'lmci 5 AR Game cRm pÁjAiR ! 
 
 >dR01f mA|\ bÁpp Aip JAC Rli-jpeARR, 
 
 CbRAlD ppORRpA RA R-gAOlDeAbf CA]1 fAlb; 
 A RRR pe b-AiRjip RA miRe, 
 
 PrA 1|\ JAipm pAR b-P]AA1RC \ fAR SpÁlRR 
 
 The family of Magennis, with whom the subject of this song was 
 connected, are thus described by 0^ Dulhagain (O’Dugan), an Irish 
 topographer of the fourteenth century : — 
 
 “ Chief over the noble clan Aodh 
 Is the exalted and agreeable Magennis ; 
 
 They settled on the fertile hill ; 
 
 They took possession of all TJlidia.” 
 
 They were descended from the famous warrior Conall Cearnach and were 
 the head of the Clanna Rudhraidhe of Ulster. Their possessions were the 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 243 
 
 So I on thy drear desolation 
 
 Gaze, 0, my Kilcash, upon thee ! 
 
 On thy ruin and black devastation, 
 
 So doleful and woful to see ! 
 
 There is mist on thy woods and thy meadows ; 
 
 The sun appears shorn of his beams ; 
 
 Thy gardens are shrouded in shadows. 
 
 And the beauty is gone from thy streams. 
 The hare has forsaken his cover ; 
 
 The wild fowl is lost to the lake ; 
 Desolation hath shadowed thee over, 
 
 And left thee — all briar and brake ! 
 
 And I weep while I pen the sad story — 
 
 Our Prince has gone over the main, 
 
 With a damsel, the pride and the glory 
 Not more of Green Eire than Spain. 
 
 baronies of Iveagb and Lecale, and part of Mourne, in the county o.. 
 Down. The last wife of the celebrated Hugh, Earl of Tyrone, was 
 Mary Catherine Magennis, of Iveagh. 
 
 In 1689, Lord Iveagh, husband of the lady commemorated in this 
 song, furnished King James with two regiments of infantry and 
 dragoons. After the war, he entered the Austrian service with a choice 
 battalion of five hundred men — Green £ook* * 
 
 * ForghaoiSj a rabbit burrow. 
 
 t Frionnaa na n-Gaoidheal, Frince c^f the Gael, The ^oet here alludes 
 to the exiled Duke of Ormond. 
 
244 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 An 01 f A CUALtACC DÁ CAOlfie, 
 
 ^lieibeAc AijA^ioD bui*0e bÁn, 
 
 Ay Í nÁ cógjTAc -peibb ha ri-DAoirie 
 Acv CA|A]1A10 HA b-póp boCOAH ! 
 
 ^iccim A|\ tnbtii|\e ’y a|a 10S-d 
 
 50 D-CA5AID p YT CUgAIHH l'bÁH ? 
 
 50 in-beiú lAAiHciDe ^tada'’ a^ jAbAib címciobb, 
 Ceób béiDbiHH Y ceiHue cháih : — 
 
 50 D-UÓg-pA]! AH bAlbe-p Á|V pHHpop 
 
 Cílb CliAif b]AeÁgA ^]\\y 50 b-ÁpD, 
 
 'S 50 hyÁt HÓ 50 d-cioc]:aó ah DíbiOHH, 
 tlí pAic^reA]; í ’pV ^ 
 
 •o- 
 
OF MUNSTER 
 
 245 
 
 The Poor and the Helpless bewail her; 
 
 The Cripple, the Blind, and the Old ; 
 
 She never stood forth as their jailer. 
 
 But gave them her silvei and gold. 
 
 O, God ! I beseech thee to send her 
 Home here to the land of her birth ! 
 
 We shall then have rejoicing and splendour, 
 And revel in plenty and mirth. 
 
 And our land shall be highly exalted ; 
 
 And till the . dread dawn of that day 
 When the race of Old Time shall have halted, 
 It shall flourish in glory alway ! 
 
 -o 
 
246 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 bmri tisiri ^oRAch ar bhuoshA. 
 
 bjRATl 11 A plAICeApUA, CCU. 
 
 Voi)n :—''B]X)r) IitIt) ^Iotuó 4t) Bl)|t054. 
 
 bÁ meA‘ó|iAc DÁ lAAbAf-^pA bom ]?éin, 
 
 A]i binri bfin ao|\ac ar bhuojA ; 
 
 Ag eifDiocu te birin-gtic ra r- 6 ar, 
 
 A 5 CARUA1RR A|A gÓAgAlb C01f AbAR ! — 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 247 
 
 THE FAIRY RATH OF BRUFF. 
 
 BY BRIAN o’FLAHERTY. 
 
 This song and air take tkeir name from the celebrated fairy fort 
 situated at the town of Bruff, in the county of Limerick, and like many 
 others in this collection would have probably been lost, or left in the 
 “world of spirits,” had it not fallen into our hands. 
 
 Brian O’Flaherty, the author, was an humble peasant, a mason by 
 trade, and for aught we know, he may have been “master-builder’' 
 to his friends — the fairies and “good people ” of Bruff. 
 
 He was a native of Bruff, or its vicinity, but we cannot discover 
 when he lived. It appears he was not numbered among the bards of 
 his day, but was considered rather presumptive in assuming the name, 
 and for such conduct he was cited, prosecuted, and expelled, at one of 
 the Bardic Sessions then held in Munster. However, Brian was not so 
 easily got rid of, and in order to gain favour, he mustered up all the 
 natural talent he was possessed of, and composed the present song. 
 
 Bruff is situated on the banks of the river Camog {Anglicised “ The 
 .Morning Star”), and lies about fifteen miles from Limerick. Tradition 
 informs us that the banks of this river up to the town were formerly 
 laid out with beautiful gardens, where all species of plants and 
 trees peculiar to this country grew, and was much admired for 
 being the resort of birds of all kinds, from the melody of whose notes 
 it gained the appellation of Binn (melodious). At the west side of the 
 town there is a little eminence called Lies (Fort), and there is also a 
 castle, or Brogha^ which is supposed to have been built^ by the De 
 Lacy family shortly after the English invasion. 
 
 The birds carolled songs of delight, 
 
 And the flowers bloomed bright on my path, 
 As I stood all alone on the height 
 Where rises Bruff’s old Fairy Rath. 
 
248 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 -dn ‘‘ bpeAC EAiDhpoc” -pAn Un^ xav pAoi |Aéim, 
 d^ |VAince ]"A n-5AO|\rA te ^ronn, 
 
 Ví\Áf ueinn tib-p |\ADAp\c fút riA beiL, 
 
 UÁ teigeAp tuAc on éAj 'oíbont Ann ! 
 
 fliop ciAn Dúinn coif DiAn c-^pnibb ha féA*o, 
 ’TlApi rinAn te p]\ Ciponn out Ann, 
 dn ujAÁú úpiAtt cújAinn An gpiAn-initi-p béic, 
 go oiAn Í ’n-éAg-cpiuic 50 tom ! 
 d ciAb-^otc bpeÁg, niArh]iAc 50 ^eA\\, 
 dj ^rÁp téi-p ]AOimpe ’p oeAij; 
 
 “ d bbpiAin oit ! cpoAO é ’n oiAn-jot po gníóip 
 X)o ciAp me 50 b-Aegib op mo cionn !” 
 
 tii pgAoitpeAO-pA ppíorh-pún mo pgeit, 
 go n-innpip cÁ cAob oiom Ap §AbAip ? 
 dn UÚ doibitt“beA5, cAoin-cteApAc, ctAon, 
 ITlAp tionAip 50 téip me 00 0’ jpeAnn ! 
 
 Ho ’n u-pic-beAn cug bui*óin-cpuip nA UpAe, 
 gup tionAOAp Sb^Ajuig ^nA oeAbAij; 
 
 TIÓ ’n l3h]U5'oeAC te’p ctAoibeAg té jAn péim, 
 CtAnn Hipnic nA cpéin-pip, gAn cAbAÍp! 
 
 Hi 01 ob me, C1A oic tiom 00 pgéAt, 
 dec pige-beAn ó ’n o-c]\éAn-tiop ú*o cAttl 
 T)o píop- join 00 piop-jot A 5-céin, 
 
 'S Ap cemn tiom cú cpAOccA Ag neApc gAtt ! 
 
OF MUNSTEK. 
 
 249 
 
 Before me, unstirred by the Avind, 
 
 That beautiful lake lay outspread, 
 Whose waters give sight to the Blind, 
 And would almost awaken the Dead I 
 
 As I gazed on the silvery stream, 
 
 So loved by the heroes of old, 
 
 There neared me, as though in a dream, 
 
 A maiden with tresses of gold. 
 
 I wept, but she smilingly said — 
 
 “ Whence, Brian, my dearest, those tears 
 And the words of the gentle-souled maid 
 
 Seemed to pierce through my bosom like spears 
 
 0, rather,’’ I cried, lovely One, 
 
 Tell me who you are, and from whom ! 
 
 Are vou Aoibhill, and come here alone 
 To sadden mj spirit with gloom ? 
 
 Or she who brought legions to Troy, 
 
 When the Grecians crossed over the wave ? 
 
 Or the dame that was doomed to destroy 
 The children of Uisnigh the brave ?” 
 
 ‘‘ I am none of all three,” she replied, 
 
 “ But a fairy from yonder green mound — 
 
 Who heard how you sorrowed and sighed 
 As you strayed o’er this elf-haunted ground. 
 
THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 250 
 
 i 
 
 5t<^cintiuin ! ^<^15 cLoi*óe<\ni ’tiA Tn-bem 
 >^5 |AAinnce ai|a cAoib-eAc 50 -peAnj ; 
 
 5<Mb uimciobb 5AC c]AÍoc ’riAb-]:A5Ai]i 5^oi*óeib, 
 50 n-innp|\ 'oo f^eAb 'oóib gAti CAtn ?'* 
 
 T)’eif‘oeAf be bínn-guú a beib, 
 
 ’S X)’éi]i5io^ T)o béiin a]i mo bonn ; 
 
 *0’innpof ^U]\ ueinn cmy mo f^eib, 
 
 be bing-joib riAc béigionn X)Am bAbAi|ic! 
 bío'ójAri mo cpoite fcijbe beAn, 
 
 A^tif pbim ]:uib ú]iéAn Aj' mo ceAnn ; 
 mo cAOin-|ioi]"5 tDA beA^A-o ’riAm mA|i CAop, 
 
 poi^‘pbe x) 6 a]aa 50 c^iom ! 
 
 An min-u-f]itiiu ntiAi]A bim-p biom ^réin, 
 binn bipn ao^ac An bhjiogA; 
 
 ^5 ftnAoineAm a|i gníomAiiúAib An u-f AogAib, 
 An íofbAi|ACfi A|A A5 neA]iu ^Abb, 
 
 UÁ Fleet nA 'o-cp pi^ce 50 cpeAn, 
 
 An SciobApc fAn SeAmnp ’ha ceAnn ;* 
 bAoipij t)A bionA-o pAOi péim, 
 
 mibe Y f^<3^cc 5-céA*o Ann jac bong. 
 
 Ceann, head, chief, captain, leader, James, the Cheyalier de St. George. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 251 
 
 And now gird around you your sword, 
 
 And spring on your swift- footed steed — 
 And call on the Gael, serf and lord. 
 
 And Eire’s green land shall be freed 
 
 So spake she in musical tones, 
 
 And I started as wakened from sleep, 
 
 I told her the cause of my groans. 
 
 And the anguish that forced me to weep— 
 Why my eyes were thus blinded with tears, 
 And my bosom tormented with pains, 
 
 Why my heart had been breaking for years, 
 And the blood growing cold in my veins. 
 
 She vanished on hearing my tale, 
 
 But at evening I often roam still 
 To lament the sad fate of the Gael, 
 
 And to weep upon Bruffs Fairy Hill. 
 O ! may we soon see the three Kings,* 
 And JAMES, above all, in this land ! 
 May the winds on their favoring wings 
 Waft swiftly their fleet to our strand ! 
 
 The King of Ireland, England, and Scotland. 
 
252 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 CA1U m neitt. 
 
 ^árioif Ó A b-p]AÍofi 3 n Ápo me, a ri-géibeARH 
 
 CpUAID, 
 
 ’S 50 pAcunri DO puÁip, mAp a b-pub mo 5|AÁt) geAb, ’f 50 
 b-pÓ5]:tin Í ; 
 
 T)o buAibpri mo bÁirh DeAp Aip a bpAgAio, no pAOi ra 
 coimin CAoib, 
 
 Ap é ’DubAipc CÁic biom, geAbAD riÁipe, mAp AD-cóigpiji 
 Díom P’ 
 
 Tlí CÓ5PAD Díoc, A pcóip mo cpoibe, mdp ip zú bpeoig me 
 
 ’pAoip, 
 
 Cbtip pAÍgeAD Am cpoiDe, nÁ béigippiop Díom, 50 bpÁú pe 
 m’ pAe ! 
 
 tDA m-beiú ar Cbúpc ra puge, ’p mé be cpocA cpíoD, Y 
 mo cúip DÁ pbéib, 
 
 be copAD cboiDim, do bAiripin Díob cú, a ChÁic tlí tléibbl 
 
 írice cibueAp, ar AbArhÍR, riAp cÁirieAb béAb, 
 
 'tlA b-ptib 5ptiAi5 A círiR íiA búbA buibe béi, A5 pÁp 50 
 
 péAp ; 
 
 1 p geAb A píb, ip pugce A cóm, 'p a cnÁrhA 50 béip, 
 
 A b-pub Ap puD píop, 50 bÁpp A cpóige, níb cÁim pAeV 
 pAOgAb. 
 
OF MUNSTER, 
 
 253 
 
 KATE m NEILL. 
 
 Now that, in prison, and all forsaken, my fate I rue, 
 
 Fain would I seek her, my own true-love, and wed her 
 too. 
 
 Around her white waist I'd press my arm with pleasure 
 new. 
 
 But still she tells — “0, leave me! leave me! you shame 
 me, you !" 
 
 No, no, my darling. I'll never shame you ; but all night long 
 You wound my bosom 1 I'm grown most feeble — I once 
 so strong I 
 
 Come good or evil, come Death or Life, or come Eight or 
 Wrong, 
 
 Sweet Kate Ni Neill, love, I'd choose you only among the 
 throng. 
 
 Your lovely features, O, glorious creature, attract all eyes ! 
 Your golden tresses flow brightly downward in dazzling 
 guise ; 
 
 Your neck so snow-white, your waist so slender, your 
 features fair, 
 
 Exalt you over all mortal maidens beyond compare ! 
 
254 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Ua ctuLe gniorhAjACA ’gAtn te ri-inpriu opu, a -peiTh-lDeA^ 
 fuAiiic, 
 
 tneAii do fj^iiiobcA, bAHA cAol, if léíf Y Af ItiAic j 
 T)o fuiúfÁ Reel Aif fuio ah cige, go moAf éADfom, buAH, 
 ’S be 5tju DO cinn, 50 5-ci3]AfeÁDA céAD bAoc cum fUAin ! 
 
 5 ac béiú DeAf DÁ D-CAjAc cugAmfA, rii beiDiriii fÁfDA 
 béi, 
 
 Uíf riA bóri^ A 5 -ceAfu Y s-cúricAf, \ a fÁgAib be 
 béib ; 
 
 pófU triAÚgArhriA A 1 f fAD gAU CÚílCAf, AU SpÁiíiu ’f AH 
 
 5^réi5- 
 
 50 biomfA beic Aip beAbAD cbúm beAc a CbÁic 
 
 Hí néibb. 
 
 gbbACAiriu cúgAm cú jau bA jau púmu, 5Ati ÁifeAm 
 fPféiD, 
 
 'S Af beAc Do piúbAbfAinri mAiDion DpúcDA, Aip bÁpp ai? 
 feip; 
 
 >dp é mo cpeAc 50 DÚbAc jau mé zú, a bbAC ua 
 
 g-cfAob ! 
 
 A g-CAipiobb ttluitiAr. Y 5^^ "00 beAbAD púinti, acu CbÁp 
 bog "Oéib! 
 
 0 - 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 255 
 
 O ! beauteous damsel, the light and lustre of Eire’s 
 land, 
 
 Yours is the ready, the quick yet steady, the writer’s hand ! 
 Yours is the light foot, the bounding figure for saraband, 
 And yours the voice that nor king nor hero could e’er 
 withstand. 
 
 To all the lasses I have met with my heart was steel. 
 
 No wealth, nor honour, could ever tempt me to them to 
 kneel, 
 
 Not all Portumna, not Spain or Hellas, could make me 
 feel 
 
 One moment faithless to you, my darling, sweet Kate 
 Ni Neill! 
 
 O! were you landless, and owned not even one blade of 
 grass, 
 
 All other damsels, the dead or living, you’d still surpass I 
 O, woe and sorrow ! how sadly fare 1 1 alas ! alas I 
 Without my Kate, without friends or money, without a 
 glass ! 
 
 ■o* 
 
256 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 nois 'oubh* 
 
 IPoTin : — Kó)r obe-dl 
 
 1|']?A‘OA An ]Aéiin T)o mé féin ó n-'oe 50 ’niuj, 
 
 An imiolt -pléib ’intnc 50 'h-iniolbuA, éA*ou]AOin, rriAf 
 b’eótAC *OATn ; 
 
 boc eipne'oo béiTncAj", cia •^u]\ m6]\ An 
 
 ’S 5An t)o 5ibe5i\éine Atn béi5-p, Acuino Hóifjl^eAt T)ubl 
 
 * present the reader with two different settings of this air, for 
 from their extraordinary beauty we could not justly omit either. Jiois 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 257 
 
 BLACK-HAIEED FAIR ROSE. 
 
 Since last night’s star, afar, afar Heaven saw my speed, 
 
 I seem’d to fly o’er mountains high, on magic steed, 
 
 I dashed through Erne : — the world may learn the cause 
 from Love ; 
 
 For, light or sun shone on me none, but Roisin Duhh ! 
 
 Gheal Duhh (Black-haired Fair Bose), sometimes written Roisin Duhh 
 (Dark-haired little ’Rose), is supposed to be one of these names by which 
 Ireland is known in the lauguage of allegory. 
 
 B 
 
258 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 50 D-Ui ATI C-AOriAC IRA célglOnR UU A 5 DioL DO |'CU1C, 
 
 tnú úéigiji, riÁ ):ar dóarac 'pAR oioce Amuic ? 
 loioc butuAID A]\ DO DOippe Y TR0]T-§tAip Cip, 
 
 V\6 Ap bAOgAt DUlU AR ctéipiOC, Ap AR tlóip ghoAt. T)ub ! 
 
 A “RoipiR RÁ bioc bpOR opu, RÁ CÁp AROip, 
 
 UÁ DO fDÁpDRR O pbÁpA RA HotRA A^AD ; 
 
 UÁ RA lOpÁlCpe UOACC UAp pÁlbe, Y -<^5 CpiAbb UAp IRRp, 
 
 S RÍ ceibpiop piOR SpAlRROAC Ap TRO RÓip ghoAb "Oub I 
 
 T 7 a 5pAb buic be bbiAgAiR a R1115, 
 
 5pÁb cpÁibce ! 5 pÁb cÁprhAp ! 5 ]\Áb ciApAibúe ! 
 
 5pÁD dY^ 5 RTé 5 AR pbÁlRCe ! ^AR piAR ! ^AR ptHÚ ! 
 
 ’S 50 bpÁC, bpÁÚ, RÍ 'b AOR pÁgAlb AJATR Ap IRO ftoip^b^Ab 
 
 T)ub ! 
 
 X)o piÚbAbpAlRR-pi AR TnbRIRAIRbeAc/pClÚrhAipRAg-CROC, 
 1TlAp púlb 50 b-pAgAIRR pÚR opu, RO pÁipU bo CIOR ; 
 
 ^ cpÁob-cúpcA, cin^úeAp búiRRe, 50 b-ptiib 5pÁb 
 DARl ; 
 
 ’S jtip b’í pbijp-p^oic RA m-bAR RRJiRue, mo tlóip jbeAb 
 
 X)uhl 
 
 bei*ó AR pAipge RA cuibue DeApjA, Y ppéip ra ptiib, 
 beiD AR pAOjAb RA COJAD CpOlDOApj Ap bptllRI RA ^-CROC, 
 beiD gAc ^beARR pbéibe Ap puiD 0ipionR, Y ^óiRue Ap 
 cpic ! 
 
 bÁ éi^iR pub A R-éAjpAib mo Tlóip Jl^eAb "Oub ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 259 
 
 My friends ! my prayers for marts and fairs are these 
 alone — 
 
 That buyers haste home ere evening come, and sun be 
 gone ; 
 
 For, doors, bolts, all, will yield and fall, where picklocks 
 move — 
 
 And faith the Clerk may seize i’ the dark, my Roisin 
 Duhh ! 
 
