another opportunity of showing him- what he has to say for himself to self to advantage. Let us hear, then, sweet GRACE NUGENT. It is my desire to treat of the blossom of whiteness; Grace, the sprightliest damsel : And she it was who had excellence in qualities and understanding Whoever would be near her by night and by day Need not fear ever long sorrow or suffering, Her side is as the lime, her neck is as the swan's, Is it not happy for him to whom was promised in his portion They are pleasant and gentle, your graceful expressions, This is what I have heard every day with those that speak of you, This is what I say to the young lady gentle, With whom is a voice sweeter than bird music, There is not delight or entertainment of which a head has thought Oh fold of jewels, of close fine teeth, Oh Coolin of the branches and tendrils, Ah Turlogh, Turlogh, what will you say to the beautiful accomplished women of the province of Connaught, after putting the Coolin of Balanagare above them all in qualities and understanding? Yet what is it but reasonable that each should have her turn in the ascendant; Peggy of the pearls now shining in the company of Spanish princes, A branch of happiness all under blossom! And presently the Phoenix of Mannin, the brilliant Fanny, rising like an uncontrolled meteor from the west, and showering light and love upon the barons of broad Mayo? There is room enough in heaven for all the stars; and Fanny, and Peggy, and Grace, and gentle Mable will not cross each others orbits, till their common scroll be shrivelled up, and the lights of Irish song extinguished for ever. Therefore let us hail their successive culminations as befits an adorer of the celestial houses of Connaught; than which to us the brightest families of Aldebaran, Rigel or Mizar could not shine more mystically glorious, even had we the pale eyes of Paracelse or Albert More. First, then, from the misty banks of Shannon, leading the starry train, our Hespera PEGGY O'CORCORAN. Is it not happy for the youth that will be caressing her, She is the love and delight of sage nobles, the sweet girl of the fair hair. Were the babits of us, the Irish, as they were wont to be, We could not sleep by night or day. Oh bright eye modest, of great beauty, sweet mouth, teacher of all learning, Beautiful Peggy of the pearls, felicity and fortune on you! Oh, companion of Spanish princes, fold of the curling thick locks- The branch of happiness, and it all under blossom, a face without gloom, she is the fairest and wisest. Oh fold of happiness, and flower of the Gael in nobleness, discretion, and memory, Are there not their princes from every region encamped near one another Next soars the Phoenix, long since inserted far beyond the Zodiac-Dillon's daughter FANNY BETAGH. If it be asked of me whither I shall go, I shall go to Mannin, That is the Princess Fanny, the beautiful daughter of Gerald, When she is not in their presence that they will find death. She is the Phenix of beauty, and the fine pearl of a child; And let me consider the case as is right, That it is in her face is the lily, a winter of whiteness, And every part wins superiority and excellence over the rose. I give it up and I say nothing but the right thing: Fanny must forgive us; we dreamt not she was a married woman. Good Shamus Betagh will not, we trust, take it in ill part that we have innocently erred in postponing her to Mistress Betty. Shamus, we are convinced, is a much better fellow than Master Crofton, else Turlogh had not sung so hearty a stave in his lady's honour, and will let the daughter of Captain Gerald twinkle here among the single stars for one evening. They will be discerned to-morrow night in closer company, a double planet in a nebula of little Betaghs. But now for the Morning Star, the Daughter of O'More, the Cuckoo of the Hill of Howth, THE HAWK OF BALLYSHANNON. She is the flower of beauty's fine damsels, A Gael, the daughter of the strong, royal man, Oh plant of happiness, and of the branching, coloured hair It is a pity that I and the branch of the curls are not Thou art the Hawk of Erne and of Ballyshannon, Bending and twisting in ringlets; Her eye like the dew, and her face fair, bright, It is my opinion that she is the morning star, The Hawk of Erne is with us. In her wisdom, in her sprightliness, in her contentedness, But bestowing gold in handfulls. Her eye is as the dew fresh on the lily. And her face is as the white shape of Paros (stone,) But (is) always bringing into action good qualities. The Cuckoo of the Hill of Howth accompanies us And the Hawk of Erne comes to meet us, Oh, gentle lady, moralled, mild, easy, It was your journey that brought love and grace ; You are no astronomer, Turlogh; she is neither hawk nor cuckoo, but the olive bearing dove, which southern star-gazers see sometimes winging her way upon the larboard bow of the good ship that labours hard betwixt the rugged justling Symplegades. There leave her with her bright sisters, smiling over the line at Pleiades and Hyades, and let us return to Turlogh, no longer racking his imagination for new terms of distant flattery, but pouring out the spontaneous overflow of his own full heart-full of honest affec tion and pure desire for his own loved MARY MAGUIRE. It is my sorrow and pain that I and my love are not And not one of our friends to be