They sink together silent, and stealing side to side, They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks so fair, Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide, For their shrinking necks again are bare. Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads together bowed, Soft o'er their bosom's beating-the only human sound They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd, Like a river in the air, gliding round. Nor scream can any raise, nor prayer can any say, They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold, And the curls elastic falling, as her head withdraws; They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold, But they dare not look to see the cause: For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze; And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes Or their limbs from the cold ground raise. Till out of Night the Earth has rolled her dewy side, With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below; When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide, The maidens' trance dissolveth so. Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain They pined away and died within the year and day, THE AVENGER. A JACOBITE RELIC. BY JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN. Da Ofeascin sen la sin bo seasta bfeic m'intin.* OH! Heavens, if that long-wished-for morning I spied, The Avenger shall lead us right on to the foe; Our horns should sound out, and our trumpets should blow; Ten thousand huzzas should ascend to high heaven, When our Prince was restored, and our fetters were riven. Oh! Chieftain of Ulster, when will you come forth Bright house of O'Connor, high offspring of kings, da bfaicin si an la sin ba sásta bert M'INNTINN, If I could but see that day how well pleased would my Momonia of Druids-green dwelling of song! Where, where are thy minstrels? why sleep they thus long? Does no bard live to wake, as they oft did before, MacCarthy-O'Brien-O'Sullivan More? O come from your hills, like the waves to the shore, When the storm-girded headlands are mad with the roar ! Ten thousand huzzas shall ascend to high heaven, When our Prince is restored, and our fetters are riven. [The names introduced in this ballad, are amongst those of the principal families in Ireland, some of whom, however, were decided enemies of the Stuarts. The reader cannot fail to observe the strange expectation which the writer entertains of the nature of the Stuart's designs: They call on him not to come to reinstate himself on the throne of his fathers, but to aid the natives in doing vengeance on "the flint-hearted Saxon." Nothing, however, could be more natural. The Irish Jacobites, (at least the Irish Catholics,) were in the habit of claiming the Stuarts as of the Milesian line, fondly deducing them from Fergus, and the Celts of Ireland. Who the avenger is whose arrival is prayed for in the song is not accurately known, but circumstances would warrant the date to be 1708, when a general impression prevailed that the field would be taken in favour of the Stuarts, under a commander of more weight and authority than had come forward before, his name having been kept a profound secret.-TR.] THE LAMENTATION OF HUGH REYNOLDS. A STREET BALLAD. [I copied this ballad from a broad-sheet in the collection of Mr. Davis; but could learn nothing of its date, or the circumstances connected with it. It is clearly recent, however, and founded on the story of an abduction, which terminated differently from the majority of these adventures. The popular sympathy in such cases is generally in favour of the gallant; the impression being that an abduction is never attempted without at least a tacit consent on the part of the girl. Whenever she appears as a willing witness for the prosecution it is said she has been tampered with by her friends; and public indignation, with wilful injustice, falls upon the wrong object. The "Lamentation" was probably written for or by the Ballad singers; but it is the best of its bad class. The student would do well to compare it with the other Street Ballads in the collection; and with the simple old traditional ballads, such as "Shule Aroon" and "Peggy Bawn," that he may discover, if possible, where the charm lies that recommends strains so rude and naked to the most cultivated minds. These ballads have done what the songs of our greatest lyrical poets have not done-delighted both the educated and the ignorant. Whoever hopes for an equally large and contrasted audience must catch their simplicity, directness, and force; or whatever else constitutes their peculiar attraction.] My name it is Hugh Reynolds, I come of honest parents, Near Cavan I was born, as plainly you may see; By loving of a maid, one Catherine Mac Cabe, My life has been betrayed; she's a dear maid to me.* The country were bewailing my doleful situation, But still I'd expectation this maid would set me free; But, oh! she was ungrateful, her parents proved deceitful, And though I loved her faithful, she's a dear maid to me. "She's a dear maid to me." Perhaps the English reader will require to be told that this is not to be taken in its literal meaning; it is a proverbial expression, implying that he would pay dearly for his acquaintance with her. Young men and tender maidens, throughout this Irish nation, Who hear my lamentation, I hope you'll pray for me; The truth I will unfold, that my precious blood she sold, In the grave I must lie cold; she's a dear maid to me. For now my glass is run, and the hour it is come, And I must die for love, and the height of loyalty; I thought it was no harm to embrace her in my arius, Or take her from her parents; but she's a dear maid to me. Adieu my loving father, and you my tender mother, Farewell my dearest brother, who has suffered sore for me; With irons I'm surrounded, in grief I lie confounded, By perjury unbounded; she's a dear maid to me. Now, I can say no more; to the Law-board I must go, There to take the last farewell of my friends and counterie ; May the Angels, shining bright, receive my soul this night, And convey me into Heaven to the blessed Trinity. MOLLY CAREW. BY SAMUEL LOVER, ОсH hone! and what will I do? Sure my love is all crost Like a bud in the frost; And there's no use at all in my going to bed, For 'tis dhrames and not sleep that comes into my head. |