 O, Roisin mine ! droop not nor pine, look not so dull ! 
 
 The Pope from Rome hath sent thee home a pardon fulU 
 
 The priests are near : O ! never fear ! from Heaven above 
 
 They come to thee — they come to free my Roisin Dubh ! 
 
 Thee have I loved — for thee have roved o’er land and sea I 
 
 My heart was sore ; — it evermore beat but for thee. 
 
 I could but weep — I could not sleep — I could not move ; 
 
 For, night and day, I dreamt alway of Roisin Duhh / 
 
 Through Munster’s lands, by shores and strands, far could 
 I roam, 
 
 If I might get my loved one yet, and bring her home. 
 
 O, sweetest flower, that blooms in bower, or dell, or grove, 
 
 Thou lovest me, and I love thee, my Roisin Dubh ! 
 
 The sea shall burn, the earth shall mourn — the skies rain 
 blood — 
 
 The world shall rise in dread surprise and warful mood — 
 
 And hill and lake in Eire shake, and hawk turn dove — 
 
 Ere you shall pine, ere you decline, my Roisin Dubh ! 
 
260 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 tioisin T)tibli * 
 
 in<Mp5 *00 ’ii ce úv b’éijion *oijit za\\ *poi]A! 
 
 'S RAC bocu *00 ^R U|ieAR-cbARR DO CAlÚ):eA*Ó éAbÓ*Ó JAR 
 
 UA|\ 
 
 UÁ lÁirh AR U]AéACR1|l AJ f5]A10]" 'P<5^obA*Ó, -pUD A btlAD 
 
 A RIR j, 
 
 UÁrriAoiD, upéi júe, pÁú Áp R-éAbó‘ó raiu, a tlóipiR T)tib ! 
 
 1 p btiAR pmiiAiRue mo cpioibe opc a fcóiji, a rocc, 
 
 Ad *óíc-pi ip upiom cAOiRim jar f jíú, jar cocc ! 
 
 0] 1 JAR ÍRROA'Ó pAÚ IRO pAOjlb boAU, A bbÁÚ RA ftlb’, 
 
 ACZ pA]AA01]A ! UÁ11R A R-DAOippO RAIU, A ílÓipiR T)tlb ! 
 
 tjA *óeAp mo *óóiú peA‘ó do bí tRepópDA be’m fcóipÍR péiR, 
 A D-cRip ra’ói je bí mé fcpioi j lé jar eApbA*ó aor rí*ó ; 
 
 Acc Rio *ÓÍC- jtnpc ! ÚÁ1R1C AOip DATTl, ’p DDAboi*0 TRO C|AU1Ú ! 
 ’S Ap éijioR DAm UR cpéijiOR, A llóipiR "Oub ! 
 
 1) A *ÓeAp DO cbób Ap JAC AOR COp, A COp\, A CjAAOlb tl|\bbÁÚ ! 
 
 bA tRAIC DO CÓipip Ap bÓjADAlb JÍAR, RRAD, JAC iÁ, 
 
 tlc ! CtlltriRI'Ó A tlÓipÍR A]1 JAC mOlDO DO ÚtlJAip pOlR DAtR, 
 ^ID jup b’élJIOR DAm DO CpélJIOR A|A pÁlbe A RIRJ ! 
 
 ♦ The original song of JRoisin Dubh is supposed to have been com- 
 posed in the reign of Elizabeth for the celebrated Aodh Ua Domhnaill, 
 (Hugh Hoe O’Donnell), Prince of Tirconnell. The allegorical allusions 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 261 
 
 LITTLE BLACK-HAIUED LOSE. 
 
 O, bitter woe, that we must go, across the sea ! 
 
 O, grief of griefs, that Lords and Chiefs, their homes must 
 flee ! 
 
 A tyrant-band overruns the land, this land so green, 
 
 And, though we grieve, we still must leave, our Dark 
 Eoisin ! 
 
 My darling Dove, my Life, my Love, to me so dear, 
 
 Once torn apart from you, my heart will break, I fear, 
 
 O, golden Flower of Beauty’s bower ! 0, radiant Queen ! 
 
 I mourn in bonds; my soul desponds; my Dark Eoisin! 
 
 In hope and joy, while yet a boy, I wooed my bride ; 
 
 I sought not pelf; I sought herself, and nought beside, 
 But health is flown, ’tis old Fm grown ; and though I ween 
 My heart will break, I must forsake my Dark Eoisin! 
 
 The fairest Fair you ever were ; the peerless Maid ; 
 
 For bards and priests your daily feasts were richly laid. 
 Amid my dole, on you my soul still loves to lean. 
 
 Though I must brave the stormy wave, my Dark Eoisin ! 
 
 o Ireland under the name of Roisin^ have long been forgottan, and it is 
 now known by the peasantry merely as a love song. 
 
262 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 CuininiD 5<\c córh]iA*ó min, cói]i, gAn ctAOin, 
 
 Ctnrhni'ó a -pcóip LeAUj'A a poi^Ao me a D-uuip me 
 
 f Aegil ! 
 
 CtJimniD A óijbeAn An teAbAo a cójAtngeAÓ Dtnu ]:éin ’p 
 
 DAm, 
 
 blÁc nA pop, Y món-mÁg, mo Hoipin 13 nb ! 
 
 Hac b-ptnb mo pÁipu teAu a cub pÁmneAc nA n-DUAb cAp 
 m-btnoe ! 
 
 tiAc UÚ mo 5pÁD“pA d’a b-puib Do’n A*ÓAm-cbAinn, a 
 CA ibin cAoin ! 
 
 5 onui 5 An bÁ ’mug a n-^niom nÁ pÁibcib ni b-puAip cú 
 
 ’S nAc cpuAiD An cÁp ^up ctnpeAÓ 5pÁin opc, a ílóipín 
 
 T)iiib ! 
 
 TIa bíóeAc bpón opc a tlóipín ! acd bío*ó ad úocc, 
 
 UÁ Do cÁipoe Ag ueAcc cAp pÁibe 5An ppÁp a nocc ; 
 UiocpAD A bÁn Do úpeib nA SbÁinne beó a noip, 
 
 'S beip A tlóipín ^An bpon nA Deoig pin, Y 5^ 
 cion ! 
 
 50 D-U15’ An cpÁc An pin céAD pbÁn beAc a pcóp mo ctnm, 
 50 D-ciocpAD An bÁ pAn míbe pbÁn beAc, a cpoi*óe nAC 
 cim ! 
 
 Idíd ^ÁipoeAc, uÁim ad c-pÁgbÁib a pcóip, a mug ! 
 
 Acx) pibbpeAX) be ÁúAp Y Tnóp-^ÁpoAp, Ap mo tióipín T)ub ! 
 
OF MUNSTEE. 
 
 263 
 
 In years gone by, how you and I seemed glad and blest ! 
 My wedded wife, you cheered my life, you warmed my 
 breast ! 
 
 The fairest one the living sun e’er decked with sheen. 
 
 The brightest rose that buds or blows, is Dark Roisin ! 
 
 My guiding Star of Hope you are, all glow and grace. 
 My blooming Love, my Spouse above all Adam’s race ; 
 In deed or thought you cherish nought of low or mean ; 
 The base alone can hate my own — my Dark Roisin ! 
 
 O, never mourn as one forlorn, but bide your hour; 
 
 Your friends ere long, combined and strong, will prove 
 their power. 
 
 From distant Spain will sail a train to change the scejse 
 That makes you sad, for one more glad, my Dark Roisin ! 
 
 Till then, adieu ! my Fond and True i adieu, till then ! 
 Though now you grieve, still, still believe well meet again ; 
 I’ll yet return, with hopes that burn, and broad-sword 
 keen ; 
 
 Fear not, nor think you e’er can sink, my Dark Roisin ^ 
 
THE POETS AND POETRT 
 
 2Gé 
 
 eAmonn An chnoic. 
 
 'poi)!):— G4Tt]0t)t) Cl)i) 0 )c. 
 
 CiA 1 i-é pn 4 mtiic, 
 
 ’Ha -[taoIda]! a|\ a 5 UIC, 
 
 '[AAobA'ó mo x)únuA? 
 
 0Amorin An Chnoic, 
 ’UÁ bÁióue ]:i:iA|\, ^bmc, 
 
 O fíoivfiúbAb-pbéibce Y 5beAnnuA ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 265 
 
 EDMUND OF THE HILL. 
 
 Air : — ‘‘ Edmund of the KilV'* 
 
 Edmtjííd O’ Ryan, better known as Eamonn an Chnoic (Edmund, or 
 Ned of the Hill), was born at Shanboby, in the parish of Temple-beg, 
 in the upper half barony of Kilnemanagh, in Tipperary, previous to 
 the wars of 1690. His father, who possessed a considerable amount 
 of property after the confiscatious and plunders of 1641, was des* 
 cended from the valiant and warlike race of the O’Ryans, of Kih 
 nelongurty, many of whom lost their lives and properties in the 
 obstinate, but ineffectual struggle for independence, by the Earl of 
 Desmond, in the reign of Elizabeth. His mother was of the ancient 
 family of the O’Dwyers, lords of Kilnemanagh. Edmund was intended 
 for the priesthood ; but by an affair in which he took a prominent 
 part after his return from the Continent, where he had studied for the 
 clerical profession, he^had to relinquish that idea. After many strange 
 vicissitudes in life, his body now lies interred near Faill an Chluig, in the 
 parish of Toem, in the upper half barony of Kilnemanagh, near the 
 Hollyford copper mine, and the precise spot is marked on sheet 45 of the 
 Ordnance Survey of Tipperary, as the grave of Eamonn an Chnoic, 
 
 You, with voice shrill and sharp, 
 Like the high tones of a harp. 
 
 Why knock you at my door like a warning 
 “ I am Ned of the Hill, 
 
 I am wet, cold, and chill, 
 
 Toilinof o’er hill and vale since morning* I” — 
 
2G6 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 A ÍAOg 'Ó1L Y A CtllD, 
 
 CjieAD 'óéAri):Airin-p Dtnu, 
 
 ITIun A 5 -ctii|ApriTi opu beirin da ni’ gúriA. 
 *S 50 b-]:uib pijgDAjA 50 uitij;, 
 "OÁpop-f^iDe |\iou, 
 
 'S 50 m-beA*ómAoip ApAoti ttiucda! 
 
 If fADA mife Amtiic, 
 
 Paoi fneAccA 5 ^f fAoi poc, 
 'S gAti DÁriAcc AgAm Af Aori rieAC ; 
 THo feiffeAC jar 
 THo bfARAf ^AR CUf, 
 
 AY 5 AR 1AD AJAm Af AOR COf ! 
 
 11i’b CAf AID AJAtn, 
 
 1f DA1RÍD blOm fAR, 
 t)o gtACfAC mé moc RÁ d 0 arac, 
 
 ’S 50 5-cAicfeAD me Dili, 
 
 UAf fAlR^efOlf, 
 
 Of ARR RÁC b-fUlb mo 5AObAbcA " 
 
 A CÚlb ÁltllRR DeAf, 
 
 ’ÍIa b-fÁiR^íbe CAf, 
 
 If bf eÁg f ^ 
 
 50 b-ftnb mo cfoiDe da f^AD, 
 iriAf DO fRÍOmÚAOl 5AD, 
 
 t.e bbiAjAiR rhóf fADA as; cruc LeAu. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 2G7 
 
 “ Ah, my love, is it you ? 
 
 What on earth can I do ? 
 
 My gown cannot yield you a corner. 
 
 Ah ! they’ll soon find you out — 
 They’ll shoot you, never doubt, 
 And it’s I that will then be a mourner !’* 
 
 Long I’m wandering in woe, 
 
 In frost and in snow. 
 
 No house can I enter boldly ; 
 
 My ploughs lie unyoked — 
 
 My fields weeds have choked — 
 And my friends they look on me coldly 1 
 Forsaken of all, 
 
 My heart is in thrall : 
 
 Alh withered lies my life’s garland, 
 
 I must look afar 
 For a brighter star 
 Must seek my home in a far lamd ! 
 
 O ! thou of neck fair, 
 
 And curling hair, 
 
 With blue eyes flashing and sparkling ! 
 For a year and more 
 Has my heart been sore, 
 
 And my soul for thee been darkling. 
 
26 S 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 li)-]:A5Ainn-p te ceA]\c, 
 
 CeAt) fine pof LeAU, 
 
 1 f éADCfom Y Af DeAf X)o púbAtfAinn 
 50 b-fuiL mo priAoince a beAn, 
 Ai|\ éAbógó'ó beAc?5 
 
 ^Aoi coitbcib A5 fpeA^AO An dj\úcca! 
 
 A ctimAinn Y a foAfc, 
 1 xACAmAOi*o-ne feAÍ, 
 
 Paoi coibtcib A5 fpeAbAÓ An DpucuA! 
 TTlAf A b-fAgmAOio An bpeAC, 
 
 An Ion Aip A neAD, 
 
 An fiA*ó bniupe ; — 
 
 Pa h-éiníní'óe binne, 
 
 Aip 5éi5íní*óe peinneAÓ, 
 
 S An ctiAicin Af bÁpp Ap 
 
 50 bpÁc bpÁc oi ciocpAÓ 
 An bÁp An Áp n-goipeAo, 
 
 A bÁp nA coibbe cnbApcA. 
 
 beip pgeAbA HAim pi op, 
 
 50 h-Ain^ip citnn An u-ptnlu, 
 gup cAitteADAp nA neio a n- éAnlAic; 
 
 gup ApAOip t )0 CU 1 C 
 
 An pneAccA Ap ^^a cnoic* 
 
 AmAc Ap peAÓ nA h-^ipnn ! 
 
 * From this and the precedinp^ liae it would appear that the song was 
 composed in the year of the great frosty 1739. 
 
OF MUNSTEK. 
 
 269 
 
 O, could we but both, — 
 
 You nothing loth, — 
 
 Escape to the wood and forest. 
 
 What Light and Calm, 
 
 What healing balm, 
 
 Should I have for my sorrows sorest ! 
 
 My fond one and dear, 
 
 The greenwood is near, 
 
 And the lake where the trout is springing — 
 You will see the doe, 
 
 The deer and the roe. 
 
 And will hear the sweet birds singing. 
 
 The blackbird and the thrush 
 In the hawthorn bush, 
 
 And the lone cuckoo from his high nest. 
 
 And you never need fear. 
 
 That Death would be near, 
 
 In this bright scenery divinest ! 
 
 ‘^0 ! could the sweet dove, 
 The maiden of my love. 
 
 But know how fettered is her lover ! 
 The snows all the night 
 Fell in valley and on height, 
 Through our fated island over, 
 
270 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 "OÁ mAi|\ioc tiom -puic, 
 
 50 yeAcorhuiR ó 'riitis, 
 txAcpAinn-i'e mi]Ae ad c-]:eACAiric, 
 50 mYeA-piA Liom Atioif, 
 
 A beiu bÁiDce -pATi mu^\\ 
 
 11 Á jAAD 50 m-beicfeÁ '[Aéig biom ! 
 
 ‘porji) : — 2li) SjOD4 ad BI^aUujd aB1)Iiaó4)Iu 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 271 
 
 But ere the sun’s rays 
 Glance over seven days, 
 
 She and as I hope, will renew love ; 
 And rather would I be 
 Deep drowned in the sea, 
 
 Than be faithless to her, my true love ! 
 
 THE WALLET OF SILK. 
 
 The air here given originated in the following anecdote ; — 
 
 One of these young men, better known among the community as 
 ‘‘poor scholars,” whom a thirst for education, in bygone days, sent 
 from various parts of the kingdom to the south, was accosted in the 
 following manner, by a young woman, perhaps the daughter of his host, 
 in reference to the wallet or satchel^ in which he carried his book. 
 
 “ An sioda ata ad wallet^ 
 
 An sioda ata ad wallety 
 
 An sioda ata ad wallet a hJiuachaill ? 
 
 An sioda ata ad wallety 
 An sioda ata ad wallety 
 No alhla do hhlaiseach mna uaisle! 
 
 To which he replied : — 
 
 “ Ni sioda ata am wallety 
 Ni sioda ata am wallety 
 Ni sioda ata am wallet a stuaire! 
 
 Ni sioda ata am wallety 
 Ni sioda ata am wallety 
 
 Na ahhla do hhlaiseach mna uaisleP* 
 
 “ Is it silk that’s in your wallet, 
 
 Is it silk that’s in your wallet, 
 
 Is it silk that’s in your waUet, my buachail] 7 
 Is it silk that’s in your wallet, 
 
 Is it silk that’s in your wallet, 
 
 Or apples for ladies to eat of ?” 
 
 “ ’Tis not silk I have in my wallet, 
 
 ’Tis not silk I have in my wallet, 
 
 ’Tis not silk I have in my wallet, my fair one ] 
 
 ’Tis not silk I have in my wallet, 
 
 ’Tis not silk I have in my wallet, 
 
 Nor apples for ladies to eat of I’* 
 
272 
 
 THE POETS AND POETKY 
 
 A nihAine ’jus a mlitiiRiiiti. 
 
 Tom : — 21 2t)l)4jiie 43ur 4 2t)l)u)]tii1i5. 
 
 Modei'ately 
 SloWf and 
 icith great 
 expression. 
 
 H 
 
 9 1 
 
 
 .■■" . — 
 
 
 f- f ^ 
 
 ] 
 
 ■ ■■'"■ 1, j 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 . 1 ' “ * 
 
 
 U • ^ 1 ÍN i 
 
 1 
 
 1- 
 
 ij 
 
 1 O' -é- -« fL 
 
 
 A inhÁi|ie’5tif A rhijinnin, Y a tuibin ua ^-c^iAob-f-obc, 
 An cuiTTiin beAU mA|i *00 pubbArriAoi]' a|a 'ó]iúiccíní'óe An 
 féiiAjUif; 
 
 A bbÁc nA n-AbAÍb ^-cubAjiuA, nA 5-cnó btii'óe, f nA 
 
 5-CAO]1A*Ó, 
 
 T)o pÁi|\u-p mo]\ 'óiúbuAij^eAp, cé *onbAc uAoim a*o u-éibiorh ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 273 
 
 MY DAELING MARY 
 
 TA3S beautiful love-song is the composition of one of the humbler rank 
 of the peasantry, and breathes, like all other poems of the same class, 
 the most intense feeling of deep affection, and burning tenderness of 
 expression. 
 
 To show with what fidelity Mangan has adhered to the original, wo 
 need only refer our readers to the following literal translation of the first 
 stanza : — 
 
 0, my darling Mary- my fair one of the ringlets, 
 
 Do you remember how we together trod the dew on the green grass ; 
 Blossom of the sweet-scented apple-tree — the golden nuts — and berries ; 
 Your affection never deserted me— tho’ in sadness you have left me. 
 
 0, ringletted young maiden ! O, my own darling Mary! 
 We*ve trod the dew together in the fields green and airy, 
 
 0 1 blossom of the apple-tree ! my hearths fount of glad- 
 
 ness ! 
 
 1 always loved you fondly, though you have left me now 
 
 in sadness. 
 
 a 
 
274 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 A S'pÁ'ó Dit Y púiRÍR, CAOib bom oiDce eijin ? 
 riuAijA tuigireAD mo rhuincip 50 Pi-beióeAm Ag CAinc te 
 riA céite ; 
 
 trio bÁrh A]i DO ctJimin, aj DéimmijgAD mo fseit Diiic, 
 
 ’S gtijA b’é DO 5iAÁb, A rhAigDeAR, buAin pADApc irbACAif 
 Díom ! 
 
 T)Á m-beiú a poy aj mo DOApbpACAip mo geA^vÁTi Y 
 huAijAiom, 
 
 'OÁ m-beic a po]" (da|v pÁpÁn), beiboAD puApÁn pómó}i 
 
 tHo céAD-peApc Am cpéipon, Y céibe eibe dá tuAD téi, 
 
 ’S cAp liinÁ DOApA 0 ipiorjn, ip í pio jiiÁb gOAb nÁ 
 puAú-pAirin. 
 
