A poet farther on, treats us to the following description of a Kerryman: "His hair was so red, and his eyes were so bright." No doubt there are red-haired Kerryman, but they are not one in fifty. The complexion is dark olive, and the hair black, they being in all probability descended from the Spaniards. The poet was thinking of a Highlander. Now the knights of Kerry wear breeches, and are in a small degree civilized. Another Irishman from Cockneyshire, sings of -Cormac O'Con, Of the great Con grandsire, With the son of Combal the Greek sire, Whose name sounded afar, As great Ossian's papa.” If I met this fellow, who has our Irish names so glib at his fingers' ends, at the top of the highest house of the city, I should kick him down stairs. A Ludgate-Hill pawnbroker could not be more impertinent, if he wrote of the fine arts. In the same de haut en bas fashion should I kick him who informs us that "I were astonish'd as much as e'er man was, To see a sea-fight on an ocean of canvass. You hear the barbarian saying canvass-I long to pull his nose. I apprehend the author of the Irish Wedding (see Jon Bee) is a Scot. "First book in hand, came Father Quipes." What part of the world does that name belong to? Bailies we have none in Ireland, and if we had, they should be all Protestants, and thereby out of the pale of Father Quipes. A piece of politics, in another ditty, is quite diverting to us, who know a thing or two. "Though all taxes I paid, yet no vote I could pass and was in consequence, though "With principles pure, patriotic, and firm, obliged to fly. His case was certainly hard in not having a vote, when every farmer or labourer in Ireland may have one if he likes, or rather if his landlord likes. In the county of Cork there are 25,000 voters, in Down about 20,000, and so on; so that his grievance about the want of suffrage is rather singular. There is no use in bothering the public with any more re. marks on such a subject. I hope nobody will think I have any spleen against this collection of songs, which is just as good as any other similar one, but I wished to shew that I had some ground for saying, that we are not quite wrong in accusing our English friends of ignorance of our concerns. Some time or other, perhaps, I may in the same way get through the usual stage characters, in which we figure and prove them equally remote from truth. It would, perhaps, be a good thing to go over some of the political speculations on Ireland in the same manner, but I never liked Irish politics, and now I particularly detest them. I frequently admire the intrepidity of the heads which John Black* spins out for the edification of the Whigamores, whenever he takes us in his hand. Evidently wishing to patronize us, he nevertheless treats us as mere barbarians. I remember reading one morning in the Chronicle, that, except Dublin and Cork, there were no large towns in Ireland, which accounts for its want of civilization, while Scotland was indebted for her superiority over us, to her possessing such eminent cities as Edinburgh, Glasgow, Paisley, Aberdeen, Dundee, Inverness, and some others. which I forget. Now Limerick is larger and more populous than any except the first two; Waterford, Galway, Kilkenny, and Belfast, fall little short of them; and, taking out the first half dozen of Scotch towns, you would seek in vain through Scotland for towns to compare with Drogheda, Sligo, Carlow, Clonmell, Derry, Youghall, and several others. This is but a small sample of his accuracy. He of the Courier knows, in his writings, something more, but personally, Mudford is quite horror-struck at the notion of us. The Roman Catholic Association, professedly friends of * John Black, who conducted the Morning Chronicle, in London, for many years.-M. + William Mudford, Editor of the Courier, a ministerial newspaper, in London, during the whole period of the war with Napoleon, and for nearly twenty the liberty of the press, have brought an information against him for inserting some remarks of a correspondent on Maynooth College, and availed themselves of an obscure law, to lay the venue against him in Cork. The very wind of the word has frightened my friend Mudford out of his seven senses. Some Cockney blackguard, with that spirit of personality so disgustingly the distinction of the Cockney school, once called him “a pile of fleecy hosiery," but that name is every day becoming less and less applicable. He looks on the Corkagians as no better than Ashantees, and, no doubt, anticipates, from the jaws of long John Brixon, mayor of that beef-abounding city, the fate of poor Sir Charles M'Carthy.