PEGGY BAWN.

[The existence of this ballad is traceable for a century-it is probaoly much older. It bears strong evidence of having been written in Ulster, where it holds its ground with undiminished popularity to this day.]

As I gae'd o'er the Highland hills,

To a farmer's house I came :

The night being dark, and something wet,
I ventur'd into the same,
Where I was kindly treated,
And a pretty lass I spied,
Who ask'd me if I had a wife?
But marriage I denied.

I courted her the lae lang night,
Till near the dawn of day,
When frankly she to me did say,
"Alang wi' thee I'll gae;
For Ireland is a fine country,
And the Scots to you are kin;
So I will gang along with you,
My fortune to begin."

Day being come and breakfast o'er,
To the parlour I was ta'en;
The gudeman kindly asked me,

If I'd marry his daughter Jane?
"Five hundred merks I'll give her,
Besides a piece of lan';"

But no sooner had he spoke the word,
Than I thought of Peggy Bawn.

"Your offer, sir, is very good,
And I thank you too," said I,

"But I cannot be your son-in-law,
And I'll tell you the reason why?
My business calleth me in haste,
I am the king's servant bound
And I must gang awa' this day,
Straight to Edinburgh town."

Oh, Peggy Bawn, thou art my own,
Thy heart lies in my breast;
And though we at a distance are,
Yet I love thee still the best:
Although we at a distance are,
And the seas between us roar,
Yet I'll be constant, Peggy Bawn,
To thee for evermore.

A LAMENTATION.

BY J. CLARENCE MANGAN.

This lamentation is not an Irish ballad but an imitation of Irish ballad poetry. It is translated from the German of Goethe; a strange and suggestive fact, that the greatest intellect of this age, should have been devoted to the study and illustration of our native poetry, while it was neglected at home.]

O! RAISE the woful Pillalu,

And let your tears in streams be shed;

Och, orro, orro, ollalu!

The Master's eldest hope is dead!

Ere broke the morning dim and pale,

The owlet flapp'd his heavy wing;
We heard the winds at evening wail,
And now our dirge of death we sing,
Och, orro, urro, ollalu!

Why wouldst thou go? How couldst thou die?
Why hast thou left thy parents dear?
Thy friends, thy kindred far and nigh,
Whose cries, movrone! thou dost not hear?
Och, orro, orro, ollalu!

Thy mother, too!-how could she part
From thee, her darling, fair and sweet,
The heart that throbb'd within her heart,
The pulse, the blood that made it beat?
Och, orro, orro, ollalu!

Oh! lost to her and all thy race,

Thou sleepest in the House of Death;
She sees no more thy cherub face,
She drinks no more thy violet breath;
Och, orro, orro, ollalu!

By strand and road, by field and fen,

The sorrowing clans come thronging all;
From camp and dun, from hill and glen,
They crowd around the castle wall.
Och, orro, orro, ollalu

From East and West, from South and North, To join the funeral train they hie;

And now the mourners issue forth,

And far they spread the keening cry.
Och, orro, orro, ollalu

Then raise the woful Pillalu,

And let your tears in streams be shed, Och, orro, orro, ollalu!

The Chieftain's pride, his heir, is dead.

CORMAC AND MARY.

A FAIRY LEGEND.

BY T. CROFTON CROKER.

"SHE is not dead-she has no grave-
She lives beneath Lough Corrib's water;*
And in the murmur of each wave

Methinks I catch the songs I taught her."

Thus many an evening on the shore
Sat Cormac raving wild and lowly;
Still idly muttering o'er and o'er,

"She lives, detain'd by spells unholy.

"Death claims her not, too fair for earth, Her spirit lives-alien of heaven;

Nor will it know a second birth

When sinful mortals are forgiven !

"Cold is this rock-the wind comes chill, And mists the gloomy waters cover; But oh! her soul is colder still

To lose her God-to leave her lover!"

The lake was in profound repose,

Yet one white wave came gently curling, And as it reach'd the shore, arose

Dim figures-banners gay unfurling.

Onward they move, an airy crowd:

Through each thin form a moonlight ray shone; While spear and helm, in pageant proud,

Appear in liquid undulation.

In the county of Galway.

Bright barbed steeds curvetting tread
Their trackless way with antic capers;
And curtain clouds hang overhead,
Festoon'd by rainbow-colour'd vapours.

And when a breath of air would stir

That drapery of Heaven's own wreathing, Light wings of prismy gossamer

Just moved and sparkled to the breathing.

Nor wanting was the choral song,

Swelling in silvery chimes of sweetness; To sound of which this subtile throng Advanced in playful grace and fleetness.

With music's strain, all came and went
Upon poor Cormac's doubting vision;
Now rising in wild merriment,
Now softly fading in derision.

"Christ, save her soul," he boldly cried; And when that blessed name was spoken, Fierce yells and fiendish shrieks replied, And vanished all,-the spell was broken.

And now on Corrib's lonely shore,

Freed by his word from power of faëry, To life, to love, restored once more, Young Cormac welcomes back his Mary