 4 \ cAibin bpeÁg DApAib — UAigrieAp mo bÁip uú, 
 
 -d cúb buiDe DA 5 -cocÁri Y bAti 0 i|\ionn ; 
 
 ^o pniri cú mo DiogbÁit, Y 'FApiop DÍ’t béijiop Atp, 
 
 CpeAD DO b’Álb bom do U-lA]ipAlD Y D 1 AR- 5 | 1 ÁD tia 
 pAgAinn cb. 
 
 T)a m-beibiriR-p Am lApjAipe fiAp a m-l 3 eírir. 6 idi]i, 
 
 ’S ITIÁipe DA D-geAb m-bpÁgAD ra bpADÁn Ap boc 0 i|tne; 
 1 p fÚgAC Y 1 ^G<^*Ó|AAC do pA^AlR-p DÁ b-élblOlfl, 
 
 DO geAbAinn atid mo bíoncÁn ‘'gpiATiÁn bAti Cipionn.’* 
 
 *04 tn^beiDinn-p Am Iaca Y fAippnje rtéibe ^jAtn, 
 
 ’S pADApC A]A DA ptAIClf dYoRR m’ARAm DO pAOpAD ; 
 
 T)o CAbAjipAinn An Aingip a bAibe DÁ b-péAD-pAinn, 
 téigpn DÁ b-ACAip A beté peAbAD dá íi-étbom ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 275 
 
 My purest love, my true love, come some night to me 
 kindly, 
 
 We both will talk together of the love I gave you blindly. 
 With my arm around your slender waist. I’ll tell how you 
 won me, 
 
 And how ’twas you, my Mary, shut Heaven’s gates upon me. 
 
 0 ! if my brother knew but of my woe and my sorrow, 
 
 A bitter heart he’d have through many a day and 
 morrow ; 
 
 O ! none of Eire’s maidens do I prize like to you, love, 
 And yet you now forsake me, though I thought you mj 
 true love ! 
 
 0, loveliest of damsels, the sad truth must be spoken, 
 
 But, maid of golden tresses, my sore heart you have 
 broken ; 
 
 My suffering is grievous, but I fain must endure it. 
 
 My wound it is a deep one, but you will not cure it. 
 
 O ! were I in Beinn-Eidir, a fisher skilled and wary, 
 
 And you down in liOiigh Erin, a salmon, O my Mary, 
 
 I’d rise up in the night-time, and haste to its waters. 
 
 And I’d catch you in my net, before all Eire’s daughters! 
 
 Or if I were a wild duck, and the heath hills before me. 
 And Heaven in its glory so blue shining o’er me, 
 
 I’d bring you home, my fair one, and this I tell you plainly, 
 That if your father sought you, he should long seek you 
 vainly ! 
 
276 
 
 THE POETS AND POETBY 
 
 “OÁ tn-bei'DiTin-fi a lutTOAin iriA]i ceAtin aji An n-gÁjroA, 
 
 ’S ceA-o A 5 ATn o’n 'b-'P|AAnncAc mo long -oo cup ca^i fAile* 
 
 Cliui5 fhile púncA •oÁ m’pú pn gAC tÁ me 
 
 If Í ITlÁif e mo fogA-fA, ’f vo bponnfAin mo fcÁc -oi. 
 
 eif^io At) fuije A bnACAiU ’f gluAif Af DO jeAffÁn ? 
 
 beAt/Ac DÁ m-buAibif bib’ Af éuAjiAifg mo biAn- jfÁb, 
 *00 bíb-fí DÁ luAb tiom o bibeAf Am leAnb-bÁn, 
 
 S bA binne biom nAOi nuAife i nA cuac ’f nÁ of^Áin- 
 
 yjiji) : — 2li) SfijACDAOji) Cji'i). 
 
 r\ ^ 
 
 Lively. 
 
 A- 
 
 — uJ. 
 
 -Ti- 
 
 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 277 
 
 O, were I in London, a naval commander, 
 
 And France gave me charters o’er ocean to wander, 
 
 'Tis hundreds of thousands of guineas I’d squander 
 On Mary, my darling ! no queen should be grander. 
 
 Up, boy ! Mount your steed ! ’Tis a bright eve and airy. 
 And each road you travel inquire for my Mary ! 
 
 She loved me while yet but a child like a fairy — 
 
 That sweet one whose tones shame the thrush and canary. 
 
 THE BROWN LITTLE MALLET. 
 
 Thx epitliv ^ Smachdaoin Cron (Brown Little Mallet) was applied to a 
 stout description of tobacco, smuggled into Ireland about the middle of 
 the last century, and in which an extensive traffic was carried on in 
 Munster. There are many songs to this air current among the peasantry; 
 but we believe the followiug is the first stanza of the earliest known 
 specimen ; — 
 
 ** Eirghidh ad shuighe a cJiailin f 
 Cuir sios potataoi ’s feoil ! 
 
 Sud e nois an gai'raidhe^ 
 lidbaire an Smachdaoin Chroin. 
 
 ** Oro, ro, mo Smachdaoin ! 
 
 Caradh mo chroide, mo Smachdaoin / 
 Oro, ro, mo Smachdaoin ! 
 
 O, mo Smachdaoin Cron r* 
 
 Arise 1 get up my girl ! 
 
 Boil potatoes and meat 
 
 Here comes up the garden 
 
 The lad with the Smachteen Cron. 
 
 “ Oro, ro, my Smachteen 
 Love of my soul, my Smachteen I 
 Oro, ro, my Smachteen ! 
 
 O my Smachteen Cron !” 
 
278 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 An seAbliAc smbhAit. 
 
 mtlllllf tlA CCC. 
 
 IFonn : — CUit B05 í)éil. 
 
 Very wild, 
 and 
 
 irregular. 
 
 Not too 
 Slow, 
 
 If* é nieA^'t)A|i tiom teAj^Ab cÚ|í, Y Aic^iiob ^\écf, 
 
 ■Ap eAfbAÓ fJúbAib, 4j\ f'eAfAiti fmúic neAiíi-^riÁc, fAn 
 
 AncfeACAÓ c|iiúc, A^ beA^AD 'ouiL, X Ap Ap'opgpeAt) oeic, 
 50 b-iruit niAlApcúgAÓ be ceACC 'oo’n cúip, no bÁ bpeAc’ 
 ■Oéi 
 
OF xMUNSTER. 
 
 279 
 
 THE WANDEHING EXILK 
 
 BY MAURICE GRIFFIN. 
 
 Air : — “ Soft Deal Board f 
 
 There are several songs to this air, but we have selected this Jacobite 
 effusion of Maurice Griffin, for the present occasion. The original words 
 will be found iu Hnrdiman’s “ Irish Minstrelsy,” vol. L, p. 238, with a 
 translation by Thomas Furlong. 
 
 The original version of “ Clar Bog DeaV* (Soft Deal Board) is better 
 known under the title of “ CaisioU Mumhar>y (Cashel of Munster), and 
 may with justice be attributed to the Rev. Wm. English. The reverend 
 writer, before taking the Augustinian habit, was the author of many 
 beautiful compositions ; among which we may reckon the celebrated 
 “ Cois na Brighiddy* “ By the Bride’s Silvery Waters,” of which the 
 following is the opening stanza : — 
 
 “ Cois na Brighde seal do bhiosa go sugach sarab, 
 
 Ag dearca sios air aingir chaoin an urladh bhlath ; 
 
 Ba ghile a pib na sneachta air craoibh ’s na drucht air ban, 
 
 ’S ni coigcrioch me acht buachaill brioghmheur o Dhun na m-bad."*~ 
 
 ** By the Brighid awhile I dwelt, merry and gay. 
 
 Glancing down on the mild maiden, of the beaming eye ; 
 
 Whose neck is whiter than snow on trees, or dew on lea. 
 
 And I am not a stranger, but a brave youth, from Dun of the boats.’* 
 
 We cannot tell what place is meant by Dun na m-bady which the 
 writer states is his birthplace, unless it be Dungarvan, in the county of 
 Waterford, a place celebrated for its fishing-boats. 
 
 Methinks Earth reels and rocks, and feels towns fall and 
 towers. 
 
 The gloomy sky looks heavy on high, and blackly lowers^ 
 The wailing of maids, the hourly raids that waste the land, 
 Would seem to say that the Judgment Day is nigh at 
 hand 
 
580 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 1y éDei]! An cnmje caúa cniL, SpÁmneAc cpéAn, 
 ’SAn li)eAn-pA 'o’úrhtAi'ó ueAcu jAn cúinpe, a b-pÁipc nA 
 bAoc ; 
 
 TIÁ puADpAio pin*o *oÁ 5-cbeApAib búic, ’nA ÍAnn-cAu n-jéAp, 
 go 5-cAif:piD cúmbACc nÁifiAiD Áp n-Duicco, Aip pÁn be 
 pAobA]\ ! 
 
 1p DOApb *óiJinn a ca^aid cinriitnb, Y *óit gbé, 
 
 go n-^eAbbAiD pint) 50 uApAi*ó cón^nAifi bÁpc, Y bAOc; 
 go pi^Ap DO ’n fopionnpA ceAnnAip DUccAip cÁipoe Cbéin, 
 ’UÁ A5 pADA cnúic be neApc An cpiuip cum ceAcc a peim. 
 
 1p peAp Ó D’ioinpAiD An Aingip bonnpAio, bÁiDip, béip, 
 go ceA]Ac be bAoipeAc bApAip lonnpAic, a b~pÁipc jAn 
 pbeiD ; 
 
 go b-peAppAp DbuiC-CeAC, UpeApAC, UpupAC, CAin-UOAC, 
 cpÓAn, 
 
 *Oo cAicpioplOuipjolOpeAUAin cionncACApÁiupiobgAO*ÓAl, 
 
 b)ei*ó ceAbbAt) Y pmAcc Ann puo, jaii pgÁC; gAn 
 
 bAOjAb, 
 
 lOeiopeACc nA D-upiuc niAp beApA Ap D-cuip Ag pÁpA "Oé; 
 b)ei*ó ceApu Y cúinpe bbeAccrhAp bÚADAc, do jiiÁc a^ 
 gAOIDeib, 
 
 Áp “ SeAbAC SiúbAiV’ jAn ceAD Do ’n m-b>^MiD, 50 
 bpÁú A péiin. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 281 
 
 Oq the battle-plain blood runs like rain ; the Spaniard 
 brave 
 
 And she who comes to free our homes o’er Ocean’s wave. 
 Have sworn they will fight for Truth and Right, — fight 
 evermore 
 
 Till they drive afar the hounds of War from Banba’s shore., 
 
 Be of cheer, my friend ; we never will bend ! Our barques 
 and troops 
 
 Will muster in pride; and Woe betide the heart that 
 droops ! 
 
 Our swords we draw for our King and Law, nor we alone — 
 
 Three Princes he hath to clear his path, and rear his 
 throne ! 
 
 Since the Maiden bright, unmatched in might, joined 
 Louis of France, 
 
 We have sworn to stand, a marshalled band, with gun 
 and lance. 
 
 On the battle-ground, and fight till crowned with victory — 
 Yea, till we chase the Sassenach race across the sea ! 
 
 From tyrannous men our temples then, all free shall rise — 
 And the Pope of God will bless our sod, and still our sighs. 
 And Right and Might rule day and night in Eire’s isle — 
 And we shall sing to our exiled King glad hymns the 
 while ! 
 
282 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 t)A -piibAC CAilCAin CUIlt ATI •OAIITI, te ’OjAeACC, 
 
 -d m-bAllci'b iriutTIATI 50 TTIAipOC, TTIUITlCe, 5A1|T'OeAC, gté; 
 5 aC ’OJTAJAR ÚJT 'O 0 cIaTITIA bijjAlt), CViAH-pcAig, Y ClTéin, 
 dg CeACC 50 h-ÚTTlAt 5ATI •pCAX) A g-CUIJTC, be SITAD 'DO ’ll 
 rs^éip. 
 
 dti budniTOd. 
 
 T)iA]imui‘o TTiA T)oninAitt, rhic pingin Chdoit, ttiic 
 ChAlipUAlX), ecu. 
 
 A 'óaLua *óiL 'oÁ]i cu5A]"a mo Ann-f acd “oiAn, 
 
 tDtiiu 50 |\ACAinn-p, ^í'ó’ ^Ann mo ; 
 
 Ax) 'f*Aicpn-p to CAjiuAnriAC'o An Am ^ac bliAgAin, 
 
 -dcT) Aj\ CAgtA A beic u|\eAf5A|\uA A5 An m-l 3 ]iAnn*OA f iA]t ! 
 
 TIÍ ]"eAi"5Ai^ieAC‘0 ]:a n-*oeA]\|iA 'OAm, nÁ cbAmpA|ApAc, 
 tlÁAn'muinn t)o cpAipinneAC mo ceAnn, 51*0’ biAu! 
 
 Ha peACAin 'oul uAp §Apb-cnocAib pAmApA‘0 biAg, 
 
 Acx> eAgÍA’ó A beic u|ieAf5A]iUA Ag An m-t)]\Ann*OA fiAp I 
 
OF MUNSTEK. 
 
 253 
 
 With music and song the bardic throng through Munster’s 
 towns 
 
 Shall chant their joy, and each minstrel boy win laurel 
 crowns. 
 
 Each noble chief shall forget his grief, and Lughaidh’s 
 name 
 
 And Mac Cartha Mór * shine out as of yore with brighter 
 fame. 
 
 WHISKEY ON THE WAY. 
 
 BY DERMOD MAC DOMHNALL MAC FELIX (tHE SLENDER) 
 ' MAC CARTHY. 
 
 My gay and brilliant friend, though my health is rathe! 
 poor, 
 
 I wouldn’t be so slow to cross your hospitable door — 
 
 Once a twelvemonth at the least would I give you up a 
 day, 
 
 If I didn’t fear the sly assaults of Whiskey on the Way ! 
 
 ’Tis not disturbance of mine ease, not bailiff’s grasp 1 
 dread, 
 
 Nor noises that may rattle through and through my 
 hoary head. 
 
 Nor even climbing over craggy hills and mountains grey — 
 
 I’m afraid of nothing earthly but of Whiskey on the Way ! 
 
 ^ Mac Cartha Mor, Doncadh Earl of Clancarty .. — See note, p, 322. 
 
284 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 0 A]"CA|IA 1 *O DO ’n AriAlTl — -Agtl-p DArhAID DO T)hlA, 
 IDA^eAgA]" Cll 1 ]Ap DÁ CAÍmACC 5AC hA\X DÁ D-CpiAlL, 
 
 gÍAipe pcoic Y AlfDepCiLteAD, bpAHriDA piAlfl, 
 
 -AuAip-neiTTie bA ifiinic C115 mo ceAnn gAR ciaII! 
 
 Ip cbcACCAD beip AR boARb boAJ — 5ÍbY<^tlR A Cl Abb ! 
 tlRAip f AUAbAp Ap A1U1RRe RÁ Aip A fAthtllb DO piARR ; 
 50 peACRAR AR bApAip ARR ^AC bAbb DÁ D-CpiAbb, 
 
 ’S RÍ CAipe DAm poirh pAgAipRe AR bhpARRDA piAp ! 
 
 5 bAC-pA piR om’ DGACDAipe, JID ^ARR blOm 1AD, 
 
 trio P5ACA bpUIRpobb ^AR pA1Ce bptlic, ’RÁbeAR DÁpiAp! 
 
 UAbAip CHID DO d’ bARAbupA ip CGARR-pA IRIAR, 
 
 *S gÓAbAID Rlbe Am AIRim-p do cbARR AD piAR ! 
 
 An CcARgAb. 
 
 aX ptiAipc-pp 5poibe DO ^RÍb ar jpeARR ’p^ pubc, 
 
 Hi pRAU DOd’ RIRAOI, RÁ Dlb, CRg mAbb me A R-Dub, 
 riÁptiAc DO ’r c-pbige, ce cim ^tjp pAthAp ra croic, 
 Acc pRAC mo cpoibe do bioR do ’r m-bpARRDA AgAm ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 285 
 
 A traitor to the soul it is — to God and Man a foe — 
 
 It makes the veriest sage a fool — it lays the stoutest low — - 
 
 The accursed swash, the still-house wash ! — it lures but 
 to betray — 
 
 A serpent oft around my neck was Whiskey on the Way i 
 
 The infant child, though all untaught by mother, nurse, or 
 sire, 
 
 If burned or scorched, in after years will fear and flee the 
 fire. 
 
 And that’s the case, alas ! with me — IVe been so oft its prey, 
 
 That now I dread like Hell itself all Whiskey on the 
 Way ! 
 
 But, though thus forced to stop at home — a thought that 
 makes me sad — 
 
 My daughters — comely damsels they! though somewhat 
 thinly clad, 
 
 Will gladly visit you, my friend, for well I ween that they 
 
 Don’t run much risk of being o’ercome by Whiskey on 
 the Way ! 
 
 SUMMING-UP. 
 
 Believe me, then, 0, sprightly friend ! 0, youth of 
 
 cheerful mind ! 
 
 ’Tis no ill-will to you or yours that keeps me here con- 
 fined — 
 
 Tis no dislike to scale the hills or climb the mountains 
 grey— 
 
 Tis my sincere and wholesome fear of Whiskey on the Way ! 
 
286 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 An 'otiAOiiAti x)onn. 
 
 Tonn : — i)iv<ion4i) 
 
 ml ® y V ^ in 
 
 SíteAíi céAt) 'peA'p gti-p l-eo -1:6111 me An hahi ‘o’ótAim tiún^ 
 ’S cí^eAn tDA 'o-U'piAn po]" 'oíom Ag ctiimne Aip a g-corh-fiÁ'ó 
 liom ; 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 287 
 
 THE BROWN SLOE-TREE. 
 
 Air — “ The Brown Sloe Tree.^ 
 
 The Braoncin JDonn^ i.e., “The Brown Sloe-tree,” or “Thom,’'* is the 
 name of another of those beautiful love-songs peculiar to the Irish 
 peasantry, and which, in almost every instance, have been adapted to 
 our most admired airs. There is some similarity between the air of the 
 Braonan Donn and that of the Rois Gheal Duhh (Black -haired, fair- 
 ekinned Rose), which we give at p. 256. Yet there is a slight difference 
 — only perceptible to a refined ear. 
 
 The Draonan Donn tree is called “Draonan from its sharp-pointed 
 prickly thorns. It blossoms early in the month of August, and produces 
 fiill-ripe sloes in September. With respect to these, much depends on 
 the quality of the soil where the tree grows ; if it be fertile, the fruit is 
 nearly as large as a plum ; but if in barren soil, as small as the haws 
 which grow on the common Sgeach gheal, or hawthorn bush. 
 
 The Connacht version of this popular song may be seen in Hardiman’s 
 Jriih Minstrelsy, vol. i., p. 234. 
 
 When, amid my gay friends the brown-beaded ale Iquafí', 
 I droop in deep sorrow, despite the song and laugh — 
 
288 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 SneAccA I'éi'óce ’y é -oÁ fíon-cuji SIiIia^ pa m-bAti 
 ponii,^ 
 
 'S cAtno mA]\ blAc riA n-Áipne, <xn XD|i<xotiati 
 
 IDonn ! 
 
 13 Á Tn-bei'óinn Am M^ooi^i i]- ^oeAf *00 f nÁm]:Ainn An f Ai^A^e 
 A nunn, 
 
 ’S X)o f5]AÍbpnn cúgAt) line le bÁpA mo peAnn ; 
 
 ^ApAoip jéAp ! jAn mé Y a cpÁ'CAi^ mo cpoite, 
 
 A n-^leAnncÁn pléibele b-éip5Í*ó jpéine Y 'opúpc n<í 
 Uii'óe ! 
 
 Ciii]Aim péin mo mile plAn leAc a bAile ne 5-cpAnn, 
 
 *S jAc bAile beAj eile t)Á m-bi*óeAc mo úpAll Ann ; 
 
 1 p iom*ÓA beAlAc, pliiic, ^aIac ; Ajiip bóiúYin CAm, 
 
 UÁ ’'oip mé gnp An bAile, 'nA b-puil mo pcóipin Ann ! 
 