found In any place in our presence there. King of Grace! what need for me to speak to you, Oh mild, modest, and well-positioned lady? And oh, it is your love that is through my middle It was early in the morning the damsel proceeded, And her Coolin curlingly with her; Like a sparkling rose is the beauty of the girl, And every member of her consorting one with another : It seems to me sweeter than the voice of strings, Mildness is on her cheeks, her neck is like the swan's, And her countenance of the colour of the dogberries. Barrenness, and sorrow, and want of sense On the smart, right, pretty boy, That would ask portion at all with (such) a match of a mate, "Not such a golden jewelled one as haughty Cæsar wears, But such a glittering starry one as Ariadne bears." We will not say that Madam Crofton is the richest ruby of the diadem, but Mary Maguire is certainly its purest pearl. With all his faults, and circumstance had given him share, Turlogh O'Carolan was a man not unworthy to be the last bard of Ireland, for since his day the character has been extinct. The office of the bard had undergone a sad decline in the two generations immediately preceding his. He was the last flicker of the expiring light, and all has been darkness since. A new order of things (as the little fifers of the march say,) has arisen. The harp that once through Tara's hall, Now hangs as mute on Tara's wall The bagpipes are drawing their last breath from a few consumptive lungs, and French-horns have been heard "in the street of the cuckoos." Our readers have, in the translated parts of these pages, read such writing as they never read before; and many, we would hope, have obtained some glimpses of the character of a people, such as they never before knew or cared for. If we have succeeded in gaining their interest so far, we are secure of it much farther; for we have now done with the adulatory, and approach the amatory and lyric portion of our materials. But it were foul shame to leave Carolan upon his deathbed, "Without the meed of some melodious tear." Mac Cabe has sung mo bhrón! mo mhilleadh! and let that be enough; for since in wailing is nought availing, we will leave the song of sorrow untranslated, and ask Mr. Hardiman himself to give us an account of the wake and burial. "When his death was known, it is related that upwards of sixty clergymen, of different denominations, a number of gentlemen from the surrounding counties, and a vast concourse of country people assembled to pay their last mark of respect to their favourite bard. All the houses in Ballyfarnou were occupied by the former, and the people erected tents in the fields round Alderford house. The harp was heard in every direction. The wake lasted four days. On each side of the hall was placed a keg of whiskey, which was replenished as soon as emptied. Old Mrs. Mac Dermott herself joined the female mourners who attended, to weep, as she expressed it, "over her poor gentleman, the head of all Irish music." On the fifth day his remains were brought forth, and the funeral was one of the greatest that for many years had taken place in Connaught. He was interred in the Mac Dermott Roe's vault, in their chapel, at the east end of the old church of Kilronan.” And who was old Mrs. Mac Dermott, and where was Alderford-house? asks the gentle reader. Alderford, we fancy, is somewhere on the banks of the Suick, a pleasant stream of Roscommon, and the family seat of Mac Dermott Roe, to whom, for his grandmother's sake, we would say, slajnte goléon; and his grandmother was this old Mrs. Mac Dermott, who, in House inside out for the honour of her eightieth year, turned Alderford Irish music. "By her," says Mr. Hardiman, "Carolan was supplied with his first harp and his first horse; and to her, in the decline of life and health, he turned for a sure asylum and a kind and affectionate reception." We are reversing the order of things, and returning to the sick room of the buried man. But we cannot resist another quotation from Mr. Hardiman, who has been touched into considerable manliness and candour throughout this part of his book:-"At Alderford he was received with the warmth and welcome which have ever characterised Irish friendship. After he had rested a little, he called for his harp. His relaxed fingers for a while wandered feebly over the strings; but soon acquiring a momentary impulse, he played his well known Farewell to Music,' in a strain of tenderness and feeling which drew tears from the eyes of his auditory. This was his last effort: nature was subdued; and the dying bard was carried in a state of exhaustion to his room." Now, then, that Turlogh is buried and embalmed, let us dry our eyes and comfort ourselves with the prospect of No. II., in which we will sing things paulo majora." Carmina non prius, A RHYTHMICAL RHAPSODY; ADDRESSED TO ROBERT GILFILLAN, LEITH. "On Rhyme's two stilts I'll crutch it up Parnassus."-TENNANT. Blythe Robie Gilfillan, there's nae man mair willin' There is Peter M'Leod, o' whase friendship I'm proud; An' cou'd Willie Millar but change them for siller, Lang hid behin' hallants-say whar wad we gang? If safe you shou'd deem it, away we wou'd Steam it- But Poets, poor deevils! are heir to some evils, Yet what wad I gie, man, to meet wi' you Three, man, We'd prose it, an' rhyme it-wi' friendship we'd prime it |