Why not her poorest man,
Soggarth aroon,

Try and do all he can,
Soggarth aroon,

Her commands to fulfil
Of his own heart and will,
Side by side with you still,
Soggarth aroon?

Loyal and brave to you,
Soggarth aroon,

Yet be no slave to you,
Soggarth aroon,—

Nor, out of fear to you,
Stand up so near to you-
Och! out of fear to you!
Soggarth aroon!

Who, in the winter's night,
Soggarth aroon,
When the could blast did bite,
Soggarth aroon,

Came to my cabin-door,
And, on my earthen-flure
Knelt by me, sick and poor,
Soggarth aroon?

Who, on the marriage-day,
Soggarth aroon,

Made the poor cabin gay,
Soggarth aroon—

And did both laugh and sing,
Making our hearts to ring,
At the poor christening,
Soggarth aroon?

Who, as friend only met,
Soggarth aroon,

Never did flout me yet,

Soggarth aroon ?

And when my hearth was dim,
Gave, while his eye did brim,
What I should give to him,†
Soggarth aroon ?

†The Irish Roman Catholic priest is supported by voluntary contributions from his flock; but here, (as in many cases,) the priest reverses the order of giving, and bestows charity on the poor peasant.

Among the essayists, sketchers, story-tellers, and novellists, Maxwell's name shines brightly. The soldier, the sportsman, and the man of the world, formed a triumvirate in his person which gave a racy variety to his works; and his "Stories of Waterloo," his "Wild Sports of the West," and that stirring and most amusing tale "My Life," display that triplicity. His pen was prolific-or I should rather say his pencil-for it is a fact, within my own knowledge, that he dashed off his copy for the press with a black-lead pencil, which he declared was a much pleasanter and more facile mode of rapid writing than pen and ink. He held a prebend in the Established Church of Ireland, but the exuberance of his animal spirits hurried him, sometimes, beyond the usual limits of clerical phraseology. Let us remember, however, he had been a soldier in early life, as a plea in extenuation. There is an old slang mode of expression employed, when a man who has been educated for the Church goes into the army;-they say, in such case, that "the lobster has been boiled:" that is to say, black has been turned red. But, in the reverse of the case, when a retired soldier turns clergyman, I fear it is very hard to unboil him— turn red into black. Maxwell seldom indulged in verse; his highest gifts of authorship were exhibited in his prose.

THE song is hushed in Bala's hall,
The beacon's cold upon the steep,
The steed has left the empty stall,
The banner's sunk upon the keep:
The knight upon Lough Neagh's shore
Has laid aside the glittering steel;
And minstrel strikes the harp no more,
To tell the triumphs of O'Neill.

The day will come-the day will come

When vengeance, bursting from her trance,
Shall sound the trump, and strike the drum,
And point the gun, and couch the lance!
While from hill-top and woodland den,
The smothered war-cry loud shall peal-
And
gray morass, and mountain glen,
Echo the triumphs of O'Neill !

THE BOYS OF THE IRISH BRIGADE.

Mrs. GORE.

This lively song was written, by the fair and gifted authoress, who has favoured the world with so many clever novels, for a dramatic piece she produced for the lamented Power, entitled "King O'Neill." The scene is laid in Paris in the time of Louis XV. O'Neill is an exiled Irishman, an officer in the famous Irish Brigade, who, whenever he is over-excited by wine, fancies himself possessed of all the regal power his ancestors once enjoyed; and hence much amusement arises. It is in a scene at the mess of the Brigade the following song is sung, where O'Neill is floating himself up, upon claret, to the summitlevel of his regal delusion.

WHAT for should I sing you of Roman or Greek,

Or the boys we hear tell of in story?
Come match me for fighting, for frolic, or freak,
An Irishman's reign in his glory;

For Ajax, and Hector, and bold Agamemnon
Were up to the tricks of our trade, 0,

But the rollicking boys, for war, ladies and noise,
Are the boys of the Irish Brigade, O!

What for should I sing you of Helen of Troy,
Or the mischief that came by her flirting?
There's Biddy M'Clinchy the pride of Fermoy,
Twice as much of a Helen, that's certain.
Then for Venus, so famous, or Queen Cleopatra,
Bad luck to the word should be said, 0,

By the rollicking boys, for war, ladies and noise,—
The boys of the Irish Brigade, O!

What for should I sing you of classical fun,

Or of games, whether Grecian or Persian?

Sure the Curragh's* the place where the knowing one's done,
And Mallow that flogs for diversion.

For fighting, for drinking, for ladies and all,

No time like our times e'er were made, 0,

By the rollicking boys, for war, ladies and noise,-
The boys of the Irish Brigade, O!

* The Curragh is an extensive plain in the county of Kildare, whereon is the finest racecourse in the United Kingdom.

See "The Rakes of Mallow" in this collection.

The myth of Venus and Mars (already alluded to in the introduction to this section) was but the emblematizing of a sentiment that has pervaded the world since its creation. A woman likes and lauds a soldier-not for his handsome dress, as some people have unworthily hinted; no-it is because his noble profession implies courage. Fielding says, with his usual acuteness, that as a woman is by nature timid, she values that most highly which she does not possess herself; and, therefore, no quality in man she so much admires as courage. Hence, we opine, the fair authoress's laudatory lyric of "The Boys of the Brigade."

And when with years and honours crowned,
You sit some homeward hearth around,
And hear no more the stirring sound

That spoke the trumpet's warning;
You'll fill, and drink, one hip, hurra!
And pledge the memory of the day,
When squadron square
They all were there

To meet the French in the morning.

Will have the hand-or toe,

From a bowld sojer boy!

There's not a town we march through,
But the ladies, looking arch through
The window-panes, will search through
The ranks to find their joy;

While up the street,

Each girl you meet,

With look so sly,

Will cry
"My eye!

Oh! isn't he a darling-the bowld sojer boy!"