 LOigpnn-pi leAbApJ^oi'óeilje *01 Apneoin, 
 
 Sgpibpnn-pi pop é le bÁpp mo peAnn ; 
 iDbeiiDinn Ag eAlojAii) pAoi nA léme Y “<^5 a com, 
 
 ’S An lÁ nÁ péA*opAinn beAn *00 bpÓAgA'ó, ni’l An bÁipe 
 liom. 
 
 * Slidl^h na m-Ban Fíonn {i.e., The Mountain of the Fair-haired 
 Women), forms a long range of hills lying about four miles north east of 
 the town of Clonmel, and known by the name of Sliahh na m-ban, but 
 the origin of the appellation ^^Jiooin^^ (fair-haired) is rather mystical. 
 This mountain is remarkable as the place of an encampment of a small 
 body of the Irish in 1798, who were dispersed by the king’s troops, on 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 289 
 
 A thinking on my true-love, who is fairer than the sun, 
 And whiter than the white blossom of the Draonan Donn. 
 
 O ! were I a mariner, ’tis I that would often write 
 Across the sea to my darling all the long stilly night : 
 
 My grief and my affliction it is that I cannot pass 
 The early morning hours with her, ere the dew gems the 
 grass. 
 
 A thousand farewells of sorrow to the villages all 
 Where I spent my time so blithely from dawn to even-fall. 
 
 0 many are the high mountains and dark winding dells 
 That sever me from the hamlet where my true-love dwells. 
 
 1 would read for her in the noon from a Gaelic or Latin 
 
 book ; 
 
 I would write her pure thoughts down by some clear 
 pebbly brook ; 
 
 I would take her around the waist, and press her to my 
 breast. 
 
 And the day that I couldn’t please her, I’d lose my heart’s 
 rest I 
 
 the day after their appearance on the hill, on which occasion some rhymer 
 produced a song, of which the following is part : — 
 
 “ Is dubhach ’s as lean Horn bualadh an lea ud, 
 
 Do dhul air Ghaoidheil-bhoichd * *s na ceadta shlad ; 
 
 Gur ’mo fear eadrom ’s cobhaire gleigiol 
 On am go cbeile do gabhag le seal ! 
 
 *Na bh-fuil corduighe caola ag buaint luith a n-geag diobh, 
 
 A n-dainseion dhaora go deo faoi ghlas, 
 
 Nior thainig ar Major a d-tuis an lae chugain, 
 
 ’S ni rabhamair fein ann a g-coir na g-ceart, 
 
 Ach mar seolfaidhe aodhaire le bo chum sleibhe 
 Do bhi Gaoidheil-bhoicht air Shliabh na m-ban !** 
 
 T 
 
200 
 
 THK POETS AND POETRY 
 
 UAbAi]A DO iriAbbAcc DO c--6UAi]\ Y * 0 ' n‘iÁúo.i|\ín ^"éin, 
 n<:,|A ttjg beAjÁR um^ponriA bmc mo bÁirii do boAgAm f 
 If moc Ap niAiDiD ciii|Apnri cújAD-fA bp5 mo l"5eib, 
 lOiocmo beAniiAcc ajad 50 5-ca]'|:a]a opu a n-UAi^neAp me. 
 
 A tnhuipe DÍbif! cpeAD do béADpAD mÁ imcíJeAn rú 
 UAim, 
 
 Tlí’b eoLiip ctim do úige úeAgbAi^, rádo ctúiD, 
 
 UÁ mo rhÁcAipín pAoi beAc-cpom, ’p m’ACAip pAii raid, 
 
 UÁ mo mtJiriap Ap pAD a b-peApg biom, ’p ^ 
 
 b-pAD RAim ! ' 
 
 tllÁp A5 imceAcc A cÁip tiAim AROip a mRipriín, 50 
 b-pibbeAD cú pbÁn ! 
 
 1 p DOApbcA gup ifiAipb CR mo cpoibe arii mo LÁp, 
 llí’bcoiue ctnppin ad DIA15, dá bÁD; 
 
 Uah pAip^eriA ctiibue eADpAinri, Y rií eób datti -priÁm ! 
 
 “ To me how woful was that day’s battle 
 Gained over the Gael, of whom were hundreds slain ; 
 
 And many youths of powerful arm, 
 
 Were then unjustly seized, 
 
 With slender ropes now their limbs are fettered 
 In foul (lark dungeons ’neath bolts and locks. 
 
 Our Major was not with us early, 
 
 To lead us, as was his duty ; 
 
 But like cattle driven by herdsmen. 
 
 Were the Gael that day on Sliabh na m-ban I” 
 
 ■*■866 the penal enactment against education at page 39. 
 
 On the subject of education in Ireland we have the following testi- 
 mony from Mr, Christopher Anderson, an honest intelligent Scotchman : 
 “ I may assure the reader, that such has been the eagerness of the Irish 
 to obtain education, that children have been known to acquire the first 
 elements of reading, writing, and arithmetic, without a book — without 
 a pen — without a slate ? And indeed the place of meeting was no other 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 291 
 
 A shame for her father and her mother it was indeed, 
 That they never taught my darling either to write or 
 read, 
 
 'Twere a task so delightful to write to her o’er and o’er, 
 But my blessing be on her till we both meet once 
 more ! 
 
 0 ! holiest Virgin Mother, let me not lose my love ! 
 
 Bar away from her, alas ! this dark day I rove ; 
 
 My mother is in trouble ; my father is dead and gone, 
 And I, I am left friendless, — friendless and all alone ! 
 
 1 entreat, O fairest maiden, that you and I may not 
 
 part, 
 
 Though your smiles and your glances have broken my 
 sad heart ; 
 
 Alas! that the wide ocean should roll between us dark. 
 And I be left pining here, without a fisher’s bark ! 
 
 than a graveyard ! The long flat stones with their inscriptions were 
 used instead of books, while a bit of chalk and the stones together served 
 for all the rest I But then this eagerness for knowledge, though more 
 generally felt, is not novel. Let any one inquire minutely into local 
 circumstances during the last fifty or sixty years, and he will find it 
 here and there as a strong feature of the Irish character. When we 
 advert to the native Irish and education in their native tongue, we see 
 what avidity can suggest. Then we can mention evening scholars, who 
 have been endeavouring literally to go on by the help of moonlight, for want 
 of a candle, and even men and women, particularly within these few years^ 
 -acquiring an ability to read in so short a period, that, until the facts of 
 the case are examined or witnessed, the statement might see incredible.*’ 
 —Sketches of the Native Irishy p. 205. Third edition. 12mo. London ; 
 1846. 
 
^J'HE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 202 
 
 AisUnj eAT)b1iAiii*o t)o nogbAich. 
 
 Iá ’ju-p me A5 cAift)icl mAiioin Am AonA|i, 
 
 ’S cAicrieAm riA jjAéine a|a An n-’O'púcc, O' 
 *00 CAjitAi-o An Ainji]! nA •peAfAiii le m’ cAob-fA, 
 
 50 bAni^Amut, béA]'AC, jAn O ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 293 
 
 EDWARD NAGLE’S VISION. 
 
 Air — “ Open the Door^ 0.” 
 
 This song is the production of Edward JTagle, a native of Cork city and 
 brother to the poet, James NTagle. The brothers lived about 1760. 
 
 Edward Nagle was a tailor ; he refers to his profession in the tenth 
 stanza ; and it is probable that his friends shared the feelings of “ le 
 pauvre et vieux grand pere ” of the greatest of modern song writers : — 
 
 “ La vieux tailleur s’ecrie : ‘ Eh quoi ! ma fiUe 
 Ne m’a dormé qu* tm faiseur de chansons ! 
 
 Mieux jour et nuit vaudrait tenir 1’ aiguille 
 Que, faible écho, mourir en de vains sons;’ ” 
 
 Béranger. La Tailleur et la Fée. 
 
 To the air of ‘‘Open the Door,” Moore has composed his beautiful 
 song on Sarah Curran, ‘ ‘ She is far from the land where her young Hero 
 sleeps.” 
 
 As I wandered abroad in the purple of dawn, 
 Ere the flowers yet woke to the air, O! 
 
 I met a young maiden who trod the green lawn. 
 So stately, so comely, so fair, 0 ! 
 
294 
 
 THE POETS AND POiiTUY 
 
 1)a Atiunn a peApj'A, bA UAicrieAtfiAc, D]Aéim]AeAc, 
 IDa CAmA|l|"AC péApÍAC A ct3b, O ! 
 
 IDa bbÁcTfiA]i A ttiaLa rriAp geApjAA be cAob-pinn, 
 IDa beAUAn A b-éADAn gAn pmiiiu, O ! 
 
 ^5^^^ geAb jah fgAtriAb tiA pAniA|A-]AOf5 peA]ibAC, 
 SneAccA ’511P CA0]1A ’riA ^núip, O ! 
 txÁlDCe 5AII Afiriinbu, ACD bAbAjlUA béAf AC, 
 bbApoA, bpéicpe ciitin, 0 ! 
 
 -A bpÁgAiD mA]i At! pncAccA be cAiúneAiii HAjpéine, 
 Se<3.pArn rriAp geip Ap An ppnibb, O ! 
 t3A bbÁCTÍiAp A niArriA Y ^ beAbAi]A-cpob AobDA, 
 
 b)A CAlCneAtTlAC, CAOb-DCAp, A COTTl, O ! 
 
 Le riA bpeÁjcAcc do rheApAp gup peAjApA bAnoéice i ; 
 
 Pallas, no Venus ^ no Juno ! 
 
 Hó ’n pcÁiDbeAn be’p cAibbiog gAn Aipioc nA coadua, 
 
 A g'CApmAipu nA UpAe poip go DubAc, O I 
 
 Ho ’n rhÁnbA do CAipDiob CAp CAbAiu a g-céin peAb, 
 
 O UbAibc true Upéin nA D-cpiuc, O ! 
 
 Í1Ó ’n bÁin-cneip DÁp b’ Ainim di U<3ipe bA cAob-geAb,. 
 LeAnb nA 5béige Y ^ pbup, O ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 295 
 
 Her figure was queenly ; her ringletted hair 
 Fell down in rich curls o’er her face, O ! 
 
 Her white marble brow was beyond all compare 
 For beauty, and lustre, and grace, O ! 
 
 Her blue eyes were stars that not Death could eclipse — 
 On her cheek shone the lily and rose, O ! 
 
 Like honey, sweet words ever dropped from her lips, 
 
 As morning’s dew-pearls upon snows, O * 
 
 O ! ’twas bliss beyond all bliss to gaze on her breast, 
 Milk-white as the swan’s on the lake, O ! 
 
 Her neck, and her hand, that no mortal e’er pressed — 
 I felt I could die for her sake, 0 ! 
 
 From her figure I deemed her a goddess at least, 
 
 A Pallas, or Yenus, or Juno — 
 
 Or that wonderful damsel renowned through the East 
 For whose sake Troy was burned too soon, 0 ! 
 
 Or her who, far voyaging over the sea. 
 
 From Taile obtained a release, O ! 
 
 Or Taise, the fairest of damosels, she, 
 
 Who of old was the glory of Greece, 0 ! 
 
29G 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 TIÓ ’n Ápti]" AR phij\ 'OeACAi]! bA*óeA|Ali) ra -pgéAlcA, 
 
 Ar AIRgl^V VO cbAORAD te pORR, O ! 
 
 TIÓ ’r ^"CÁlD-bllUlRglott CAibce DÁ|1 b AIRRR D1 'Oél]AD]Ae, 
 50 ll-AlbAlR D’éAbAlg be C]A 1 R]\, O ! 
 
 'O'Áp’OAlgeAf 50 TReARlRRAC TH^AIgRe A ReiR]peACU, 
 IDo bAbAIVA-p béip 50 CIUIR, O ! 
 
 A glAÁb 51b RA 5-CApAD Y A CAlfge 1RO cbéib-fi, 
 UAbAI]! DO 5eA5 DAIR 50 DbÚlÚ, O ! 
 
 “Sc]\Albbe p\\ IRA^AID UR,” -jlADA]" AR bélÚ blOlR, 
 TneA]"Aim gup béiúif ad ad cúb, O ! 
 T)ÁlblTRp ^A1]Ae beAU ! -peACAIRR DO pbAe OptR, 
 TIÁ pAlbl5 m’éADAC pA pbuiD, O ! 
 
 Ip ceÁppDA pip ceAb^AiD meApAim, cé D’AopAip, 
 U-A 1 Rimpi, bélg DATR Ap D-URip, O ! 
 
 Ip 5pÁRA DO beACAD Y bpéiúpe, 
 
 TDeAbbA RA Ri-beite arr do pRiR, O ! 
 
 riACAiR-pi mo beACAD Y b-AbAip-pi bpédj biom, 
 UAlÚRÍDeAR mo bpiAupA Y ^ '• 
 
 be pCAlD-bpRIR^Iobb bApp-pOl^l^ '00 ThAlClbRA h- 0 ipeARR, 
 m’AlRirn-p 0 ADbApD, A pRlR, O ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 297 
 
 Or her who eloped with the Fionn of yore, 
 
 As Seanachies tell in their tales, O ! 
 
 Or Deirdre, whom Naois, out of love for her, bore 
 To Alba of stormiest gales, 0 ! 
 
 Awakening up, as it were, from a trance. 
 
 Thus spake I the maiden so bland, O ! 
 treasure, my brightest ! O grant me one glance, 
 And give me your lily-white hand, 0 
 
 False flattering man !’’ cried the maiden to me, 
 
 “ Why the hair on your head has grown grey, 0 ! 
 Shame on you, old wretch, to think I could agree 
 To wed one of your age and your way, O !” 
 
 Quoth I, “ I’m a tailor.” A tailor, forsooth !” 
 
 She exclaimed. You go on a bad plan, 0 ! 
 
 You’re an ugly old brute, and you don’t speak the truth, 
 And I fear you’re a very sad man, 0 !” 
 
 Look at me more nearly,” I said with a smile, 
 
 “ For mine is a very wide fame, O ! 
 
 I am loved by the daughters of Eire’s green isle ; 
 And Edward, ’tis true, is my name, O !” 
 
298 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 ■gllAotlOm DO loACA, DO IPaLa, DO t.élC-]l01f5, 
 tlADA]' All bélú horn ARR j'RD, O ! 
 tiom DO peA|\fA, DA peApArh, do úpéice, 
 UAicReArh mo ctéib-pi do cirir, O ! 
 
 'For)!! : — 'CoiiX'óeAlbAC 14!'D)]i. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 299 
 
 Ah ! now/^ said the maiden, I know who you are — 
 I love your high forehead so pale, O ! 
 
 Your bearing bespeaks you as fashioned for war — 
 
 Yes ! you are the Prince of the Gael, 0 !’* 
 
 TURLOGH THE BRAYE. 
 
 Toirdhealbhach Laidir {i.e.y Turlogh the Brave, Valiant, Stout, or 
 Mighty) flourished about the middle of the last century. His real 
 name was Turlogh O’Brien, and he belonged to the family from whon? 
 l^im JJi Bhrian (Lemebrian), a townland in the county of Waterford, 
 takes its name. He frequented all the fairs and patterns of Munster, 
 particularly those of his own county ; and, from his stalwart appearance, 
 was an object of terror wherever he went. We remember the following 
 stanzas of a doggrel rhyme attributed to him, when clearing a fair green, 
 or pattern ; — 
 
 “ Cumadh na leiridhean tu hainge dham? 
 Cumadh na cuirean tu im air ? 
 
 Cumadh na teighir go dti an maraga^ 
 
 Ag ceanach luadh pinghine d'uibhe dham f* 
 
 ** Why don’t you boil up the milk for me ? 
 
 Why don’t you thicken it with butter ? 
 
 Why don’t you hasten to market, 
 
 To buy me a pen’orth of eggs there V 
 
 “ JIurroo / cc hhuailfeach mo mhadra ? 
 Hurroo ! ce stracfach mo chaba ? 
 
 Hurroo ! ce dhearfach nach gaige me f 
 *S gur bainim dam Toirdhealbhach Laidir r 
 
 “ Hun*ah ! who’d sneer at my little dog? 
 Hurrah ! who’d tear my old cape off ? 
 
 Hurrah ! who’d say I’m not a gentleman I 
 For my name is Turlogh the Mighty I” 
 
800 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Aisiins ptiA'ontiic ctiii’otin. 
 
 ‘Poiin : — ST^A)C)r) 6d|ir)4t>. 
 
 Moderately 
 
 Slow. 
 
 fn<MX)ion me Am aotia^a coi|^ cAob coit.t.e 'outle-jiAi^'e 
 'oéAriArh mo 1i-íomAnriA*ó bA jnÁÚAC mé Anri ; 
 mi|Ae Ai]A buii^nepboebiif qAégéA^Aib le pucneglAine ; 
 
 A pbéiiAiocc ce cpiopoAb-fiopmAX) pAob|\Ac riA 'o-conn; 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 301 
 
 PATRICK CONDON’S VISION. 
 
 AiPw : — “ The Little StacJc of Barley.'^'* 
 
 Patrick Condox, the author of this song, was a native of the barony of 
 Imokilly, county of Cork, and resided about four miles from the town 
 of Youghal. About thirty years ago he emigrated to North America, 
 and settled near Quebec. 
 
 The Englishman who has ever, in the course of his travels, chanced 
 to come into proximity with an Irish “hedge school,^’ will be at no loss 
 to conjecture the origin of the frequent allusions to heathen mythology 
 in these songs. They are to be traced, we may say, exclusively to that 
 intimate acquaintance with the classics which the Munster peasant used 
 to acquire from the instructions of the road-side schoolmaster. Many 
 of the Kerry rustics speak Latin like citizens of old Rome, and frequently, 
 though ignorant of a syllable of English, conversed in the language of 
 Cicero and Virgil with some of the most learned and intellectual of 
 English tourists. Alas ! that the acuteness of intellect for which the 
 Irish peasant is remarkable should not have afforded a hint to our rulers, 
 amid their many and fruitless attempts at what is called conciliation ! 
 Would it not be a policy equally worthy of their judgment, and deserv- 
 ing of praise in itself, to establish schools for the Irish in which they 
 might be taught, at least, the elementary principles of education through 
 the medium of their native tongue ? This course, long advocated by the 
 most enlightened of every class and creed, has been lately brought for- 
 ward in an able manner by Mr. Christopher Anderson in his Sketches of 
 the Native Irish . 
 
 The evening was waning ; long, long I stood pondering 
 Nigh a greenwood on my desolate lot. 
 
 The setting sun’s glory then set me a-wondering, 
 
 And the deep tone of the stream in the grot. 
 
S02 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 lonroA éAntAic cpAobAib 50 iPiocAi]i-cb]'De, 
 
 ^5 r^ifeAD Y Ag -peinne-binne Aip jac c]\Aiiri, 
 
 13]AU1C Y SlOtKMg cbAOriAD ^101111 ^Aoi-COITI A]A ip.ipe]Atiice, 
 ’S tAocpAÓ 50 h-inmottuA da D-qiAocAb ^ac Am ! 
 
 1 Ap 5 -cAiúeATh eicneAc cnó DAm bio bu acac a]i bite Ag pbe, 
 buADAib bAcc ^An Cl me “pineAD '|:AOfAm oo’ri b-]:Anri ; 
 SÁfAiri bio gAR g]iuAim arr, do ]:iiA|vAf, Y 
 
 ScRAim AjR]^ ioRRA|i"C|\tiice jbé-ctngfe air coarr ; — 
 Jujl CAfAg CpÍD AR m-bUAR-D01]Ae A RUAf CR^Am A]\ 
 ftURRiorh-'fiRice. 
 
 tlAlfbeACC RA b-pRRe-bAR A ]" 5 éim-C|AUlC RÁ|\ ; 
 
 AlRgl^V AOlbiRR RAmAC, bÁR-bRACAC CA]1 ClRRe-ScRICe, 
 t) RAD AC, bÍRR, mibi]", miocAip. Réim ca^ ^ac D]\eAm. 
 
 X)o V Y^da, DbAoireAC, p6a]iLac, a c|AAob-f*obc a cicim- 
 b]R-|'De, 
 
 T)]iéim]ieAc, CAf, iorarrda, a b-pg r0aca c ra cgarr ; 
 >d DeAjACA bÍD mA]i ^iéAÍcA RA -ppéipe be iiRicRe-gbAiRe, 
 géip-DAic Ro gibe AR bibe, RiAiR-cpRRR A com ; 
 
 13a DeAp, bA cpRiRR A dóada, be ceibe do cRpeAg fR^ce 
 A bÓAb bi go ppiocAb-cbifDe a m-bpéicp.e bÁR boRR. 
 
