gay But Genius went pondering and chusing "'Tis well," said the goddess, as, smiling, The brine, and the wraik, and the sand; Mixing up, with strange spells as she used them, Salt, soda, and flint in a mass; With the flame of the lightning she fused them, And the marvellous compound was-GLASS! Then push round the flagon, &c. Beauty glanced at the crystal, half frighted, Till, gazing, she blushed all delighted, Not from steel, or from silver, or river, Then push round the flagon, &c. But Genius the while rent asunder To draw down the planets from heaven, Or roam through the stars where they shine." Then push round the flagon, &c. The rest fell to earth-Pleasure caught itPlunged his bowl, ere it cooled, in the mass; To the form of the wine-cup he wrought it, And cried, "Here's the true use of Glass!" Then leave, boys, the mirror to woman Through the lens let astronomers blink— There's no glass half so dear to a true man As the wine-glass when filled to the brink. Then push round the flask, each good fellow. Let's capture old Time ere he We'll steal all his sands while he's mellow, And fill with the grape-juice his glass. pass; IT'S LITTLE FOR GLORY I CARE. CHARLES LEVER. Air, "The Grinder." Ir's little for glory I care; Sure ambition is only a fable; And drame when my faytures is scorchin', Why, I'll marry a wife with a fortune. And in winter, with bacon and eggs, CRUISKIN LAWN.* LET the farmer praise his grounds, With my charming little cruiskin lawn. Slainte geal ma vourneen, Gra-ma-chree a coolin bawn. Gra-ma-chree ma cruiskin, Slainte geal ma vourneen, Gra-ma-chree a coolin, bawn, bawn, bawn, Little jug. The chorus, without which this song would be as short of its honours as a highland chieftain without "his tail on," (vide Waverley), is given in deference to the integrity of the original, in Irish. The spelling is not quite correct, but as nearly so as the representation of the sound of the Irish will permit. I am not a Celtic scholar, but it would be easy to give the real spelling of the words, and in the Irish alphabetical character, too, if it had been thought requisite. The meaning of the chorus, in English, is something like the following "My heart's love is my little jug, Immortal and divine, Great Bacchus, god of wine,† Gra-ma-chree, &c. And when grim Death appears, To tell me that my glass has run; Gra-ma-chree, &c. Then fill your glasses high, Let's not part with lips adry, Though the lark now proclaims it is dawn; May we shortly meet again, To fill another cruiskin lawn. Gra-ma-chree, &c. + Here we have one of the numerous instances of the love of the heathen mythology on the part of the Irish. I remember a street ballad, in which the poet insinuates that whiskey was the draught divine, by the phrase "Bacchus's still." Burns, by the way, adopts his native phraseology, when he calls the Castalian fount"Castalia's burn, and a' that." LARRY M'HALE. CHARLES LEVER. Он! Larry M'Hale he had little to fear, And never could want when the crops didn't fail; The soul of a party, -the life of a feast, And an illigant song he could sing, I'll be bail; It's little he cared for the judge or recorder,* He'd a blunderbuss too; of horse-pistols a pair; His ancestors was kings before Moses was born; He sat down every day to a beautiful dinner, With cousins and uncles enough for a tail; With a larder supplied, and a cellar well-stored, And the Lord he is good to old Larry M'Hale." So fill up your glass, and a high bumper give him, * I forget the name of the quaint old chronicler who, speaking of the unsettled state of Ireland, writes, "They say the King's writ runneth not here, but to that I say nay: the King's writ doth runne,-but it runneth awaye." Once upon a time it was nearly as much as a bailiff's life was worth to cross the Shannon westward with a writ. If he escaped with his life, he was sure to get rough treatment anyhow. One fine morning, for example, a bailiff returned to the solicitor who had sent him into Galway with the king's parchment, and his aspect declared discomfiture: he looked singularly bilious, moreover. "I see," said the attorney, "you did not serve it." "No, faith." "Then you will return it with an affidavit that"— "I can't return it," said the bailiff. Let it not be imagined, however, that we had all the fun to ourselves in Ireland, or that we can even claim originality in our boluses for bailiffs; for it is recorded that a certain "Roger Lord Clifford, who died 1327, was so obstinate and careless of the king's displeasure, as that he caused a pursuivant that served a writ upon him in the Baron's chamber, there to eat and swallow down part of the wax that the said writ was sealed with, as it were in contempt of the said king."-Memoir of the Countess of Pembroke, MS. MARY DRAPER. CHARLES LEVER, DON'T talk to me of London dames, Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue, She'd ride a wall, she'd drive a team, I've seen her, too-upon my word- And, at the spring assizes ball, And Harry Deane* would caper Lord Claret would then forget his lore; * Harry Deane Grady, a distinguished lawyer on the Western Circuit. + Lord Chancellor of Ireland, celebrated for his hatred of Curran. He carried this feeling to the unjust and undignified length of always treating him with disrespect in Court, to the great injury of Curran's practice. On one occasion, when that eminent man was addressing him, Lord Clare turned to a pet dog beside him on the bench, and gave all the attention to his canine favourite which he should have bestowed on the counsel. Curran suddenly stopped. Lord Clare observing this, said, "You may go on, Mr. Curran― I'm listening to you." "I beg pardon for my mistake, my Lord," replied Curran; "I stopped, my Lord, because I thought your Lordships were consulting." |