We've a choice set of books for the student who wise is, The eel of true science to seize by the tail; At all seasons, a skate you can have where no ice is, Would you seek for that solace of life, a true friend, sir? If you're partial to perfumes, cross over to Scilly, Where you've cold baths if warm, and warm ones if chilly, Cold bathing, 'tis said, gives additional tension You'd not want for scales on the strand of Kinsale. Then take my advice, if you've gout, boil, or cholic, KINSALE VERSUS MALLOW. The introductory remarks prefixed to the preceding song, render any observations here unnecessary, except that the "Break-heart Hill," mentioned in the ninth verse, is called Compass Hill, upon the side of which Kinsale is built; the principal street runs at the base, and is like all old streets, 66 narrow and incommodious. Over this are other streets, but the communication is by steep, slippery lanes, which, to strangers, are far from being agreeable." In a manuscript Journal of the Rev. Richard Allyn, chaplain of H.M.S. Centurion, 1691 (which was purchased for Sir Walter Scott in 1823), Kinsale is described as "a large, stinking, filthy hole, that hath nothing good in it, besides honest Parson Tomms. I was very glad," writes the pious chaplain, " to leave so vile a place, though indeed I was somewhat sorry to part with Parson Tomms, and the two only fit men for Christian conversation besides himself in the whole town; viz. Mr. Stawell, the mayor, and Parson Mead." The Spa of Mallow alluded to in the fifth verse, will be particularly noticed hereafter. The present with which Paddy Farrell accompanied "his poetic epistle," and which fish, "the sovereign" (so is the chief magistrate of Kinsale styled), is represented as regulating the price of when dried, is a gigantic species of haddock, which should be eaten as soon as possible after it is caught; in fact, should be put into the pot alive. "As dead as a hake," is one of the most contemptuous phrases of an Irish fish-market. The hake is very plentiful during the summer months on the southern coast of Ireland. There existed in Kinsale (the Editor speaks of the years 1815 or 1816), a yacht, or rather hooker club, called "the Hake Club," of which the late Lord Kingsale was commodore and president. The mem bers were distinguished by the figure of a hake fish embroidered or painted on a riband, which was worn inserted through the button-holes of the waistcoat, like the badge of the society called Friendly Brothers. Dear Paddy, I got your poetic epistle, Along with the hake that you sent by the mail; But what could bewitch you, to sing, or to whistle, In strains so melodious the praise of Kinsale? In all baits you're well skilled, you cod-dragging curmudgeon, I know your design is as usual -- sell fish; For catch what you will, my old boy, I'll be bail You'll jolt off to Cork your best hake and best shell-fish, And leave barely a claw for the town of Kinsale. But what to Kinsale boys are solids or liquids, So they swallow the whisky, and in their jaws stick quids Your bathers, och bathersin ! *— Paddy, no boasting, * Oh, may be so! Your hotel, yerra Paddy be easy, devil burn ye! Who stills all the breezes that rise in Kinsale. What king, you spalpeen, will have a sight of your inn, Your sinecure place, Pat, is filled by a butcher, Your friendship too, Pat, for your own "World's End" is, I mean when you're paid for it down on the nail; You'll not catch one insane or so silly as to bend his Steps up Break-heart Hill, for a friend in Kinsale. I've no gout, nor consumption, nor jaundice so yellow; Sick or well, full or fasting, I'll stay here in Mallow; THE RIVER LEE, By moonlight. This beautiful lyric is by Mr. Millikin. A copy of it in the author's autograph, entitled "An Ode to Cynthia," embellished with a vignette exe cuted in pen and ink, representing a gentleman reclining on the bank of a romantic stream and touching the chords of a guitar, occurs in a manuscript volume in the Editor's possession, which appears to have been written about 1803. These verses were first printed in "The Harmonica," a collection of lyrics published by J. Bolster, Cork, 1818; and they are reprinted among the "Poetical Fragments of the late Richard Alfred Millikin,” 1823. Pale goddess, by thy ray serene His smooth and ample tide Mid fields in flowers profuse, and woody knolls; Thy silver lamp my guide. To thee I tune a rural shell Where hums the secret rill Through shrubs that tangling meet, Or gurgling brook, that flies its native hill With limpid current fleet. For these, the gentle sounds thou lov'st to hear— And not the trumpet's clangour, Or the nerve-wounding fife: Thee more delights the lute's harmonious languor, That shuns the voice of strife. Thou shalt my frequent steps direct When, by thy calmer radiance deck'd, |