 ’S bbóc AR DpAOlR cpe CAOpAD RApgéím. Y RADeipg-bRipRe, 
 TIÍAm pge ppiu-ce oibce a péigmeAp go boRR. 
 
 T)o feApAUR pi biom pRAp Y '00 bRAR-AiRApc mipe ipe, 
 
 A D-CRAHRIR gRp bpRlRglobl IRR tobb DÓlCe bí ARR, 
 
 T1Ó ceAccAp bi AR ppéip-beAR be CAomRAp RADOipe-geiRce^ 
 A céApRAD cRm peicim iRce cpéiríipe gAR beARR ; 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 303 
 
 The birds on the boughs were melodiously singing, too, 
 Even though the night was advancing apace ; 
 
 Voices of fox-hunters, — voices were ringing, too, 
 
 And deep-mouthed hounds followed up the long chase. 
 
 Nut-trees around me grew beauteous and flourishing — 
 Of the ripe fruit I partook without fear — 
 
 Sweet was their flavour, — sweet, healthful, and nourish- 
 ing— 
 
 Honey I too found — the best of good cheer ! 
 
 When, lo ! I beheld a fair maiden draw near to me ; 
 
 The noblest of maidens in figure and mind — 
 
 One who hath been, and will ever be dear to me — 
 
 Lovely and mild above all of her kind ! 
 
 Long were her locks, hanging down in rich tresses all — 
 Golden and plaited, luxuriant and curled ; 
 
 Her eyes shone like stars of that Heaven which blesses 
 all: 
 
 Swan- white was her bosom, the pride of the world. 
 
 Hex marvellous face like the rose and the lily shone ; 
 
 Pearl-like her teeth were as ever were seen ; 
 
 In her calm beauty she proudly, yet stilly shone — 
 
 Meek as a vestal, yet grand as a Queen. 
 
 Long-time I gazed on her, keenly and silently — 
 
 Who might she be, this young damsel sublime ? 
 
 Had she been chased from a foreign land violently ? 
 
 Had she come hither to wile away time ? 
 
804 
 
 THE POETS AND POETPY 
 
 5 
 
 'O’pofjiA'ó mé DO bpeicpe cAoin, noACA, ceA]\c^ ctii^De* 
 
 pitiDce, 
 
 An zu Calypso no Ceres, no Hecate nA |AAnn, 
 
 Minerva no Thetis do c]Aéin-b]n]"eAc longA a)a 
 Bateia DAip no Hebe DOAp on |"péipniiri cue pAnn ! 
 
 rii ceACDA]A Díob d’^p 'luADAip AD DUAncAib Ap ipe, TTupe, 
 Acc Ain^ip cÍAOibce, cpoAp^ApcA, epe lonAclAnn nA 
 n-5<^bL ; 
 
 *£ Ap jAipiD Dili) An UAip ’nA m-beAD móp-DAcc ’p mipe 
 búp n-Dbijce, 
 
 SÁpArh epumn bup n’AinDeipe boAb poApDA ’juib gAn 
 the Abb : 
 
 Cup CÚ15 A pceAc neArh-gpuAiriA, be puAimemc rriAp cubbe^ 
 Y piece, 
 
 be Aip An nib bup b-pAipDine bi cAjApcA beAp cAbb 
 'S Ap DeApb Dib nAC buAn beij An cuAibb po pA b-pinne 
 pgpiopDA, 
 
 A bAce pA bion beAb P5<^1'CA bib, bioc m’AnAin beir a 
 n-geAbb. 
 
 o- 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 S05 
 
 Was she Calypso ? I questioned her pleasantly — 
 Ceres, or Hecate the bright undefiled? 
 
 Thetis, who sank the stout vessels incessantly ? 
 Bateia the tender, or Hebe the mild ? 
 
 ‘‘None of all those whom you name’’ — she replied to 
 me : 
 
 “ One broken-hearted by strangers am I ; 
 
 But the day draweth near when the rights now denied to 
 me 
 
 All shall flame forth like the stars in the sky. 
 
 Yet twenty-five years and you’ll witness my glorious- 
 ness : 
 
 Doubt me not, friend, for in God is my trust ; 
 
 And they who exult in their barren victoriousness, 
 
 Suddenly, soon, shall go down to the dust I” 
 
 U 
 
306 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 .Aistin^ chonnchubAiti m shtnitiobhAin. 
 
 Ponn : — “SeAn-beAn Chpion An 13 |\AnuÁin.’^ 
 
 U|ié m’ Aij'ting A 'pAoi|\ Y tne’m fuAr. uÁrh, 
 
 "Oo 'óeAiicAi^A |AÍ05Uin nA 5-ctíAc m-bÁn ; 
 bhí'ó bAfAip z]ú bcif, A5 ceA^nAc Y coítfieAfgAiji, 
 Ha h-AgcA Y pof fnAip bÁ|\|\ ! 
 
 A cAiAn-'pobu uinbtfeAc beAbAi|v *oYÁf, 
 
 50 CAínAp]"Ac, 'obAoiceAc, UI115, U]ioir, ’cÁ; 
 
 ’Ha m-beA]iuAib a cígeAcu fi^A, 50 bACAbuAc^ btii*óecAf, 
 O bACAi|" A cínn 51b 50 bonn ci\Ác*o. 
 
 Ida cAibce A * 001 * 0-1111 on, bA ]\6 bbÁú, 
 
 A mbéAb-cAnA b’éipeAccAC cómpÁ'ó ; 
 
 A '|AArhA|i-|ioi|'5 clAonA, Y niAbA *óeAf rh >;o|\*óa, 
 1 T 1 a]i cA|\pAin 5 ]:e*ó CAob-pn^*^ 5 -cbó*ó ’cÁix), 
 
 13 a fATTitiib A'i^géirh-'o^ieAc, Y a beAbAi|A'b|iÁ 5 Ai*o, 
 PjiiA fneAccA nA b-Aon-oí*óce a n-gbeAnn-cÁin ; 
 
 A beAbAi|i-c|iob Aob*OA, bA cAibce bA5-iriéA]iAc, 
 "Oo |"p]ieA^Ac Aip úéA*o-cjAUic 5AC pcpeAnn-cÁn. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 307 
 
 THE VISION OF CONOR O’SULLIVAN. 
 
 Air : — “ The Growling Old Woman” 
 
 Last night, amid dreams without number, 
 
 I beheld a bright vision in slumber ; 
 
 A maiden with rose-red and lily-white features, 
 Disrobed of all earthly cumber. 
 
 Her hair o’er her shoulder was flowing 
 In clusters all golden and glowing, 
 
 Luxuriant and thick as in meads are the grass-blades 
 That the scythe of the mower is mowing. 
 
 With her brilliant eyes, glancing so keenly, 
 
 Her lips, smiling sweet and serenely, 
 
 Her pearly-white teeth and her high-arched eye-brows, 
 She looked most commanding and queenly. 
 
 Hei long taper fingers might dally 
 
 With the harp in some grove or green alley ; 
 
 And her ivory neck and her beautiful bosom 
 Were white as the snows of the valley. 
 
308 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 A riUAip iTieAi'Af Í ueAcc Am coiti-daiL, 
 
 ^ACAim 50 h-i]"eAtL le mó]i*óÁit ; 
 
 'PeAi'Aim 50 cAom Dip a h-Ainim, Y bpj a cti]iAip 
 TIÓ ’ri bAibe ^ra m-bion p ^ac cíuin-upÁic. 
 
 T)o ^jieAgAHi AR 1AÍ05AIR 50 ]ió fÁrh, 
 bA cAiÚRiomAC bÍRR-jtiiú A córh-|\Á*ó ; 
 TDife beAR DÍbi]" ra b-):tAÚA do Díbpojj, 
 A’f'^^bbAiR |ioime feo, 51*0 beó 'uáid ! 
 
 A ciimAiRR RÁ cpéij mi]"e a R-DÓ-bÁp 
 StiijARR^'o uAob p\iom 50 ]:óibb, mÁ 
 zú 'r pRRe-beAR c-SéAmiiip — btnme ra bAOCjiAD, 
 UAbAip CptllRReAf 5AC f5élb DARI, RÓ gOAbAD bÁf I 
 
 T)eA]\bAiD DpAOice f^AR DÁirh, 
 
 UbApAAR5Ai|A tlAOim \ gAC D|\eAm pliÁig; 
 50 D-UAi]"cicb]:Ac Riíbce ]:Á ApmAib bíorhcA, 
 A^\\ CliA^iobtif SuíobA|\D CA|\ mAbb-c|iÁi5. 
 
 A daIua rá bíoD ^reA-pDA Ag carr-|iár, 
 
 SpiieA^AC DO CJAOIDe ’ROip, R1 b-10RR-C|\ÁC ; 
 An AIR ARpAD CÍDpiA AR CAbAip A R-gAOip DR1 U, 
 IDiad fgAipe Ai)\ ^AC DAOipue ’ra pArhAprhÁp. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 309 
 
 Bowing down now before her so lowly, 
 
 With words that came trembling and slowly, 
 
 I asked what her name was, and where I might worship 
 At the shrine of a being so holy ! 
 
 ‘‘ This nation is thy land and my land,’' 
 
 She answered me with a sad smile, and 
 The sweetest of tones — '' I, alas ! am the spouse of 
 The long-banished chiefs of oar island!” 
 
 “Ah! dimmed is that island’s fair glory. 
 
 And through sorrow her children grow hoary ; 
 f et, seat thee beside me, 0, Nurse of the Heroes, 
 And tell me thy tragical story !” 
 
 The Druids and Sages unfold it — 
 
 The Prophets and Saints have foretold it, 
 
 That the Stuart would come o’er the sea with his legions, 
 And that all Eire’s tribes should behold it ! 
 
 “ Away, then, with sighing and mourning, 
 
 The hearts in men’s bosoms are burning 
 To free this green land — oh ! be sure you will soon see 
 The days of her greatness returning I 
 
310 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 'Oéini'ó jAHA-TTiAoiDce te túcgAi]!, 
 
 u<^of5A15 c]AÁiú poriuA ó|' cionri clh \\ ; 
 
 TDéAnuAjA cnÁitívceinnce, Ajiijp -péio -pcoc riA píbe, 
 5l-^ApcA|A jAc cAoin-c|AUiu Y ciom-pÁin ? 
 
 lAp D-ueAcuAR cum uípe 50 Cionn-u-SÁib, 
 
 "Oo’n bAocpAD pin bAoipeAc nA D-cpúp tÁin ; 
 lOeió 5^oióeib-bocu Ag coiinglic, — ‘oéAnAÓ éipbg 'p 
 DÍO^AbcAip, 
 
 Aip TTiéipbocA ’n péibb Diiib da j^-cúppÁitI 
 
 pneAsnAtili T)lionnc1iAT)li tii shtiittiobhAm 
 Am chonchtibliAn. 
 
 ponn : — ^^SeAn-beAn cpíon An DpAnuÁin.’' 
 
 An geAbÚAn-cptnc cAoin cAilce, peAng ThnÁrhtnt, 
 'Oo DeApcAip upé d’ pmAOinue 50 teAbAp-blÁc ; 
 
 A peAppA Y A jníoTTiA, Y A inAíriA ^íó’ h-AOibinn, 
 
 Tlí’t uAipbe bíob Ann acc lon-cbÁp. 
 
 1p DeAprriAD ptiíjce p^Abb upÁiú, 
 
 Aip bliAnbA cinn-geAppúA cóm-cÁig; 
 
 11 Í gbACAc lonA ctntn cn, nÁ neAc eibe dod’ pínnpeAp, 
 50 5-cApAc ppuic-tíoncA 5AC AbA bÁn. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 311 
 
 Up, heroes, ye valiant and peerless ! 
 
 Up, raise the loud war-shout so fearless ! 
 
 While bonfires shall blaze, and the bagpipe and trumpet 
 Make joyous a land now so cheerless ! 
 
 “ For the troops of King Louis shall aid us; — 
 
 The chains that now gall and degrade us 
 Shall crumble to dust, and our bright swords shall 
 slaughter 
 
 The wretches whose wiles have betrayed us !’* 
 
 DONOGH O’SULLIVAN’S EEPLY TO CONOR 
 O’SULLIVAN. 
 
 Air; — ‘‘ The Growling Old JFoman,^* 
 
 That maiden so fair and so slender, 
 
 Whom you saw in your vision of splendor, 
 
 Can give you, alas ! no hope and no fancy 
 That Time will not make you surrender. 
 
 ’Tis a dream that was longtime departed 
 That of Banba, the generous-hearted. 
 
 Till the streams and the rivers roll back to their sources, 
 The aims of her sons will be thwarted ! 
 
312 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 CAICmOlTlAC 5AII -pÓbAU 
 
 Ai|i li)AiiAtu|\A cioc-geAl. riA D-ciiom-DAirh ; 
 UViiij jeA'LlArhtiiii Dilif te -peAfAiri jac ri-DÍ]ieAC, 
 T)o jAf]\A*ó jjioiDe-ctii^De ar iiAim-gÁip 
 
 ■CA|1 CAÍAIÚ CAOIDe RO A R-jteARR-m-bÁlR, 
 
 1DÁ D-UAgAÓ DO ÍAOIl'eAC -p^llA pll|\ARR-CAlR ; 
 blAD AJRlRRe UAOip5 bA CAblRA A R-JRÍOrh-gOlb, 
 t)0 beAJITAD ReA|lUfA01ce DO gAm-'pÁlR. 
 
 -^5 b]lACARRA 15 blOTIlCA RA R-AbAbb ITl-bbÁC, 
 
 IOa -peAiigAc bioiRCA ’ra bom-DÁib ; 
 go IRACAipe AR COirheAfgRljl DÁ D-CAgAlb, DO cib]:eA|1 
 'Oo CbApobuf SciobA]1 D, 'rA Cobb-DAD !* 
 
 gé -pADA beiu ifCAbb A b-]:ORR -pAgAIR, 
 
 ^5 'peA]'Arh be DAOi]i]"e ^ac c]iótR-cÁiR ; 
 
 T)o’d ceAR^Ab A R-jeibbioc ra fgAjipAD beAC coibce, 
 go D-CAJAD DO ÚAOip5 50 ClORR-C-SÁlb ! 
 
 Ar -p^AlRAb -po biORCA DO CJlÓlR CÁC, 
 
 Ar ARbjiUD ITIuirhRi^, jar power cbÁú; 
 
 IOa liieAfA DtllC blRe -pblOCU CllAipib A R-ÍOCCA]!, 
 T1Á GApbAD 5UIC pibe, ’^lip ClOíR-pÁR ? 
 
 TolUdad, Topsy-turvy. 
 
OF MUXSTEE. 
 
 313 
 
 We love the Antique and the Olden, 
 
 We gladly glance back to the golden 
 And valorful times of our sages and heroes, 
 But those shall no more be beholden ! 
 
 Were Louis to come with his legions 
 O’er ocean from France’s proud regions, 
 
 There are hosts in the island to meet him ii . battle, 
 Who would scatter his soldiers like pigeons ! 
 
 The armies of Britain wield ample 
 Resources to vanquish and trample. 
 
 Charles Stuart’s o’erthrow, should he venture o’er 
 hither, 
 
 Will be dreadful beyond all example ! 
 
 Long you groan under sorrows unspoken — 
 
 But the slumbering band hath not woken, 
 
 Till a nobler Kinsale* shall atone for the former, 
 
 Your fetters will never be broken ! 
 
 The cloud hangeth dark o’er our nation; 
 
 Momonia drees black tribulation. 
 
 And worse than the want of your “bagpipes and tim- 
 brels ” 
 
 Is, alas ! Cashel’s deep degradation ! 
 
 An allusion to the battle of Kinsale, a.d. 1601. 
 
814 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Aistins AH AuhAK pa'oraic hi bhuiAin. 
 
 UÓ5]:a*ó fé Autiijife \ bi^on 'oib, 
 
 -An lifting *00 conA]Ac Aip tTlhóijún ; 
 
 An lixNnA'LuiiA biAéA^Ac, 
 
 "Oo úÁib ^Ac Aoin neAc, 
 
 O t)’imci 5 A céite — ino bpón i ! 
 
 A cneAf TnA]i An -i^neAcuA bA |ió tfiin, 
 
 A bA]" pAoi nA beACAin ^ i 'oeójA-guib ; 
 
 A niATTiA-beAg gbeigeAb, 
 
 Ag conAi]ic An bÓApbA ; 
 
 T)a ^bAmA*ó gAn u]AAOCA — ^An coriintnge ! 
 
 1 |" é ' 0 ÚbA 1 |AU An tflAC-AbbAb 130 5bÓ|V-CA0in, 
 
 An b-^ruib cu ai 3 co-obA a tnhói|AÍn ? 
 
 Ci|\ 5 i*ó C 01 ]" uoinne, 
 
 ’gtif i3eA]ic A]A An i3A0ine, 
 
 UÁ ceAcc cngAinn 13 A]i uAoiiDe be mó]i-btiiéin ! 
 
 Ann-pn beib ajaid-i^a aid cóp^iuige 
 Ai]i5ioe 50 |:Ai|ipn5 ’y óp btnbe, 
 tnA|A CAbA1]1 *00 nA céAIDUA, 
 
 UÁ ’c cneADA Y béice, 
 
 *0a 5-c]ieACA Y 5-céAfA be inóp-cíof ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 315 
 
 THE REV. PATRICK O’BRIEN’S VISION. 
 
 The marvellous vision I’ve lately seen 
 Will banish, my friend, your sorrow and spleen, 
 ’Twas her whom her spouse has, alas, forsaken, 
 The gay, the good, the kind Moirin ! 
 
 Her fair smooth skin it shone like snow — 
 
 Her bosom heaved with many a throe, 
 
 That bosom the English wolves have mangled 
 
 o o 
 
 And her head reclined on her white arm low. 
 
 And thus methought I softly spake : — 
 
 Moirin, Moirin, dost thou sleep or wake ? 
 
 0 ! look forth seaward, and see what heroes 
 Are sailing hither for thy sweet sake ! 
 
 0 ! soon again, shalt thou have, as of old, 
 
 Bright heaps of silver and yellow gold. 
 
 And soon shall thine arm raise up the Fallen, 
 Now trampelled by Tyranny uncontrolled. 
 
316 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Acd éAntAic RA coitle 50 -pó-bínri, 
 
 A ri-éiri]:eAcc a |"einriiiri a riócAióe ; 
 
 50 meARAtririAc, ao|\ac, 
 
 "OÁ inpriu DÁ céiLe, 
 
 TlÁbei*ó TpeA]A5 rhic "Oé Unti a ^-cotthiaid'. ! 
 
 ^Oo craLaó DÁ feiririim a]i ceóVpíb, 
 
 50 b-ptiib CoiteAc \ potAp A|A oeojAAi^eAcc; 
 X)o piocAp riA pRibe, 
 
 Ay AR R-DUlRe RA|\ OUtCAr, 
 bheiu AjtliRR A bÚROAiR ’ra COlRRtUge ; 
 
 beiD Hector \ Ccesar 50 beót-bíRR, 
 
 Bowler \ Ranger a geoRAibil ; 
 
 ’S geApppAÓ ’CA A|\ pAOÚAp, 
 
 O ChAipiotb 50 loéApA, 
 
 50 D-UlUlb A R-élR peACU AR ÓjAttRÓe ! 
 
 Arr piR 50 poi|\ReAC pop-pm^eAp, 
 
 An ouiRe RÁp píLeAÓ Le IHóipÍR ; 
 
 CpUlRReOCAb RA céADUA, 
 
 IDo TÍlAIClb RAll-G-ipiORR, 
 
 50 mtiblAC CliRoic 5 péiRe be ceót-píc ! 
 
 UtijcAp CÚ5AIRR Punch <^5Rp beoip gpoibe, 
 blobCAp OÁ D-CAppAlRg A 5-cóífiRui*óe ? 
 CiRp AR AiRbeipe A]\ cAipoe 
 50 rriAiDioR A mÁpAC ; 
 
 ’S JAR CApAO 50 bpÁC RÁ 50 Deo v \ ! 
 
OF MUXSTER. 
 
