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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,
Or a sinecure plaice you may get at Kinsale.

Would you seek for that solace of life, a true friend, sir?
In this mart of pure friendship you never can fail ;
Not a man but would travel e'en to "the World's End," sir,
To serve any friend that he has in Kinsale.

If you're partial to perfumes, cross over to Scilly,
Where scents odoriferous float on the gale ;

Where you've cold baths if warm, and warm ones if chilly,
And much higher fragrance than is in Kinsale.

Cold bathing, 'tis said, gives additional tension
To muscles, and renders the fibres more hale;
Would you weigh this opinion with rigid attention,

You'd not want for scales on the strand of Kinsale.

Then take my advice, if you've gout, boil, or cholic,
Only try what our baths and pure air will avail ;
Or if you're in health, just come here for a frolic,
And abundant amusement you'll find in Kinsale.

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,
To hook every fish from a sprat to a whale;
But your Ines shan't catch me-by my sole I'm no gudgeon
To flounder or starve in the streets of Kinsale.

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,
Madeira, or turbot, beef, mutton, or veal,

So they swallow the whisky, and in their jaws stick quids
Of tobacco, while grumbling the praise of Kinsale?

Your bathers, och bathersin ! *— Paddy, no boasting,
'Tis in Mallow our fair ones are hearty and hale ;
Those that drink of our Spa, need no boiling or roasting
Like the coddled old dabs that play cards in Kinsale.

* Oh, may be so!

Your hotel, yerra Paddy be easy, devil burn ye!
Was not built, well you know, by a brewer of ale;
But a dealer in spirit, an honest attorney,

Who stills all the breezes that rise in Kinsale.

What king, you spalpeen, will have a sight of your inn,
Or on your fine chairs clap his majesty's tail;
But that king of good fellows, your own portly sovereign,
When fixing the price of dried hake in Kinsale ?

Your sinecure place, Pat, is filled by a butcher,
Or else your librarian to claim it won't fail;
For he who for mind or for body loves good cheer,
Must
go somewhere else from the town of Kinsale.

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;
Nor, cameleonlike, do I feed on the gale:

Sick or well, full or fasting, I'll stay here in Mallow;
So, e-cod you'll not drag me, old boy, to Kinsale!

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
I fondly tread the level green,
Where Lee serenely rolls

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
In some lone sequestered dell,

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—
These, Cynthia! suit thy sad and chaster ear;

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,

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