* * Let him be comforted. Cork, I can assure him, is well munitioned with victual and drink, and he has but a small chance of being eaten alive there, particularly as he remains but a fortnight. Nor let him dread the hostile countenances of a grand jury, empannelled by Jack Bagnell and Ned Colburn, best of little men sheriffs of the aforesaid bailiwick. And even if that is improbable, the thing comes to a petit jury, even before them-let him pluck up courage. Men there are to be found on all sides of the banks of The spreading lec, that like an island fayre, Encloseth Corke with its divided flood, who would devour the boot from the silk twist that hems its upper-leather, to the iron horse-shoe which guards its heel, sooner than give a verdict against the right. Counselled by these reflections, let him devour turbot, hot (as the old cookery books have it) from the bank in the harbour-let him swallow salmon, creaming in overlasting curd from the Lee-let Kinsale feed him with hake, fish of delicious flavour, unheard of in Augusta Trinobantum-from Cove let him gulp down oysters capacious as his well-fleshed hand. Kerry will supply him mutton to masticate, small, but lively. Cork itself will offer its beef and years later. He wrote several works, of which his romance "The Five Nights of St. Alban" is best known.-M. * Sir Charles M'Carthy, an Irish officer, commanded in Cape Coast in 1821-3. In the latter year he marched against the Ashantees but his black troops ran away, his white soldiers were defeated, his body was eaten by the victors, and his head (carefully pickled) was placed as an ornament on the great war drum of the enemy, in January, 1824. In a subsequent battle it was recaptured.—M. butter, peerless throughout the land. Pork is, I own, inferior to the flesh of Anglia pigs;-but Wicklow can send her turfdried hams, easily procurable, that will scarce vail bonnet to those of Wiltshire. He may, no doubt, regret the crammed poultry of London,- but a turkey in native flavour, will smoke upon his board for two tenpennies. Does he long for dainties more rich and rare? In a harbour, yawning for the West Indies, he need not desiderate turtle-in a city within easy march of sporting hills and dales, he need not be afraid of wanting game or venison. As for drink, is he fond of port? Vessels from Oporto will justle the boat that brings him to the quayif of claret, he must be unskilled in bibulous lore, if he knows not the value set upon the claret of Ireland. But as his stay is short, I recommend whiskey-punch. That he cannot get for love nor money in London. Let him there ingurgitate that balmy fluid. There's Walker-there's Wise - there's Calaghan - there's Hewitt-excellent artists all *—they will sell it to him for from 6s. 6d. to 7s. 6d. a gallon-and a gallon will make sixty-four tumblers-I have often calculated it-and that is three times as much as he should drink in an evening. So doing, he will be happy, and fearless of the act of Judge Johnson. But what is this I am about? digressing from a disquisition on songs, pseudo-Irish, to the way in which a stranger, who knows how, could live in Cork. It can't be helped-I have lost the thread of my argument. So I think I had better conclude. M. OD. * Distillers of whiskey, in Cork.-M. CORK IS THE AIDEN FOR YOU, LOVE, AND ME. 305 * Cork is the Aiden for you, love, and me.* Air—“They may rail at this life.” I. THEY may rail at the city where I was first born, But it's there they've the whiskey, and butter, and pork, They calls it Daunt's Square, and the city is Cork! II. If you want to behold the sublime and the beauteous, Put your toes in your brogues, and see sweet Blarney Lane, And "dry lodgin" both rider and beast entertain; III. Blackpool is another sweet place of that city, Where pigs, twigs, and wavers, they all grow together, It is called Mellow Lane-antiquaries agree That it holds the Shibbeen which once held King Shamus : IV. Then go back to Daunt's Bridge, though you'll think it is quare Of that bridge, nor of one-sided Buckingham Square, Nor the narrow Broad lane, that leads up to the Dyke! Sang by Odoherty at THE NOCTES, May, 1828.- M. † Colleen das croothin a mo,—An Irish phrase, signifying "The pretty girl milking her cow." There is a delightful Irish Melody bearing this name. M. |