 317 
 
 The very birds of the forest sing 
 The prophecy of thy coming Spring — 
 
 ‘‘ Gone by/’ they warble, “ for ever and ever 
 Is the anger of the Almighty King !” 
 
 I beard the bagpipes playing an aif 
 Of an Eagle and Cock — a wondrous pair — 
 Who will pick the eyes of a certain man out 
 Now throned in London’s regal chair ! 
 
 My Hector and Caesar, they rage and fret, 
 
 And Bowler and Hanger howl and sweat ; 
 
 They are coursing from Cashel to broad Berehaven^ 
 And will rend the hare asunder yet ! 
 
 And then in Wedlock’s golden chains 
 Will the Hero clasp Moirin of the Plains — 
 And Eire’s nobles will all assemble 
 On green Cnoc Greine to fairy strains. 
 
 Bring hither punch and foaming ale ! 
 
 We must not droop, we will not wail I 
 Away with sorrow ! and may she never 
 Come back to us with her doleful tale ! 
 
S18 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 l 3 é ipA}X) DO beiD Am póicín, 
 
 Hi |'5A|\):Ainri te cuidoacca 1 Tlhói|AÍn ; 
 
 OtpAmAoiD i'LÁince, 
 
 An p]\ AUÁ n-DÁn di, 
 
 Chnm cuiDingAD 50 h\\Át Lé, \ 50 dgó Yt ! 
 
 AuÁ cUiiúce te h-imiiiu aj "tTloipin, 
 
 Utiic|:eA*ó An Cti]AAUA Y tpón tinn ; 
 
 AcÁ Aon-A-liApc 'péiDue, 
 
 ’S An pig Dut A]i eijin, 
 
 ’S An bAn-pojAin ’nADéi^pn a cófiuigeAcc ! 
 
 Ann I'm ppeAbi^AiD a]\ bó|\D fio]", 
 
 An CionÁD i|" |:ada |:aoi ceó-DiiAoigeAcc ; 
 
 S^UAbi^AiD A n-émí‘eAcc, 
 
 TIa beA|icA be céibe, 
 
 ’S bAinpeAD fsibbmg ^An bAobACAy, Y cY^mn Díob 
 
 beib cnAipibeDA n-DéAnA*ó A5 Seoijifin, 
 
 “Paoi cnAipm An óadai^ nÁp cópuibeAg ; 
 
 beib bACA mAiú b)éAbAi|\, 
 
 A|a 'ObotfinAbb nA 
 
 T)Á CACAifi ip nA ppeApcA be móp-cpoibe ! 
 
 50 m-bAinueAp An bpipDe da úóin piop, 
 
 An DUine nÁp miAn beiu A5 ób Dige^. 
 
 Paoi ciiAipm An p^eibpin, 
 
 ’S umbbe nÁ DÓAppAD ; 
 
 T)Á m-beibinn-ri ^An béine! jAn cóicín ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 S19 
 
 As long as I have a shilling to spend 
 My fair Moirin I will ever defend ! 
 
 Here’s now to the health of him who will wed her ! 
 And guard and guide her as her friend ! 
 
 Moirin is about to hazard a game, 
 
 The Knave will be beaten with utter shame — 
 
 And the King and the Queen — who nobody pities, 
 Will fly, and forfeit name and fame. 
 
 Then up shall spring on the table so proud 
 The Five, long under a darkling cloud — 
 
 He will seize on the Crown, and grasp the shilling, 
 And win, with the game, the cheers of the Crowd. 
 
 Then Georgey will quake, and shake, and bow. 
 
 He is left in the lurch, he discovers now ! 
 
 But “ Dan of the Sun” will fling high his beaver 
 With a joyous heart and a beaming brow. 
 
 Now here’s to Moirin, and to her success ! 
 
 And may he be stripped of breeches and dress 
 
 Who would wrong her in aught, whether priest or 
 layman. 
 
 Or cause her a moment’s pain or distress I 
 
THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 SilO 
 
 All AbhAinii lAoi. 
 
 OógAn (&ri iTiéi]Hn) tTlheic ccc. 
 
 Totjti :— 21»!'. ejiie i)j ’^edramx) cn h-). 
 
 A CtimplACC jlATl CAOITh-CpoéAC CAOiri, 
 
 tlp-l.éi5ioncA 50 lioriThAii a h-dad ; 
 bhup H-DÚCpACt) A5 jéAp-Thol-A'Ó "LaOI, 
 (bA pAOCAp A n-inricleAcc ip peApp) 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 321 
 
 THE RIVER LEE, 
 
 BY EOGHAN MAC CARTHT (THE SMALL-FINGERED). 
 Atr ; “ For Fire [Ireland) Td not tell her NameF 
 
 The original words to this beautiful air will be found at p. 132 of a 
 Tolume of “Irish Popular Songs,” edited by Mr. Edward Walsh, and 
 published by Mr. James M‘Glashan, from which we quote the first 
 stanza : — 
 
 “ A raoir *s me teamamh atr neoin^ 
 
 Air an taohh thall don teora *na m-hims 
 Do thaobhrmig an speirbhean am choir y 
 D fhag taomnach, breoidhtCy lag^ sinni 
 Do gheilleas du meinn da clodhy 
 Da briathra ’« da beol tana, binn; 
 
 Do leimeas fa dhein dul na coir 
 air Fire ni 'neosfainn da hi P* 
 
 “One evening' as I happen’d to stray 
 
 By the lands that are bordering on mine, 
 
 A maiden came full on my way, 
 
 Who left me in anguish to pine — 
 
 The slave of the charms, and the mien, 
 
 And the silver-toned voice of the dame, 
 
 To meet her I sped o’er the green ; 
 
 Yet for Ireland I’d tell not her name I” 
 
 “ The pleasant waters of the river Laoi ” (Lee) have their source in 
 the romantic lake of Gougane Barra in West Muscraidhe (Muskerry), 
 Spenser describes it as— 
 
 ** The spreading Lee that, like an island fayro, 
 
 Encloseth Corke with his divided flood.** 
 
 The length of the river from its source to the city of Cork has bden 
 computed to be twenty-six Irish miles. 
 
 Bright Host of the musical tongue, 
 
 Eich Branches of Knowledge’s Tree, 
 
 0, why have you left so unsung 
 The praise of the blue-billowed Lee ? 
 
 X 
 
322 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Ar\ túb-f]ioÚAc, 5té-cpio]"CAt, min, 
 
 1 f iféAe A|i bic po]A-tii|'5e cÁib ; 
 
 cni]Abin 5 jAc ]"éAn be nA cAoib, 
 
 13o b’-pdiDiii iiigeAcc neirhe d’^a^aiU 
 
 Ijp cubA|ACA Y ■<^r cpAob-úo]ApúAc bí*óeAn, 
 
 5ac 5AO|\úa 'nA cimciobb aj ; 
 
 'PÁAb'ÍAlb, -pÁ CAOjAAlb, -pÁpon, 
 
 A 5 cbAOnAD 50 b-ÍOCUA]1 A U^IÁJA ! 
 
 í\bAbb-50i]Ac ]:Á géA^Ab A5 btiige, 
 
 A]\ An b-|:éA]A-;5bA-p An uai|i bíonAio a Tn-bbÁc, 
 
 tTlA]A bub-gopc Hesperia do bí, 
 
 *OÁ cAorhnAD be DiiAOigeAcc Ap ^eA‘ó fpAf. 
 
 t)A f njAc -pbAic -peibe ai]a ^ac CAoib, 
 
 50 ^réAfDAC, 50 pontriA]A do jnÁc ; 
 cúipbing nA cbéi|ve D’íon|"Ai§e, 
 
 TIa ]"ao]\Yga|\ ; nA cigeAi^ACA bj^eAgA ; 
 
 Y DÚbAc biom A |\éim Y 5’CÍof, 
 
 TIa fuéi^ib DÁ 'pníotTi idi|a cÁcb ; 
 
 ’S An ppionnfA An Altona ’nAbtnge, 
 
 TlÁiv cpeiDiorh Cbpíofc a]a a fuÁu! 
 
 The ** Church’s true son” mentioned in the last stanza of this son^ 
 Was Donchadh Mac Carthaigh (Donogh Mac Carthy) Earl of Clancarty, 
 who lost an estate of £60,000 per annum by his attachment to his un- 
 fortunate King James IL He died at Altona, 1734. 
 
 The family of Mac Carthy traced their immediate pedigree up to the 
 commencement of the third century, from which period they were the 
 lords of Deas Mmnha, ov South Munster. The great antiquity of this 
 family has been commemorated by Denis Florence MacCarthy, one of 
 Eire’s sweetest bards : — 
 
 “ Montmorenci, Medina, unheard was your rank 
 By the dark eyed Iberian and light-hearted Frank, 
 
 And your ancestors wandered, obscure and unknown 
 By the smooth Guadalquiver, and sunny Garonne — 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 323 
 
 That river so shining, so smooth, 
 
 So famed for both waters and shore ! 
 No pleasure were greater, in sooth, 
 Than to dwell on its banks evermore! 
 
 Around it the wild flowers blow. 
 
 And the peaches and plums in the beams 
 Of the sun ripen redly, and grow 
 
 Even down to the brink of the streams. 
 Each valley, and garden, and bower 
 Shines brightly with apples of gold — 
 
 ^T would seem that some magical power 
 Renewed here the marvels of old ! 
 
 And yet, though the Nobles and Priests, 
 
 And Gaels of both high and low ranks, 
 
 Tell tales, and indulge in gay feasts 
 On its dark-green and flowery banks. 
 
 I mourn for the Great who are gone — 
 
 And who met by the Lee long ago — 
 
 But most for the Church’s true son. 
 
 Who now in Altona lies low ! 
 
 Ere Venice had wedded the sea, or enrolled 
 The name of a Doge on the proud book of Gold ; 
 
 When her glory was all to come on like the morrow, 
 
 There were chieftains and Kings of the clan of Mac Caural 
 ***** 
 
 Mac Caura, the pride of thy house has gone by. 
 
 But its name cannot fade, and its fame cannot die, 
 
 Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves, shine 
 Around no green forests or castles of thine, 
 
 Though the shrines that you founded no incense doth hallow, 
 
 Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Alio ; 
 
 One treasure thou keepest, one hope for the morrow, 
 
 True hearts yet beat of the clan of Mac Caura.” 
 
 The “ Clan of Mac Cartha^' by D. F. Mac Carthy. 
 
 A most interesting memoir of the Mac Carthys may be seen in the 
 Green Book,” by the late J. 0. O’Callaghan, Esq. 
 
324 ! 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 siAn chum pA-otiAic SAmseAh* 
 
 A p 1 iA*o|iAic SAi|iféAt 50 *o-ci’ rú ! 
 
 O cuA'OAif *00 ’n phiiAinc Y x>o CAmpAi'óe pgAoilce, 
 'oéAriAifi 'oo geApÁin teip riA tlíjúe, 
 
 ’S x)Y ^5 CÚ 0 ipe ctAoi-oce 
 
 Och ! ochon ! 
 
 * Patrick Sarsfield was descended from an ancient family, consisting 
 of several honourable branches, one of which owned the title of LoiH 
 Kilmallock. Patrick inherited, from his elder brother, the family 
 castle and estate of Lucan, County Dublin, with £2,000 a year. He 
 first served in France, as Ensign to Monmouth’s regiment ; then, as 
 Lieutenant to the Guards in England; whence, in 1688, he followed 
 James EE. into France. In March, 1689, he accompanied James into 
 Ireland, and was made Colonel of Horse, Brigadier, and Commander 
 of the force appointed to protect Connacht fiom the Inniskilling or 
 Northern rebels. This he did, till the effects of the unfortunate affair 
 of Newton-Butler, July 31st, and the raising of the blockade of Derry, 
 by the landing of Major-General Kirke’s troops from England, com- 
 pelled him to retire to Athlone. That autumn, however, he retook 
 Sligo, and entirely expelled the enemy from Connacht. In July, 
 1690, he served as Major-General at the battle of the Boyne. By 
 his noble exhortations, and his memorable surprise of the English 
 battering artillery, ammunition, &c., August 12th, only about seven 
 miles from the besiegers’ camp, he mainly contributed to the trium- 
 phant defence of Limerick. In December and January, 1690-91, he 
 foiled the military efforts of the English, aided by treachery, to cross 
 the Shannon into Connacht, and was, soon after, made a Lieutenant- 
 General, and ennobled as Earl of Lucan, by James II. In June and 
 July he was at the gallant defence of Athlone, and the fatal, though 
 
OF JilUNSTER. 
 
 325 
 
 A FAREWELL TO PATRICK SARSFIELD. 
 
 Farewell, 0, Patrick Sarsfield ! May luck be on your path ! 
 
 Your camp is broken up — your work is marred for years; 
 But you go to kindle into flame the king of France’s wrath, 
 Though you leave sick Eire in tears. 
 
 Och ! ochone ! 
 
 nobly-contested, battle of Aughrim. Soon after be detected, denounced, 
 and arrested, for corresponding with the enemy, his intimate friend and 
 neighbour Colonel Henry Luttrell, of Luttrellstown. But that traitor 
 was either too wary, or too powerful, to be condemned. After the 
 Treaty of Limerick, in October, 1691, to which his Lordship was a 
 chief contracting party, he used all his influence to make as many as 
 possible of the Irish adhere to the cause of J ames, and accompanied the 
 national army to France ; thus sacrificing to his loyalty his fine estates, 
 and the best prospects of advancement from William III. In 1692 he 
 was appointed by James to the command of his Second Troop of Irish 
 Horse-Guards — the King’s son, the Duke of Berwick, having the First 
 Troop. In the defeat at Steenkirk, in July, 1692, of the English and 
 Allies, under William III., by the French, under the celebrated Marshal 
 de Luxembourg, Lord Lucan was complimented by the Marshal, for 
 having acted in a manner worthy of his military reputation in Ireland. 
 In March, 1693, his Lordship was created Maréchal-de-Camp, by Louis 
 XIV. ; and at the great overthrow, in July, of the Allies under William 
 III., by Luxembourg, at the battle of Landen, he received his death- 
 wound. Lord Lucan’s character may be comprised in the words, 
 simplicity, disinterestedness, honour, loyalty, and bravery. In person, 
 he was a man of prodigious size. By his wife Honora de Burgo, second 
 daughter to William, seventh Earl of Clanrickard, he left one son, who, 
 after serving under his illustrious stepfather, the Marshal Duke of 
 Berwick, died in Flanders, without issue. 
 
326 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 A phÁ'OiiAic SÁi|iféAt Dtiirie te T)ia zú 
 If beAnriAigce ar cAÍArh Af pubAit ut3 fiAiii Aif ; 
 
 50 m-beAriiiAige ar jl^^^bAc jeAb \ ar dric,^ 
 
 O ÚR^ UÚ AR bÁ o bÁrriA tlíg tíibbiAm beAU. 
 
 Ocb ! ecc. 
 
 A pbÁDfAic ^SÁifféAb jRiDe ^ac r-diurg beAu, 
 trio 5t!i*óe-p féíR Y jtii'óe trig tTliiife beAc ; 
 
 O ÚÓI5 CR AR U-Ac-CAobf Ag ^AbAlb UfG TOblOff A *0R1C, 
 
 'S gRf Ag CRlbblRR O’ ^-CrARAcJ bRADAJ beAU bRITTlReAC, 
 
 Och ! ecc. 
 
 * Go m^beannatghe an Ghealach gheal *s an Ghrian duit, i.e., May the 
 bright Sun and Moon bless thee, a mode of salutation not found in 
 ancient Irish compositions. 
 
 t Ath Caol, Harrow Ford, the name of the castle guarding the passage 
 over the Little Brosna river at Birr (or Parsonstown), King’s County. 
 
 J At Ballyneety {Baile an Fhaoitig, i.e., the town of the Whites)^ near 
 Cullen, he surprised the great Williamite convoy, to the loss of which 
 the raising of the siege of Limerick is mainly attributable. David 
 Bruoder, a cotemporary poet, commemorates the event in a ballad of 
 twenty-five stanzas, from which we extract the following ; — 
 
 “ An tan do thiomsuig pearsa an Phrionnsa, 
 
 Neart a thruip ’5 a aimeise; 
 
 Timchioll innill Inse Sionna^ 
 
 *S Muimhnig uile fa mheala ; 
 
 Niorfhag bumba, bad na uma. 
 
 Na ban bonn da b-pras-ghreithibh, 
 
 A m-Baile an Fhaoitig gan a sgaoile, 
 
 Mar ghal coinnle a n-dail speire. 
 
 “ Bo shuil nacJi crionfadh clu na sgribe^ 
 
 Fuigfiod fillte a b-paipearaibh 
 Tuairm aithne air *uair na faille’ 
 
 Fuair an seabhac slan-easgadh 
 Se chead foghmharj mile ’s nochad, 
 
 Aois naeh ontia tath-eifiocht. 
 
 Bliaglina an Choimhdhe, d’-fhiad san aoin^ 
 
 Pian is ainnsin nach eidir-” 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 327 
 
 May the white sun and moon rain glory on your head, 
 
 All hero, as you are, and holy Man of God ! 
 
 To you the Saxons owe a many an hour of dread, 
 
 In the land you have often trod. 
 
 Och! ochone! 
 
 The Son of Mary guard you and bless you to the end ! 
 
 ’Tis altered is the time since your legions were astir, 
 When, at Cullen, you were hailed as the Conqueror and 
 Friend, 
 
 And you crossed Narrow-water, near Birr.* •* 
 
 Och ! ochone ! 
 
 * Sarsfield was at Birr in the spring of 1689, when deputed by thé 
 Duke of Tyrconnell to inspect the national troops there ; and also in 
 September, 1690, w^hen the Castle was attacked by the Duke of 
 Berwick. 
 
 “ All Momonia was stricken with sorrow, 
 
 When the Prince did, without restraint. 
 
 Muster his mighty troops and artillery 
 On the borders of Inishannon ; 
 
 But Sarsfield left not a bomb, boat, or mortar. 
 Or a farthing’s worth of their brass equipments- 
 Without scattering them in Ballyneety, 
 
 As the wind extinguishes the fiame of a candle. 
 
 •* That this event might not be forgotten, 
 
 I will leave recorded the* time and place 
 Of the victory gained by our gallant hero. 
 
 Six hundred autumns, one thousand, and ninety 
 Have elapsed, since the Man-God suffered, on Friday, 
 A most dreadful pain and penalty.” 
 
328 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 5eAbA‘0--pA An -ptiAb-fA Am AonA]i, 
 
 S ^éAbAD A mA|\ A mÁ-p -|:éi'oi|\ ; 
 
 Ann do conAjic mé An cAmpA j^Aoo’tAcIi, 
 
 An DpeAm bocc pilce nÁp cuip te nA céite. 
 
 Och ! ecc. 
 
 bpipe nA Cptnminne* ’p bpipe nA TOomne,-!- 
 ’S An upirhngAD bpipe A5 THoua jbpÁinne 0150 
 An ceAupAtriAD bpipe An 0 AC-T) 1 ipiiim DiA-T)orhnAi5, 
 
 ’S biiAibeAg bnibbe Dpum opuinn A5 UobAp An lOomnAig, 
 
 Och ! ecc. 
 
 IHo cnij ceAD pbÁn cn^Aib a hAbtAoi btiimniD, 
 
 ’S cum nAbtiioni Ábtnnn do bi ’nÁp j-ciHDeAccAb ; 
 l 3 hi*óeAc ceince cnÁríiA ^jtnnn, ip cÁpcAige imeApcA, 
 
 *S bpiAcpA T)é DÁ béAgAD 50 minic bninn. 
 
 Och ! ecc. 
 
 * No details of this aiTair at Cruimmin have reached us. It was pro- 
 bably some local event of the Rapparee, or Guerilla warfare, between 
 the campaign of 1689 and 1690. 
 
 t The army of King James at the Boyne, was only from twenty to 
 twenty-three thousand men, with six field-pieces. William’s army 
 contained between forty and fifty thousand men (vastly superior to 
 their opponents in equipments and discipline), with from fifty to sixty 
 heavy cannon, exclusive of field mortars. Yet James’s army had none 
 of their cannon captured, and but one pair of colours (if we may credit 
 the hostile accounts, falsely claim the capture of two more), and 
 
 is admitted to have made an honourable retreat. On William’s side, 
 the battle was fought almost entirely by his Continental auxiliaries ; his 
 army being composed of men from ten European nations. 
 
