Annie, dear.

* Honeymoon. The rhyme will indicate that the sound of the letter e is nearly lost in the word "meala." Be it observed, also, the first letter of the Irish alphabet has a broad sound.

+ This alludes to the year 1798, when the yeomanry were held in great detestation by the people; indeed, except for external defence, yeomanry is now considered a bad military enginery. In civil embroilment they carry party passion instead of duty into the office of the soldier, and serve rather to increase than suppress commotion. This is the feeling in England as well as in Ireland. Witness the affair of "Peterloo," (or St. Peter's Field) at Manchester, A. D. 1819.

CAN I AGAIN THAT LOOK RECALL.

MOORE.

CAN I again that look recall

Which once could make me die for thee ?.

No, no, the eye that burns on all

Shall never more be prized by me.

Can I again that form caress,

Or on that lip in joy recline?

No, no, the lip that all may press

Shall never more be press'd by mine.

From "Songs and Ballads" of SAMUEL LOVER.

A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that, when a child smiles in its sleep, it is "talking with the angels."

A BABY was sleeping,

Its mother was weeping,

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea,

And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling,

And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me."

Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face, as she bended her knee;

Oh! bless'd be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

And while they are keeping
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Oh, pray to them softly my baby, with me,
And say thou would'st rather

They'd watch o'er thy father!

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.
The dawn of the morning
Saw Dermot returning,

And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see,
And closely caressing

Her child, with a blessing,

Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

I have abstained from inserting many of my own songs in this collection, to avoid the suspicion of parental preference. I give only those (with very few exceptions) which, having attained popularity, are thus guaranteed by the highest seal that can substantiate their right to appear in a collection of Irish Songs. The song given above was written to an old Irish air (one of the few Moore left untouched) entitled "Mary do you fancy me?" Words had been written to it in "Holden's Periodical Irish Melodies," but they were ineffective, and left the air still in oblivion, while mine had better fortune, and made this charming melody widely known; and I think it may be allowed to be pardonably pleasing to an author that it is now known by the name of "The Angel's Whisper." The works of Moore have shown how much the musician may be indebted to the poet, and I have entered more extensively into that question, in a note to "The Boys of Kilkenny," to which I beg to refer the reader.

YOUNG KATE OF KILCUMMER.

THERE are flowers in the valley,
And fruit on the hill,
Sweet-scented and smiling,
Resort where you will;
But the sweetest and brightest

In spring time or summer,

Is the girl of my heart,

The young Kate of Kilcummer.

Oh! I'd wander from daybreak
Till night's gloomy fall,

Full sure such another

I'd ne'er meet at all:

As the rose to the bee,

As the sunshine to summer,

So welcome to me

Is young Kate of Kilcummer.

Kilcummer is in the County of Cork, on the east side of the river Awbeg. It has been asserted this song is a translation from the Irish, but I agree with T. C. Croker in doubting it.

THE NIGHT WAS STILL.

CALLANAN.

THE night was still, the air was balm,
Soft dews around were weeping;
No whisper rose o'er ocean's calm,
Its waves in light were sleeping;
With Mary on the beach I strayed,
The stars beam'd joys above me;

I press'd her hand, and said, "Sweet maid,
Oh! tell me do you love me ?"

With modest air she drooped her head,
Her cheek of beauty veiling;

Her bosom heav'd-no word she said;

I mark'd her strife of feeling;

"Oh speak my doom, dear maid," I cried,
"By yon bright heaven above thee;"

She gently raised her eyes, and sighed,
"Too well you know I love thee."

The sentiment reminds us, but without suggesting, in the least, a plagiarism of those sweet lines of the Scottish muse

"Dinna ask me gin I luve thee,

Deed I darena tell;

Dinna ask me gin I luve thee,

Ask it o' yoursel'."

Buchan's Minstrelsy of the North of Scotland.

THE MAID OF BALLYHAUNIS.

From the Irish.

Mr. Hardiman, in the "Minstrelsy," says this song was composed by a friar of the Monastery of Ballyhaunis, who fell in love with a beautiful girl of that place; but the late Mr. Edward Walshe, the translator, says-" With every respect for the superior information of Mr. Hardiman, I beg to say that this lyric, so creditable to the poetic genius of Connaught, and which stands forth among the happiest efforts of the pastoral muse of Ireland, was, in all likelihood, written by a youthful student of the monastery, as the second stanza bears clear proof that the lover is one not arrived at manhood, and who is subject to his father's control."

My Mary dear! for thee I die

O! place thy hand in mine, love-
My fathers here were chieftains high,
Then to my plaints incline, love.
O, Plaited-hair! that now we were
In wedlock's band united,

For, maiden mine, in grief I'll pine,
Until our vows are plighted!

Thou, Rowan-bloom, since thus I rove,
All worn and faint to greet thee,
Come to these arms, my constant love,
With love as true to meet me!
Alas! my head-its wits are fled,
I've failed in filial duty-

My sire did say, "Shun, shun, for aye
That Ballyhaunis beauty!"

But thy Cúilin bán* I mark'd one day,
Where the blooms of the bean-field cluster,
Thy bosom white like ocean's spray,

Thy cheek like rowan-fruit's lustre,

Thy tones that shame the wild birds' fame
Which sing in the summer weather-
And O! I sigh that thou, love, and I
Steal not from this world together!

If with thy lover thou depart

To the Land of Ships, † my fair love,

No weary pain of head or heart,

Shall haunt our slumbers there, love

O! haste away, ere cold death's prey,
My soul from thee withdrawn is;

And my hope's reward, the churchyard sward.
In the town of Ballyhaunis!

* Cúilín bán, fair flowing hair.

+ Neither Mr. Hardiman nor Mr. Walshe make any observation on the phrase "Land of Ships," and it cannot with certainty now be said what place was originally indicated by it. The term would eminently apply to England: but Spain would have been a more likely place of refuge to the Irish Roman Catholic fugitives; and Spain of old was a great maritime power. Besides, there was a constant communication between the West of Ireland and Spain.

CEASE, OH, CEASE TO TEMPT.

MOORE.

CEASE, oh, cease to tempt my tender heart to love;
It never, never can, so wild a flame approve;
All its joys and pains

To others I resign;

But be the vacant heart,

The careless bosom, mine.

Then cease, oh, cease, &c.

Say, oh! say no more that lovers' pains are sweet-
I never, never can, believe the fond deceit.

.Thou lov'st the wounded heart,

I love to wander free;

So keep thou Cupid's dart,

And leave his wings for me.