When at home with dadda dying,
Still for Mallow water crying;

But where there's good claret plying

Live the rakes of Mallow.

Living short, but merry lives;
Going where the devil drives;

Having sweethearts, but no wives,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

Racking tenants, stewards teasing,
Swiftly spending, slowly raising,
Wishing to spend all their days in

Raking as at Mallow.

Then to end this raking life

They get sober, take a wife,

Ever after live in strife,

And wish again for Mallow.

DARLING NEDDEEN.

"Neddeen," says Mr. Weld, "is the principal place of trade on the Kenmare river.* It is a very small town, and though we have observed some new houses, has, on the whole, an appearance of decay."

Neddeen is now generally known as Kenmare, and the authorship of the song respecting its attractions is already

* An arm of the sea, west of Bantry Bay.

attributed to Mr. Wood, the gentleman mentioned at pages 14 and 149. The Banimian style of writing the words as vulgarly sounded, in which this and the songs at these pages originally appeared, together with the rich store of traditionary knowledge displayed, and the love of local allusion, leave no doubt upon the subject, unless indeed the Editor has suffered himself to be carried away by circumstantial evidence, as he has reason to believe he did, when giving judgment upon the authorship of the "Boys of Kilkenny."

The song now republished there can be no question, from the mention of the Marquess of Lansdowne's visit to the south of Ireland in company with Mr. Moore, was written in 1823. It was originally printed in a Cork scurrilous publication, called "The Freeholder" (August 30, 1823), with the subsequent introductory letter.

"Mr. Boil,*—I am toul the Marquis o' Lansdown is gone down to Neddeen, and as I heard that Tommy Moor was gone off to Klarney to write about the Lakes, I think that a hint about Neddeen mite make him write about that too. I wish he'd buil a poem on the follow foundation; an' as I'm tould the Marquis manes to build a new town, I could give a plan for that too. The above may serve for a dedication for both, from your humble servant

to comman,

"JACK GRAUMMACHREE."

This visit of Mr. Moore to Ireland was followed by the appearance, in the ensuing year, of the ninth number

* Mr. Boyle, the editor.

N

of the "Irish Melodies," perhaps the most Irish part of that national work, as well as the one most identified with the author. Of the twelve songs which it contains, nine have reference to local feelings or traditions, or to circumstances which arose out of the poet's tour. Thus, "Sweet Innisfallen," and ""Twas one of those dreams," obviously allude to Mr. Moore's visit to Killarney; and "In yonder valley there dwelt alone," is said to have originated in an anecdote connected with O'Sullivan's cascade. The song commencing, "By the Feal's wave benighted," is founded on a romantic anecdote in the history of the Geraldines. These four songs fairly belong to the county of Kerry. Then, descriptive of a glance at a map of Ireland, preparatory to the tour, we find, "Fairest, put on a while," in a note on which, by the by, the Skellig rocks, mentioned, at p. 126, as off the coast of Kerry, are confounded with the Saltees which are in the barony of Forth, off the coast of Wexford. On meeting with a party of old friends in Dublin, " And doth not a meeting like this." On Irish politics, "As vanquished Erin wept beside," &c.; and, "Quick, we have but a second," is just the song that might have been suggested by a pleasant travelling party being hurried off from an agreeable meeting. The horn of the mail-coach guard, or the voice of some equally urgent personage, is absolutely ringing in the ear.

Tune "The Sprig of Shillelah."

As Thady Mac Murtough O'Shaughnessy, oge,
T'other day was industriously mending a brogue,
On a neat little hill that they call Drumcusheen,

His sole, and his welt, and his cord was so strong,
That, soon waxing warm, he lilted a song;
He bellowed as loud as his lungs they could bawl;
Oh! bad cess to the tanners, I'll leather them all,-

But I'll first sing the praises of darling Neddeen!

On the face of this earth 'tis the most curous place,
I swears black and blue, by the nose on my face,

'Tis the sweetest of any that ever was seen; Och! it's there you will see both the hedgehog and whale, And the latter continually flapping his tail,

Just to raise up a breeze for the fowls of the air,

As the eagle, the jackass, or gosling so fair,

While they sing round the cabins of darling Neddeen!

There stone houses all, are weather-slated with mud,
And the praties, and women, and whisky is good,

And the latter small hardware, they call it poteen.
Small blame to them keeping no lamps there at night,
Because of the girls, whose eyes shews them light;
You may talk of your lamps, that is all lit with gas,
Och! give me the black eye of a sweet Colleen das,

Such as light, up the cabins in darling Neddeen!

There the geese run about through the most of the street, Ready roasted, inviting the people they meet

To eat, lord an' squire, cobbogue an' spalpeen; From the cows they gets whisky, the ganders give milk, An' their best woollen blankets is all made of silk; Their purty young girls, they never grows old,

And the sun never set there, last winter, I'm told,

But stay'd lighting the pipes of the boys of Neddeen!

Oh! if I kept singing till this time next year,
Not a half of the beautiful beauties you'd hear,

From the Skelligs down west, to the great Noersheen;
There the sea's great broad bottom is covered with grass,
Where many a young mermaid's seen washing her glass,
An' great elephant teeth are turned up in the bogs,
Some charmed into sawdust, some changed into logs,
Or converted to tooth-picks in darling Neddeen!

Long life to the Marquis, I'm glad he's gone down
To his own little city-a far sweeter town

Than Bandon, Dunmanway, or Ballyporeen.
Long life to his honour, till after he's dead
May nothing that's teazing e'er run in his head;
May he give to each tenant a long building lease;
May their praties, an' butter, an' childer increase,
Till Dublin looks smaller than darling Neddeen!

THE TOWN OF PASSAGE.

No less than three songs upon the town of Passage, which is situated between Cork and its Cove, are here given to illustrate the manner in which popular lyrics are imitated and sometimes amalgamated.

As to the authorship of No. I., there can be no doubt. Mr. Simon Quin, stimulated by the discomforts of a drowsy landlady and her lively lodgings, having, in the concluding verse, saved the Editor the risk of conjecture. This song was introduced, with considerable effect, upon the London stage by the late Mr. Charles