 J The rout at the Moat at Greenoge, in the spring of 1691, was pro- 
 
OF MUNSTilK. 
 
 329 
 
 I’ll journey to the North, over mount, moor, and wave. 
 
 ’Twas there I first beheld, drawn up in file and line, 
 The brilliant Irish hosts — they were the bravest of the 
 Brave ! 
 
 But, alas ! they scorned to combine ! 
 
 Och! ochone! 
 
 I saw the royal Boyne, when its billows flashed with blood, 
 I fought at Graine Og, where a thousand horsemen fell; 
 On the dark, empurpled field of Aughrim,* * too I stood, 
 On the plain by Tubberdonny’s WelLf 
 Och ! ochone ! 
 
 To the heroes of Limerick, the City of the Fights, 
 
 Be my best blessing, borne on the wings of the air ! 
 
 We had card-playing there, o’er our camp fires at nighty 
 And the Word of Life, too, and prayer. 
 
 Och ! ochone ! 
 
 bably owing to the Irish there having been under such a commander as 
 Clifford, who, in the following September, caused the fall of Limerick, 
 by allowing the enemy to cross the Shannon. 
 
 * The battle of Aughrim {fiath JEachdhruim), was fought on Sunday, 
 12th July, 1691. The Irish army, under Lieutenant-General St. Ruth, 
 consisted of about 15,000 men, and its artillery of nine field-pieces. The 
 Williamite army, under Baron de Ginkell, amounted to between twenty 
 and thirty thousand men, with a vastly superior artillery. Up to the 
 dea-th of St. Ruth, about sunset, the engagement was so much in favour 
 of the Irish, that it is generally considered that the loss of their General 
 alone prevented them obtaining a complete victory. 
 
 In this action, as at the Boyne {Boinn), William’s force was mostly 
 composed of Continental troops. James's army, with the exception of 
 a few French officers, was entirely Irish. 
 
 t Tobar an Lomhnaigh (Tuberdonny), situated in the County of Louth, 
 
330 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 A tunoAin T)oi]\e* botjAc 
 
 A^]\ rióf HA fSÁile ai|a Ia^a be pi^goA]! : 
 
 ’S A biAcc pAppAipe pADA ponn-búbAc, 
 
 5aii pop5 Ó ’n R-gAoic, ^riÁ cpiAó dá g-ciítfiOAc ! 
 
 Ocb ! ecc* 
 
 T)o bí mé Aip pbiAb bAbpeA^A jpéine 
 
 TDo coriApc riA SAgj^AnnAic a b-pocAip a céibe ; 
 
 An cóp cApAbb bA Deipe bí ri-0-ipe, 
 
 O’ ! coiméAO DAiTJ riA boDAig 50 m-bAinpeAO ge ApDA? 
 
 Och ! ecc. 
 
 1p lOTnóA pAigoitiip meAjpAc, tneAnAmnAc, 
 
 *Oo ^Aib AR c-pbíge-p be peAcu peAccrhtiirie; 
 
 ^Ae 5tiTiA*ó, pAe piceAD, pAe cboi-oeATti cinn Aipgio, 
 Acz cÁ pAD píncepop ar 0AC-*ópuim ! 
 
 Ocb ! ecc. 
 
 about two and a half miles from the towns of Dunleer and Ardee 
 respectively, and nine miles from Drogheda. We cannot name the 
 occurrence which the poet refers to ; but in other versions of this song, 
 current in Munster, the line runs thus : — “Do chailleamair an Franncach 
 an ceannphuirt ha mho ^guinn ” — “ We have lost the Frenchman, our 
 greatest bulwark ’’ — which evidently refers to St. Ruth, 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 331 
 
 But, for you, Londonderry, may plague smite and slay 
 Your people! — May Kuin desolate you, stone by stone! 
 Through you a many a gallant youth lies coffinless to-day. 
 With the winds for mourners alone ! 
 
 Och ! ochone ! 
 
 I clomb the high hill on a fair summer noon. 
 
 And saw the Saxon muster, clad in armour, blinding 
 bright. 
 
 Oh, rage withheld my hand, or gunsman and dragoon 
 Should have supped with Satan that night ! 
 
 Och ! ochone ! 
 
 How many a noble soldier, how many a cavalier. 
 
 Careered along this road, seven fleeting weeks ago. 
 With silver-hilted sword, with matchlock, and with spear, 
 Who now, mo hhron,'\ lieth low ! 
 
 Och ! ochone ! 
 
 * For an account of the monstrous exaggerations to which the boasted 
 defence of Derry has been indebted for so much unmerited celebrity^ 
 see O’Callaghan’ s Green Book, p. 78. 
 
 t Mo hkron, pronounced mo vrone, literally, my sorrow. 
 
S32 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 CiA 'pú'o CAt-i CHOC l3iieinn-0iDi|\ 
 
 SÁi 5 *oiui|v bocc mé le tlig SéAmtif ; 
 
 *Oo bi mé A nii|\]AAi5 a li-Apm \ a n-eADAc, 
 
 Acc CAim b-bbiAgriA Ag lAiijiAD oéiiAce ! 
 
 Ocb ! ecc. 
 
 )Y é mo cjAeAc mA|v oo cAibleAiriAiii 13iA|\mtiiD, 
 bbi ceAnn ah fgAu^rAijAe Aifi bAlbA]iu iA|A]Atiiriri ; 
 bhi A feoib DÁ fU]AACA Y A b]AACAC DA |'UlAlbAD, 
 gAH ]:Á5Alb CAfDA *0^ b-'pAgAC fé T)1A A1|V ! 
 
 Ocb ! ecc. 
 
 Y é mo CjAeAC'-pA ah C-f]1A1C DÁ CÓ^bAH, 
 
 Ah da f'eA|\ DéAj do bi óy ciohh l^eojiAcb ; 
 
 THo DiAf DeA)Ab]iÁb]AÁcA]i A]" 1AD jbeó born, 
 
 AcC mo CÚ15 céAD DÍ0C-CIH]A 10lA]imUlD AH C-Ólg-f^^t' ^ 
 
 Ocb ! ecc. 
 
 X)o Cll1]ieAD AH CeADb]11]^e 0]Atl1HH A5 D]10lCeAD HA boiHHe, 
 Ah da|ia b]Hfe Ag d^oicoad ha StÁiH^e j 
 Ah cprhijgAD bpife ah 0 Ac-D|Hiim tli CbeAÍbAig 
 ’S 0 í|Ae CÚbApCA mo CÚI5 céAD fb<ÍH beAC ! 
 
 Ocb ! ecc. 
 
 * Beinn Eidir, now the Hill of Howth. 
 
 t There is no account of any fighting at the Slaney, during the War 
 of the Revolution in Ireland ; perhaps the allusion is but an interpolla- 
 tion, as this was taken down from the lips of the peasantry. 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 333 
 
 All hail to thee, Beinn Eadair ! But, ah ! on thy brow 
 I see a limping soldier, who battled, and who bled 
 Last year in the cause of the Stuart, though now 
 The worthy is begging his bread ! 
 
 Och ! ochone ! 
 
 And Diarmuid! oh, Diarmuid! he perished in the strife;* 
 His head it was spiked on a halbert high ; 
 
 His colours they were trampled; he had no chance of life; 
 If the Lord God himself stood by ! 
 
 Och ! ochone ! 
 
 But most, oh, my woe ! I lament, and lament 
 
 For the ten valiant heroes who dwelt nigh the Nore ; 
 And my three blessed brothers ! They left me, and they 
 went 
 
 To the wars, and returned no more ! 
 
 Och ! ochone ! 
 
 On the Bridge of the Boyne was our first overthrow ; 
 
 By Slaney, the next, for we battled without rest ! 
 
 The third was at Aughrim. Oh, Eire ! thy woe 
 Is a sword in my bleeding breast ! 
 
 Och ! ochone ! 
 
 * It is probable that Diarmuid was a Rapparee, or Irish Guerilla ; for 
 whose head the Williamite government gave two pounds sterling. 
 
334 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 ■An tiAi]i Ia'P An ceAc bi An ■oeACAC "oÁii nnjcAD, 
 
 ’S cÍAnn iDhit 'bjAA’OAi j* * * § "oaii n-gj^eADA Le pÚ5DA|\; 
 
 tli’l Aon Volley-shot vÁ f5Aoil>i*oi|''|:úinne, 
 
 tlÁ pA|:p<M*óeAc Colonel Mitchel\ -cxp teAjA'ó Lord Lucan t 
 
 Ocli ! euc. 
 
 Ua teAfú^A-ó 45 O’CeAttAi^i hac gAinini nÁ ^nii^leAc, 
 Act: 'p<M5'oiiii]AÍ*óe cApA 'óéAnpA'ó 5<Mf5e te píceA*ó ^ 
 
 A lAX) A n-QAc-'óptiim ha p]iAÚArinA*ó pínce, 
 
 tn Ap bei*óeÁc peoiL cApAiLt Ag mAX)pAi‘óe 'óÁ ppAoite ! 
 
 Och ! ecc. 
 
 Ann pú*o ACA piAt) bÁpp tJAipbe Cipionn 
 T)itiicí‘óe, bnpcAi^jg Y mAC IIÍ5 SéAmup ; 
 CApuAoin UAbbóix) cpoí*óe nA péibe, 
 
 ’S pÁ*opAic SÁippéAÍ! 5 pA‘ó bAn 0ipionn. 
 
 Ocb ! ocbón ! 
 
 * The poet here calls the Williamite soldiers “ The Sons of Billy the 
 ThiefT 
 
 t Colonel John Michelburne, Governor of Derry, who commanded a 
 regiment of foot in William’s service in Ireland. 
 
 Í Colonel Charles O’ Kelly, author of the Macarioe Bxcidiumf or, 
 perhaps, his son Captain Denis O’Kelly, who commanded a troop in 
 Lord Galmoy’s regiment of horse at Aughrim, and had a horse shot 
 under him at that battle. 
 
 § Of the De Burgos, or Burkes, of Korman, or French origin, five 
 noblemen fought for King James, viz., Lords Clanrickard, Castleconnell, 
 Brittas, Bophin, and Galway, The son of royal James alluded to, is 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 335 
 
 0 ! the roof above our heads it was barbarously fired, 
 While theblack Orange gunsblazed and bellowed around! 
 And as volley followed volley, Colonel Mitchel inquired 
 Whether Lucan still stood his ground. 
 
 Och ! ochone I 
 
 But O'Kelly still remains, to defy and to toil ; 
 
 He has memories that Hell won’t permit him to forget, 
 And a sword that will make the blue blood flow like oil 
 Upon many an Aughrim yet ! 
 
 Och ! ochone ! 
 
 And I never shall believe that my fatherland can fall, 
 With the Burkes, and the Dukes, and the son of Royal 
 James ; 
 
 And Talbot the Captain, and Sarsfield, above all 
 The beloved of damsels and dames. 
 
 Och I ochone 1 
 
 the famous James Fitz James, Duke of Berwick, and subsequently 
 Marshal, Duke, and Peer of France. 
 
 The following stanza, which should come in as the sixteenth in the 
 éong, was not versified by Mangan. We subjoin it here, with a literal 
 translation : — 
 
 “ Cia sud tall ag dorus na ceardcTia J 
 Na ceil air Righ Uilliam e, mise Brian laidiry 
 Fan ad sheasamh a bhodaig go g-caithfiod gran leaty 
 A ghiolla na praisge ni bh-facf^ go brath leat, 
 
 ^ Who is that halting at the forge door? 
 
 Hide it not from King William— I am Brian the Stalwaift ; 
 
 Btand, you churl, till I have a shot at you ; 
 
 But, you stirabout pot-licker, I’ll not mind you/’ 
 
S36 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 biiu^xcli tiA cAtin^ige b^ine 
 
 : — Bruac ih CARliAise B4ine. 
 
 »‘ 5 q/i?, and 
 somewhat 
 Slow, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 3> 
 
 
 1 f 
 
 ^ 
 
 jfL- ff 1 '] 1 
 
 ! 1 
 
 I 1 1 i 
 
 ij H w 
 
 
 kT^ 
 
 S 
 
 1 1 J i 
 
 Ll Ú ^ 
 
 
 
 r 1 
 
 1 ! \ n 
 
 i/ Jg 
 
 1 ^ 
 
 — é- 
 
 
 
 SlA|l COI-p A^Ain JAR 'bjtélj, 5ATI doBac, 
 ^cá’r Airijni ciuiti-CAif, ■riiÁri'LA'ó ; 
 ’Ba^ 5116 A com ’riÁ ^Ia ai|i ar -o-corr, 
 O BACAif 50 boRR A bnóije ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 337 
 
 THE BRINK OF THE WHITE ROCK 
 
 TRANSLATED BY COLONEL BLACKER. 
 
 Bruach na Carraige Baine. — Bruach and Garrick are the names of 
 two townlands lying contiguous to each other on the river Bann, and 
 forming a part of the demesne of Garrick Blacker, an ancient seat of the 
 Blacker family, near Portadown, in the county of Armagh. 
 
 As the family residence was changed to this particular locality from 
 another part of the property, on the marriage of William Blacker, Esq., 
 with Elizabeth, daughter of the Hon. Colonel Robert Stuart, of the Irry, 
 county Tyrone, and granddaughter of the first Lord Castlestewart, 
 about, or shortly previous to, the year 1666, and as the subjoined poem 
 coincides in its general structure and style with that period (being at 
 least a century older than the succeeding effusion), there can be little 
 dilBculty in affixing very nearly a date to its composition as an 
 JEpithalamium, or “ welcome home ” song. 
 
 To their successor in the fifth generation, Colonel Blacker, the present 
 proprietor of Garrick Blacker, we owe the following very graceful, as 
 well as close translation. It may be added, however, that the title 
 “ Braes of Carrick-Bann,” adopted by the translator, does not correctly, re- 
 present the Irish title, which should be “ The Brink of the White Rock.” 
 
 By yonder stream a maiden dwells, 
 
 Who every other maid excels ; 
 
 Less fair the swan, in snowy pride, 
 
 That graceful stems sweet Banna’s tide. 
 
 Y 
 
338 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Í AH -pcÁiD-beAri i *00 cjiADAig irio cpoioe, 
 ’S o’ -fAg m’lnricinri b^ióriAc, 
 teijiof le fÁgAil, Hi’l A5AIH 5A bjiAu, 
 
 O DiuluAiD mo jpÁD 5eAb DArhi^A! 
 
 X)o b’peAiiii biom -péiri ’riÁ 0i]ie rhó|i, 
 
 ’S HÁ fAiDbiHOf ílígriA SbÁiririe! 
 
 50 m-bei*óinri-p Y ^ ha pririe, 
 'd g-coibbce A bfAD ó 5-cÁi|iDe ; 
 
 Utif A A beic pÓfOA, A gtlAD, 
 
 Le Aori-uoib ACAp Y tnÁcAp, 
 
 A mAijDion Ó5 Y tRÍbfe póg, 
 
 5pAri riA CAip^e l3Áirie ! 
 
 1|^ béAHmAp mo cupup be upéimpe ^ah pucApc, 
 
 1 p bAogAbAC 50 5-ctiippeAp cum pÁ^Ain me ! 
 l>e géAp-f^-^b^ bptiingiobb ip néAUA pAH cpuiriíie, 
 T)o cuip ceADUA Aip tiipeApb'AD pbÁince! 
 
 "Oo bí A b-éADAH mAp btJipne ha gpéine cpe cpiopDAb, 
 UéiD éAíibAiú cum pucAipo be be 5 pÁ*ó di ; 
 
 Ua^ah cpéiri-pb 'r upéAri-muip da b-AniApc, 
 
 1p í 5piAn ha CAipge t)Áirie ! 
 
 X)o b’í Helen ah Airigip cuip ah UpAe foip ha bApAip, 
 bA néACA mAp bAbApAiD pÁige ! 
 
 Cviip Ajax Y AcMLl^ \ ha upéin-pp cum caca, 
 tllo béAH, ip bé cAibbeAD riA pÁip-pp ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 339 
 
 I'he leech in vain would seek to cure 
 The pangs of soul that I endure, 
 Since of each joy and hope bereft, 
 That stately fair my sight has left. 
 
 Dear is my native isle, but she 
 That maid is dearer far to me ; 
 
 To me her favour greater gain 
 Than all the boasted wealth of Spain* 
 Fair-haired object of my love, 
 
 I would that in some happy grove 
 ’Twere mine to hail thee as my bride, 
 Of Garrick Braes the virgin pride. 
 
 But, oh I forbidden for a while 
 To revel in that sunny smile, 
 
 I seek some distant forest gloom. 
 
 To mourn in heaviness my doom. 
 
 And hear the wild birds warbling sing ; 
 While o’er the seas come Prince and King 
 In hopes to bask beneath the rays 
 Of her, the Sun of Garrick Braess 
 
 The lovely Queen, whose fatal charms 
 Gall’d Greece’s bravest sons to arms 
 (Historic bards record their names 
 Who wrapp’d the stately Troy in flames). 
 
340 
 
 THE POETS AND POETKY 
 
 X)o ATI fpéi]AbeAn lé An bÁpp a ni -beAj^A Y a b-peAp]'A, 
 Dob’ éigion Dóib CApA uAp pÁile, 
 
 A géile DO 'n Aingip a 5-clÁp nA bAnbA, 
 
 Aip bbpuAÓ nA CAipge t)Áine 
 
 T)o pACAinn be nV btiibeAn uAp p^ip^e a bomj, 
 
 ’S DO ctnppnn mo pmtiAinue a d-cacc di ; 
 
 X)Á pÁpgAD be m* cpoibe Aip ÁpD-beAbA*ó min, 
 
 ’S ni pgAppAinn be m’ f AogAb Ap pcÁu bé ! 
 
 Hacad ^An rhoibb a n-Apm An Hig, 
 
 UÁ ceAnnAp da Dptnm be pÁgAib DAm, 
 pbbpeAD Apip pÁ coimipc nÁ nAom 
 50 bp UAC nA CAipge bÁine ! 
 
 d bpuingiobb jAn ueimiob do bnADAig CArcmom mo cpoibe, 
 ^tlAp binne do bAOibe ’nÁ ’n cbÁippioc ; 
 
 YlAp jibe DO jnAoi nÁ pneACÚA Ap An g-cpAoib, 
 be d’ TTiAbb-popg jpinn do cpÁbAip me ! 
 bibb opm A pip be CAicniorh gAn móibb, 
 
 ’S CAbA^ipAD cptnnn buiu pÁpArh. 
 
 CAicpiom Áp pAOijeAb a b-pocAp Áp n-gAoibeAb, 
 dip bbpiiAc nA CAip^e bÁine! 
 
 1p méinn born pgApAb ó gAC pAojAbuAcc Aip UAbAifi, 
 be ^éAp-p^Apc DO d’ peAppAinn a pcÁiD-beAn ; 
 t1iop bAo jAb Duic mAip5, be d’ pAojAb DÁ mAippn, 
 Tli cpéi5pin Aip A b-peACAD De mnÁib cn ! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 Less worthy than this maid by far, 
 To bid those heroes rush to war ; 
 
 The heart more willing homage pays 
 To Banna’s maid, on Garrick Braes. 
 
 With her Fd roam o’er ocean’s wave. 
 And ne’er to part each danger brave ; 
 And as I pressed her to my heart, 
 
 My soul’s most inward thoughts impart. 
 But now Fll seek to win a name — 
 
 A soldier — on the field of fame, 
 
 In hopes, returning crowned with praise, 
 To win the gem of Garrick Braes. 
 
 Oh, peerless maid, without a stain. 
 Whose song transcends the harper’s strain 
 Whose radiant eyes their glances throw 
 From features like the driven snow; 
 Eeturn, return, without delay, 
 
 While I atoning homage pay, 
 
 And let us spend our blissful days 
 ’Mid those we love on Garrick Braes. 
 
 Oh, were each earthly treasure mine. 
 For thee I would it all resign ; 
 
 Each fond regret my ardent love 
 Shall place my dear one far above. 
 
842 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 Up-dti teATTi c<x|\ CAi|"e mÁ 'f iéifi teAc mo peA]ij"<v 
 UÁ peim Y ceAnriAf a n-DÁn DAm, 
 
 50 h-Cipe ni cAfAm — mÁ cpéijip do ÓApAiD, 
 
 Aip lohpiJAC riA CAipge lOÁirie! 
 
