Oh, that my fair and I were in some lonely place,
Whose woods and groves

Might hide our loves,

And none our wanderings trace:

That bliss untold
Beyond the gold

Of nations would I prize;

For ever there

Her love to share,

And triumph in her eyes.

The last specimen of the native poetry of the seventeenth century that shall be given, was written towards its close by some bard whose name has not survived, and is of a very different kind from any that has preceded it. It describes in a highly humorous style, but apparently with a lurking moral, the progress of that epidemic vice, intemperance, which about this period commenced its frightful ravages in the land, and which Mr. Hardiman, perhaps not unjustly, attributes to the political degradation of the people. Prior to this period, indeed, there does not appear even a single allusion to the existence of such a vice; but it is significant of the spirit and manners of the times, that much of the subsequent poetry, including a large portion of the fine songs of Carolan, is of a Bacchanalian cast. Eternal honour to the man through whose patriotic exertions the nation is at length purging itself from this degrading vice. In a poetical point of view, many of the compositions of this class are admirable. Of the present one, the first two stanzas are omitted.

ODE TO DRUNKENNESS.

TRANSLATED BY THOMAS FURLONG.

Chang'd by thy touch, the poor quite rich become,
The low get lofty, and the timid bold;

Cripples get legs, speech bursts upon the dumb,
And youth and vigor bless the weak and old;
The smile of joy steals o'er the face of trouble,
And folks, with scarcely half an eye, see double.

By thee the miser's purse is opened wide;

The dolt, the dunderhead, thou renderest witty ; 'Tis thine to lend meek lowliness to pride,

Or melt the stony, selfish heart with pity; Even old hell-daring, weather-beaten sinners, When moved by thee, in grace become beginners.

How oft have I, dear spouse, inspired by thee,
Poured the full tide of eloquence along ;
How oft have other wights been chang'd like me,
Now up and down, defending right or wrong;
Subtle thou art, and valorous, and strong:
'Tis thine to loose the slave, or bind the free,
To paralyze with age the limbs of youth;

Void of all guile, with thee dwells barefaced truth.

Little thou heedest where thy head is laid;

To thee the bog is as the bed of down; Little thou mindest how thy clothes are made, Small thought hast thou of cloak, or cap, or gown; For points of form thou carest not a pin, But at the chimney would as soon come inAye, just as soon as at the opening door; The pelting rain may drench thee o'er and o'er, The storm, the snow, the hail around may fall, But still, my fearless spouse, thou smilest at them all.

To many an ancient house art thou allied

Oh, many a lordly one thy claim must own; The soul of valour, and the heart of pride,

Must stoop all humbly where thy face is shown.
Wide round the land thy relatives are known,
The chiefs of might, O'Donnell and O'Neill,
M'Guire, O'Rorke, M‘Mahon, and O'Conor,
Kildare's old earl, that pink of worth and honour,
O'Hanlons from the mountain and the vale,
Fair Antrim's chiefs, M'Donnell and O'Keane.
And hundreds more, that must unnam'd remain
All these, though haughty, and though high they be-
These, darling drunkenness, are allied to thee.

Nor these alone-each doctor in the land,
Each strutting soldier, drest in red or blue,
Each minstrel and each poet takes thy hand,
Lawyers and ladies, and the clergy too.
Knockgraney's head-the sky so fair to view-
Than thee, at moments, seem not more sublime,
But low thou liest again in little time:
Fill up the cup, may victory be thine own,
Go where thou wilt-for thee I'll live alone.

In the early part of the eighteenth century appeared several bards of eminence-the last bright flickerings of the light of song, ere it died out for ever. The principal of these were O'Neachtan, M'Donnell, and Carolan. The first and last of these belong almost equally to the latter part of the previous century. O'Neachtan and M'Donnell were two of the principal Jacobite writers. The Jacobite poetry being that of a party, and deeply tinged with its prejudices, is not now very interesting. It is, moreover, chiefly written in a sort of allegorical style, which, though the allusions were obvious at the time, detracts very much from the interest, to readers of the present day; for poetry, like wit, which requires to be explained at every step, however excellent in itself, loses half its charm. So pervading, indeed, is this figurative style throughout the Jacobite poetry, that taken literally, much of it might pass for the love songs of the troubadours. Ireland, celebrated under the greatest possible variety of titles, is frequently represented as a lovely and disconsolate fair one, sometimes seen in visions, mourning the loss of her lover, and anxiously looking forward to his return. From these circumstances, few specimens of the Jacobite relics may suffice.

JOHN O'NEACHTAN, of Meath, the first of these writers, appears to have been a person of considerable erudition, and an extensive miscellaneous author, from the list of his works furnished by O'Rielly. The following stanzas are from an elegiac tribute which he paid to the memory of Mary D'Este, the queen of the ill-fated James, on her decease, in the year 1718.

LAMENT

FOR THE QUEEN OF KING JAMES II.

TRANSLATED BY HENRY GRATTAN CURRAN.

The stone is laid o'er thee! the fair glossy braid,
The high brow, the light cheek, with its roseate glow;
The bright form, and the berry that dwelt, and could
fade

On those lips, thou sage giver! all, all are laid low.

Whatever of purity, glory, hath ever

Been linked with the name, lovely Mary, was thine; Woe! woe, that the tomb, ruthless tyrant, should sever The ties which our spirits, half broken, resign.

The mid-day is dark with unnatural gloom-
And a spectral lament wildly shrieked in the air,
Tells all hearts that our princess lies cold in the tomb—
Bids the old and the young bend in agony there!

The most popular production of O'Neachtan, however, belongs to the Bacchanalian class, of which it is one of the very best, and as such is here given. Maggy Lauder is one of the innumerable Jacobite titles of Ireland.