High sons of the lyre! oh, how proud was the feeling
To dream while alone through that solitude stealing;
Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number,

I alone waked the strain of her harp from its slumber,
And gleaned the gray legend that long had been sleeping,
Where oblivion's dull mist o'er its beauty was creeping,
From the love which I felt for my country's sad story,
When to love her was shame, to revile her was glory!

Last bard of the free! were it mine to inherit

The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit,

With the wrongs which like thee to my own land have bound me,

Did your mantle of song throw its radiance around me ;
Yet, yet on those bold cliffs might Liberty rally,

And abroad send her cry o'er the sleep of each valley.
But, rouse thee, vain dreamer! no fond fancy cherish,
Thy vision of Freedom in bloodshed must perish.

I soon shall be gone-though my name may be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken-
Some minstrel will come in the summer eve's gleaming,
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
To bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avonbuee* seeks the kisses of ocean,
And a wild wreath to plant from the banks of that river
O'er the heart and the harp that are silent for ever.†

* The Carrigaline River, see p. 157.

+ Alas! the melancholy wish expressed by poor Callanan was not realised. He lies buried in a foreign land.-See p. 133.

YOUNG KATE OF KILCUMMER

Is copied from a tale entitled "The Rapparee," printed in Bolster's "Quarterly Magazine, No. IX.," a Cork periodical publication, August 1828, where this ballad is said to be

a favourite Irish song, which we have endeavoured to translate, preserving as much as possible the simplicity of the original." The Editor, however, does not recognise any thing to induce him to credit this statement. He believes it to be an original composition. Kilcummer is a seat of the Bowen family, in the county of Cork, on the east side of the river Awbeg, not far distant from the town of Doneraile.

There are flowers in the valley,
And fruit on the hill,
Sweet-scented and smiling,
Resort where you will.
But the sweetest and brightest

In spring time or summer,

Is the girl of my heart,

The young Kate of Kilcummer.

Oh! I'd wander from daybreak
Till night's gloomy fall,

Full sure such another

I'd ne'er meet at all.

As the rose to the bee,

As the sunshine to summer,

So welcome to me

Is young Kate of Kilcummer.

THE BOYS OF KILKENNY.

The Editor believes that this song, although unclaimed, is not incorrectly attributed to Mr. Thomas Moore, and the reasons for his belief are these:

1. Moore was a prominent member of the Kilkenny private theatricals about the years 1802, 3, and 4.

2. The melody called "The old head of Denis," was an especial favourite with Moore; to it he wrote his wellknown song in the first Number of the "Irish Melodies,” on the Meeting of the Waters in the county of Wicklow, commencing, "There is not in this wide world," &c.; `a line, by the by, which the fastidiousness of Moore's matured judgment has changed into "the wide world."

3. The internal evidence of the song itself. The luscious picture conveyed to the fancy in the concluding lines of the second, and the beautiful local imagery of the third verses, as well as the humour which pervades the entire song, partake more of the tone of Moore's mind than of the national character.

It was no doubt originally written for, and sung on the Kilkenny stage, and the last verse was probably an adjunct by the author when he sung "The Boys of Kilkenny" in England, where he became a permanent resident about 1807.*

The Kilkenny theatre has been already noticed (p. 57), as a speculation of Owenson's. Mr. Banim, in some gossiping letters on Ireland, published in a London periodical ("The Literary Register, 1822,"), says, "Until

* Since the above was written the Editor has been informed, " by good authority," that he is wrong in ascribing this song to Mr. Moore.

within the last few years, a private theatre was annually opened in Kilkenny under the management of Mr. Richard Power,* an accomplished and amiable gentleman, at which, with other characters of consideration, Mr. Corry (Secretary to the Linen Hall) exhibited his very rare talents. The cause of charity was joined with elegant recreation, and extensive advantages resulted to the local charitable institutions, Other benefits also accrued to the inland city, which was the scene of those periodical amusements. It became the rendezvous of the wealthy and fashionable from all parts of Ireland during the short theatrical seasons, and business of every kind thereby received a sprightly stimulous. My friend went on, adding some information and detached anecdote which interested me not a little. It was at these Kilkenny theatricals that Miss O'Neil lost her heart to Mr. Becher; † while the world consequently lost its first-rate actress. Mr. B. was the Coriolanus of the amateur company, and became captivated with his present celebrated lady during the very last Kilkenny season, while Miss O'Neil was gratuitously lending her mighty talents in behalf of the widow and the orphan. It is said, too, that here, at a very early period of her life, and when retained as an accessory, Miss O'Neil met with a cordial and decisive encouragement, which materially influenced her after-success in the metropolis. I have more to say to you about Kilkenny pic-nics. Tom Moore was for some years the Spado,

* Of Clashmore House, in the county of Waterford, which county he represented in many successive parliaments. He was born in 1780, and died at his house, in Baker Street, London, on the 12th March, 1834.

+ Now Sir William Wrixon Becher, Bart.

Mungo, and Peeping Tom of the boards; and, by all accounts, a glorious little actor he made. I am informed that his Spado was a treat. Indeed, the character seems made for him. How I should like to have seen the Irish ladies eying him as he sung

And again,

'Oh, lasses! of love can you fail,

With such a compact little lovey?
Though no one can taste the big whale,
Sure all love the little anchovy!'

'Though wanting two feet in my body,

In soul I am thirty feet high.'

Here he recited his own melalogue; and, as a final bit of tattle be it added, here Tommy also met, wooed, and won his present good lady."

Air-" The old Head of Denis."

Oh! the boys of Kilkenny are stout roving blades,

And if ever they meet with the nice little maids,

They kiss them and coax them, they spend their money free. Oh! of all towns in Ireland, Kilkenny for me.

Oh! of all towns in Ireland, Kilkenny for me!

Through the town of Kilkenny there runs a clear stream,
In the town of Kilkenny there lives a pretty dame,
Her cheeks are like roses, her lips much the same,
Like a dish of ripe strawberries smothered in cream.
Like a dish of ripe strawberries smothered in cream.

Her eyes are as black as Kilkenny's famed coal,

And 'tis they through my bosom that have burned a big

hole;