 A pciiAipe AH cinn cAiLce mÁp duaL 50 m-beiDip AgAm, 
 belt) cóip opc DO úAiúneocAD be d’ cÁipDe; 
 iDip fiODA Y bAUA O bonn 50 bAUAf, 
 
 ’S gAc nÍD Anri pA cAUAip da ÁibbeAcc ; 
 beiD DO bó-ÍAcu DÁ 5-cApAD gAc nóin cnm bAibe, 
 
 ’S ceoi binn aj ad beACAib Aip bÁnuA ; 
 beiD op Aip DO ^bACAib Y cóipDe AD cAppninc, 
 
 50 bpuAc nA CAip^e bÁine! 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 343 
 
 Come, maiden, where, beyond the sea, 
 Both health and riches wait on thee ; 
 Kepress each lingering thought that stays 
 On home, and friends, and Garrick Braes. 
 
 LovM charmer of the flaxen hair, 
 
 1^11 deck thee forth with anxious care ; 
 
 All dressed in silken sheen so fine. 
 
 The costliest in the land to shine ; 
 Unnumbered herds shall low for thee, 
 
 Her honey store prepare, the bee ; 
 
 While rings of gold adorn thy hands. 
 
 And menials wait on thy commands ; 
 
 And friends behold, in fond amaze, 
 
 Thy splendour upon Garrick Braes. 
 
 
344 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 -A fiAibh cu A5 An s-cAunAis ? 
 
 A -jiAib CÚ Ag An 5-Ca|1|iaij5 Y a b'-peACAD CÚ péin ino jpAb ? 
 A b-peACAb CÚ 5ile, rséiin nA mnÁ ? 
 
OF MUNSTER. 
 
 345 
 
 HAVE YOU BEEN AT CARKICK ? 
 
 The Irish text of this song (slightly altered), together with the trans- 
 lation by the late Edward Walsh, has been copied from Walsh’s Irish 
 Popular Songs.” Published by M^Glashan ; Dublin, 1847. 
 
 It is the chef-d'ceuvre of Dominic O’Mongan, or Mungan, and was 
 composed early in the last century, for a celebrated beauty of her day ; 
 Eliza Blacker, of Garrick, County of Armagh, who became afterwards 
 Lady Dunkin, of Upper Clogher Court, Bushmills, County of Antrim, 
 now called D underave Castle, and still held by her grandson. Sir 
 Edmund Workman MacNaghten, Bart., M.P. for that County. 
 
 Miss Blacker was the eldest daughter of William Blacker, Esq., of 
 Carrick, by his wife Letitia, sister and co-heiress of the Right Honor- 
 able Edward Cary, of Dungiven Castle, M.P. for the County of London- 
 derry, and the great-grand- daughter of the parties mentioned in the 
 introduction to the preceding poem. The present house of Carrick (or 
 Carrick Blacker) beautifully situated on the river Bann, is the ancient 
 seat of the Blacker family. The building, commenced previous to the 
 Revolution of 1688-9, was not finished until 1692. It is about a mile 
 and a-half from Portadown, and now the residence of Lieut. -Col. William 
 Blacker, D,L,, the present head and representative of this family. 
 
 Dominic O’Mongan was a gentleman Bard, who was blind from his 
 birth, and a native of the County of Tyrone. Bunting notices him at 
 p. 78 of his Ancient Music of Ireland^ to which we refer the reader. 
 
 Have you been at Carrick, and saw you my true-love 
 there ? 
 
 And saw you her features, all beautiful, bright, and fair ? 
 
346 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY 
 
 A. b-'peACAi!) ui3 ’ri c-AbAlL bA cubpAb \ bA biÁú ? 
 
 A b-'peACA'ó ui 3 mo Vcdentine, no a b-ptiib p da cÍAoib’ 
 mA|i ’cÁim ? 
 
 *00 biof Ag An 5 -Ca] 1 ]iai 5 , \ do conAi|\c me Ann do gt^Ab; 
 ^Oo conAipc mé gibe, ’guf pnne, ’gtif fgeirh nA mnÁ; 
 t)o conAijAc me ’n c-AbAÍb bA cúbjiAb \ bA tfiib|'e bbÁc, 
 T)o conAi|Ac me do Valentine, Y V cbAoib’ mA|v 
 
 ’CAIjA ! 
 
 ^ ^ iic- * iii # 
 
 t 1 iiAi|\ bim-fi Ain coDbA bion ofnAb gAn bpéij Am cbiAb, 
 ’S me ’m binge idi|i cnocAib 50 D-ci5eAb An g|iéin a niA]i, 
 A ]iúin bib Y co5Ai|\, ni’b ^ojicAcc mo cúif acc IDia, 
 
 S 50 n-DeA]inAb boc gobA do -pobni" mo fub ad biAig! 
 
 Í 1 Ó 50 D-uigib An CAi|"5 AiiibÁ|i An -pogmAijibinbe 
 bA i"eibe pÁcjiAic bÁ nó bó’nA biAig ; 
 go b-jTÁi'Ab An bbÁú bÁn cpe bÁ|i mo cÓTh|iAb CAOib, 
 
 PÁ1]1U DOD gtlÁb 50 b|\ÁC ni CAbAjlfAD DO ThnAOI ! 
 
 SiÚD í pof An tlíog-beAn Abtnnn 05, 
 
 A b-^"uib A 51111A15 fjAOibue fíof 50 béAb Abjióg ; 
 
 í ’n oaVa í mA|i bíuif do pobjiAib ó ’n z-y‘ó.y-yu^\. mói]v 
 A CA]iAiD jeAb mo c]ioibe fcig, cóad míbe ^Áibce jiórhAc 1 
 
OF MUÍíSTEPv. 
 
 347 
 
 Saw you the most fragrant, flowering, sweet apple-tree ? — 
 
 0 1 saw you my lov’d one, and pines she in grief, like 
 
 me ? 
 
 1 have been at Garrick, and saw thy own true love there ; 
 And saw, too, her features, all beautiful, bright, and fair ; 
 And saw the most fragrant, flowering, sweet apple-tree — 
 I saw thy lov’d one — she pines not in grief, like thee ! 
 
 * * * * 
 
 When seeking to slumber, my bosom is rent with sighs — « 
 I toss on my pillow till morning’s blest beams arise ; 
 
 No aid, bright beloved! can reach me save God above 
 For a blood-lake is form’d of the light of my eyes <vith 
 love ! 
 
 Until yellow Autumn shall usher the Paschal day. 
 
 And Patrick’s gay festival come in its train alway — 
 
 Until through my coflSn the blossoming boughs shaU 
 grow, 
 
 My love on another I’ll never in life bestow ! 
 
 Lo I yonder the mainden illustrious, queen-like, high, 
 With long-flowing tiesses, adown to her sandal-tie ; 
 
 Swan, fair as the lily, descended of high degree, 
 
 A myriad of welcomes, dear maid of my heart, to thee I 
 
348 
 
 THE POETS AND POETRY OF MUNSTER. 
 
 As our little volume has now drawn to a close, we cannot allow this 
 page to remain blank, and therefore present our readers with another 
 setting of that beautiful air Bruach na Carraige Baine (the “Brink of 
 the White Rock”), at p. 336; and with it we take leave of our kind 
 patrons for the present. 
 
INDEX* 
 
 0- 
 
 Preface to Third Edition 
 
 PASS 
 
 iii 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 James Clarence Mangan 
 'OorincA'ó m<Nc Con-inA|iA . 
 SeÁAn Ua UuATnA 
 Ain'0|MA|' mAc C|\aic . 
 Ao'ÓAgÁn Ua ■R.ACAil.'Le 
 An c-Acaii\ HiPLiATn In5l.1i’ 
 
 Ua’ój (^AO’ÓAÍAc) Ua Súit- 
 leAbAin 
 
 PeA-OAi]i Ua TDoipnin 
 Co^An ( 1 luAt)) Ua SiiitteA- 
 bAin .... 
 
 SeÁAn (ClÁjiAc) tnAC 
 ’OorrinAit.t 
 
 William Heffernan (the Blind) — Hugh and 
 Andrew Mac Curtin — Conor and Donogh 
 O’Sullivan — Brian O’Flahertt, and James 
 
 CONSIDINE 
 
 . . . . . Xlll 
 
 Donogh MacNamara . 1 
 
 John O’Tuomy . . f 
 
 Andrew M'Grath . 21 
 Egan O’Rahilly . 27 
 The Rev. William En- 
 glish . . .33 
 
 Timothy (the Gaelic) 
 O’Sullivan . . 36 
 
 Peter O’Dornin. . 38 
 Owen O’Sullivan (the 
 Red) . . .43 
 
 John AIac Donnell 
 (Clarach) . . 44 
 
 44 
 
350 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 PAOB 
 
 John Cunningham — Maurice Griffin — William 
 
 Cotter (the Red) — George Roberts — James 
 
 O’Daly — Thomas Cotter — Edward Nagle 
 
 45 
 
 Eoghan (Owen or Eugene) O’Keeffe . 
 
 47 
 
 John Murphy (of RÁcAitfeAó) 
 
 48 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 
 As I was Walking one Evening fair, &c. . 
 
 6 
 
 lOeAn HA ckeice cAOite 
 
 Dame of the Slender 
 
 
 
 Wattle 
 
 14 
 
 5ite HA 51^^ • 
 
 The Brightest of the 
 
 
 
 Bright 
 
 28 
 
 lOeAH HA H-Op-^otc H-*OOHH 
 
 Maid of the Raven 
 
 
 
 Locks 
 
 51 
 
 I 3 ÁH-CHOIC 01 ]ieAHH 0 ! 
 
 The Fait Hills of 
 
 
 
 Eire, 0 ! . 
 
 55 
 
 tlAltk-CHrhA1‘Ó HA pélHHe . 
 
 A Lament for the Fe- 
 
 
 
 nians 
 
 63 
 
 111Ó1|\ÍH tlí ChtlltboHHÁlH 
 
 Moirin O’Cullinan 
 
 69 
 
 Cui|"ke HA . 
 
 Pulse of Song 
 
 75 
 
 Ol-'oÁH SheÁAiH til Uhú- 
 
 John O’Tuomy’s Drink- 
 
 
 AHIA .... 
 
 ing Song . 
 
 79 
 
 p]AeA5]iA*ó AiH'opiAif riieic 
 
 Andrew Magrath’s Reply 
 
 
 C|\A1C A1JA SheÁAH tlA 
 
 to John O’Tuomy 
 
 81 
 
 UkiiAmA 
 
 
 
 Ah t>íiéic 
 
 The Maiden . 
 
 89 
 
INDEX. 
 
 851 
 
 P|ieA 5 |\A'ó At! m-béic . 
 
 l/éip-|iUACA|\ Whiggiona . 
 
 Ar\ biÁc-biAUin^ioit 
 
 'PAi'ctiigim An HlhAngAijAe 
 fújAis .... 
 
 IxéAtuAn Chitle CAinníc . 
 
 Ingíon til gheAjAAitu 
 
 An SeAnDtiine Seoipj^e 
 
 SíjiLe tVi g^ADApAb 
 
 Suijige pheADAi]! tli 
 T)honAnín 
 
 1llói]\ín ní Chiiitt/ion- 
 nÁin 
 
 Aij’bn^ ChoncúbAHA tli 
 1llbA]A)ADÁin . 
 
 An Chnit-ponn 
 
 inói]Aín Tlí Chuitbon- 
 nÁin 
 
 CAicibn tlí HAtÍAcÁin 
 
 PÁllciÚgAt) Ríg SéA|All1f . 
 
 An bAincpeAbAC Y An 
 iTiAigDeAn 
 
 SlÁmce II15 SéA|\tiii][^ 
 
 Ingíon An Vh AOic o’n 
 n-gleAnn 
 
 PAQB 
 
 A Reply to ‘‘ the 
 
 Maiden . 
 
 91 
 
 The Rout of the Whigs 
 
 93 
 
 The Flower of all 
 
 Maidens . 
 
 101 
 
 The Jolly Pedlar’s 
 
 Pastime . 
 
 107 
 
 The Star of Kilkenny . 
 
 111 
 
 Geraldine’s Daughter . 
 
 115 
 
 Georgey the Dotard 
 
 119 
 
 Celia O’Gara 
 
 123 
 
 Peter O’Dornin^s Court- 
 
 ship .... 
 
 131 
 
 Moirin O’Cullinan 
 
 143 
 
 Conor O’Riordan’s 
 
 Vision 
 
 147 
 
 The Cuilfhion 
 
 155 
 
 Moirin O’Cullinan 
 
 157 
 
 Kathleen O’Holahan 
 
 161 
 
 A Welcome for King 
 
 Charles 
 
 167 
 
 The Widow and the 
 
 Maiden 
 
 ^171 
 
 A Health to King 
 
 
 Charles 
 
 175 
 
 White’s Daughter of the 
 
 Dell .... 
 
 187 
 
852 
 
 IJSDEX. 
 
 T)oTÍinAtt riA 5]Aéme . 
 UeAcu nAíi-^éAriA po.*ÓAne 
 
 SeÁAíi 1)111*06 . 
 
 SebéAt Hí l)h|ii<Mn . 
 
 An pÁi*p*oín pionn . 
 tléig-cnoc mnÁ *ouibe 
 beAti <Mi gteATiiiA 
 
 Irijíon tli 5heA|\Aibc 
 
 Donall na Greine . 
 
 The Eeturn of the Wild 
 Geese 
 
 Shane Bwee 
 Isabel O’Brien 
 The Fair-Haired Child 
 The Black Woman’s Hill 
 Dark Woman of the 
 Valley 
 
 Geraldine’s Daughter . 
 
 Leather away with the Wattle, O ! . 
 
 CAOine Chibb ChAi*p . . A Lament for Kilcash 
 
 All 
 
 Dinn-bipn ao]aac 
 bhpogA 
 CÁ1C til 1léibb . , . 
 
 tloiy 5beAb Dub 
 Roi-pin Dub 
 CAtnonn An Chnoic . 
 
 A inhÁi|Ae Y niui]Anin . 
 An SeAbAC pubAib . 
 
 An l)|iAnn‘OA . 
 
 An DjiAonÁn *oonn , 
 Ai-pbing 0AX)bAi|\*o *00 tlo- 
 ^bAIC 
 
 Ai|"bi*n 5 phÁ*0]AUic Cún- 
 “oun 
 
 Aifbmg ChoncubAiii tli 
 ShúibbeAbÁin 
 
 The Sweet Fairy Lis of 
 Bruff 
 
 Kate O’Neill 
 Bright Black Rose 
 Little Black Rose . 
 Edmund of the Hill 
 O Mary, O darling 
 The Wandering Hawk . 
 Brandy 
 
 The Brown Thorn 
 Edward Nagle’s Vision . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 191 
 
 201 
 
 203 
 
 207 
 
 211 
 
 217 
 
 221 
 
 227 
 
 233 
 
 239 
 
 247 
 
 253 
 
 257 
 
 261 
 
 265 
 
 273 
 
 279 
 
 283 
 
 287 
 
 293 
 
 Patrick Condon’s Vision 301 
 
 Conor O’Sullivan’s Vi- 
 sion . . . . 
 
 307 
 
INDEX. 
 
 853 
 
 PAGH 
 
 ■pneAgiAATj 'OhonncA'o t1i 
 
 Donogh O’Sullivan’s Re- 
 
 
 ShúitteAbÁin Ai|\ Chon- 
 
 ply to Conor O’Sulli- 
 
 
 cnb<^|\ t 1 <\ ShuihleAlf)<xin 
 
 van .... 
 
 811 
 
 Aifting An c-/dcA|A pÁD- 
 
 The Rev. Patrick 
 
 
 |itiic til l 3 h]nAin . 
 
 O’Brien’s Vision 
 
 815 
 
 An c-AbAinn íaoi 
 
 The River Lee 
 
 321 
 
 StÁn cntn pÁcpAic Sái|a- 
 
 A Farewell to Patrick 
 
 
 -|'eut .... 
 
 Sarsfield . 
 
 325 
 
 b]AUAc nA CAipge bÁme . 
 
 The Brink of the White 
 
 
 
 Rock 
 
 337 
 
 A |iAib cn Aj A i 5 -Ca|a- 
 
 Have you been at 
 
 
 ttA 15 1 ... . 
 
 Garrick ? . 
 
 313 
 
 AIRS IN THIS VOLUME. 
 
 
 An CAÍp cúb-Á|\D 
 
 The High Cauled Cap , 
 
 50 
 
 tlibeACÁn T)nb 0 ! . 
 
 . • . . • 
 
 54 
 
 An CnocAD bÁn 
 
 The White Cockade 
 
 62 
 
 ITIóipín Hi ChuittennAÍn . 
 
 Little Mary Cullenan . 
 
 68 
 
 SeAn boAn cpionA An 
 
 The Growling Old 
 
 
 DpAncÁin 
 
 Woman 
 
 78 
 
 An Cnoicin ppAOig . 
 
 The Little Heathy Hill 
 
 86 
 
 beic Cipionn, i 
 
 The Maid Eire is She . 
 
 88 
 
 plAnncAtn peipbig . 
 
 Leather the Wig 
 
 92 
 
 CAitin DOAp cpuibue nA 
 
 Pretty Girl Milking the 
 
 
 tn-bó . . . . 
 
 Cows 
 
 100 
 
 An SeAn Dtnne 
 
 The Old Man 
 
 118 
 
 An SeAn Dtiine 
 
 Another Setting . 
 
 119 
 
 Si 51 be Hi 5 hA*ÓA|\A*ó 
 
 Celia O’Gara 
 
 122 
 
 z 
 
354 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 SliAb péilim 
 An SpeAÍADÓiii 
 An ChniL-ponn 
 CAiciLin Hi tlAtlACAin 
 plépACA An ^I^LeAnnA 
 SeÁgAn Ha "Otiibi*ói|\ An 
 ghleAnnA 
 
 IDorhnAÍt nA jpeine 
 l3eAn An pp ptiAiD . 
 
 SeÁgAn bniDe 
 An pÁipDÍn pionn . 
 l3eAn Dnb An jLeAnnA 
 
 Valley . 
 
 Leather away with the Wattle, O ! . 
 tDirm-bpn AopAc An The Fairy Lis of BrufF 
 bhpogA 
 tlóip JeAh Dub 
 Róipn Dub 
 C-Ainonn An Chnoic . 
 
 An poDA ’cÁ AD bAÍhuiu . 
 
 A TnhÁipe Y rhnipnm 
 An SrriACDAOin cpón 
 ClÁp bog Déit . 
 
 An "OjAAonÁn Donn . 
 
 Opguit An Dopnp go 
 citnn, O ! 
 
 UoipbeAtbAc lÁiDip . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 130 
 
 146 
 
 154 
 
 160 
 
 166 
 
 174 
 
 190 
 
 198 
 
 200 
 
 210 
 
 220 
 
 232 
 
 246 
 
 Bright Black Bose . 256 
 Another Setting . . 257 
 
 Edmund of the Hill . 264 
 The Wallet of Silk . 270 
 O Mary, O Darling . 272 
 The Brown Little Mallet 276 
 The Soft Deal Board . 278 
 The Brown Thorn . 286 
 Open the Door softly, 0 ! 292 
 
 The Hill of Feilim 
 The Mower . 
 
 The Cuilfhion 
 Kathleen O’Holahan . 
 The Humours of Glynn 
 John O’Dwyer of the 
 Glen .... 
 Donall of the Sun 
 The Red-Haired Man’s 
 Wife 
 
 John the Yellow . 
 
 The Fair-Haired Child . 
 Dark Woman of the 
 
 Turlogh the Brave 
 
 298 
 
INDEX. 
 
 355 
 
 An ScÁicín 0ó|An<x'ó . 
 
 A^]\ 0i|ie ní ’neofAinn cia 
 h-í . . . . 
 
 bpuAC nA CAijije bÁine . 
 
 A jiAib zú An 5 -Ca]i- 
 IAA15 ? . . . . 
 
 bjitiAc nA CAijA^e bÁme . 
 
 The Little Stack of 
 Barley . . . 300 
 
 For Ireland I’d not tell 
 her Name . . 320 
 
 The Brink of the White 
 Kock . . . 336 
 
 Have you been at Car- 
 rick .... 344 
 Another Setting • . 348 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by Edmund Burke & Co., 6i & D2 Great Strand Street, Dublin. 
 

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