but, though every verse is beautiful, it is too long for insertion at length here, and only a few lines and verses are given. One stanza justifies my own line

"We will live merrily under the bough."

For Edmond himself says, more elaborately, that, if his love were with him

"Sweet would seem the holly shade,

Bright the clustering berries growing;

And, in scented bloom array'd,

Apple blossoms* round us blowing."

He thus passionately describes his feelings upon being deserted—

"O, sickness past all medicine's art,

O sorrow every grief exceeding,
O wound that in my breaking heart,
Cureless, deep, to death art bleeding."

He then apostrophizes the nightingale, and exclaims

"Mine, O hapless bird, thy fate!

The plunder'd nest, the lonely sorrow!

The lost, the lov'd harmonious mate!

The wailing night-the cheerless morrow."

This, I think, must be acknowledged as very pathetic, particularly in the second line:there is something almost painfully expressive of bereavement and desolation in

"The plunder'd nest-the lonely sorrow.

Finally, notwithstanding his wrongs, he says, with a devotedness that deserved a better requital

Still my heart its faith shall prove,

And its last sigh shall breathe to bless thee!"

*The frequency of allusion to the apple blossom is remarkable in the poetry of the native Irish.

THE DAWNING OF THE DAY.

AT early dawn I once had been
Where Lene's* blue waters flow,
When summer bid the groves be green,
The lamp of light to glow-

As on by bower, and town, and tower,
And wide-spread fields I stray,

I meet a maid in the greenwood shade,
At the dawning of the day.

Her feet and beauteous head were bare,
No mantle fair she wore,

But down her waist fell golden hair
That swept the tall grass o'er ;
With milking-pail she sought the vale,
And bright her charms' display,
Outshining far the morning star,
At the dawning of the day!

* Lene, Killarney.

Beside me sat that maid divine,
Where grassy banks outspread-
"Oh, let me call thee ever mine,
Dear maid," I sportive said.

"False man, for shame, why bring me blame?"
She cried, and burst away—

The sun's first light pursued her flight,

At the dawning of the day!

This "dawning of the day" is a favourite refrain to Irish songs. I have heard such in some variety, and a " milking-pail" is always present in them. One of my earliest remembrances is hearing my nurse sing such a song, and the refrain, throughout, of that song was wed to the milking-pail in this couplet,

"With her milking-pail all in her hand
At the dawning of the day."

The melody to which this

song

is sung is very sweet.

DESERTER'S MEDITATION.

"As Mr. Curran was travelling upon an unfrequented road, he perceived a man in a soldier's dress sitting by the road side, and apparently much exhausted by fatigue and agitation. He invited him to take a seat in his chaise, and soon discovered that he was a deserter. Having stopt at a small inn for refreshment, Mr. Curran observed to the soldier that he had committed an offence of which the penalty was death, and that his chance of escaping it was but small: "Tell me, then (continued he), whether you feel disposed to pass the little remnant of life that is left you in penitence and fasting, or whether you would prefer to drown your sorrow in a merry glass ?" The following is the deserter's answer, which Mr. Curran, in composing it, adapted to a plaintive Irish air.”—Life of Curran by his son, W. H. Curran.

IF sadly thinking, with spirits sinking,

Could more than drinking my cares compose,
A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow,
And hope to-morrow would end my woes.
But as in wailing there's nought availing,
And Death unfailing will strike the blow,
Then for that reason, and for a season,
Let us be merry before we go!

To joy a stranger, a way-worn ranger,
In ev'ry danger my course I've run ;

Now hope all ending, and Death befriending,
His last aid lending, my cares are done:

No more a rover, or hapless lover,

My griefs are over-my glass runs low;
Then for that reason, and for a season,

Let us be merry before we go!

MARGRÉAD NI CHEALLEADH.

EDWARD Walsh.

This ballad is founded on the story of Daniel O'Keeffe, an outlaw famous in the traditions of the county of Cork, where his name is still associated with several localities. It is related that O'Keeffe's beautiful mistress, Margaret Kelly, (Mairgréad ni Chealleadh), tempted by a large reward, undertook to deliver him into the hands of the English soldiers; but O'Keeffe having discovered in her possession a document revealing her perfidy, in a frenzy of indignation stabbed her to the heart with his skian. He lived in the time of William III., and is represented to have been a gentleman and a poet.-Author's note.

*

AT the dance in the village

Thy white foot was fleetest;
Thy voice mid the concert
Öf maidens was sweetest;
The swell of thy white breast
Made rich lovers follow;
And thy raven hair bound them,
Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.

Thy neck was, lost maid!

Than the ceanabhan* whiter;
And the glow of thy cheek

Than the monadan+ brighter:
But death's chain hath bound thee,
Thine eye's glazed and hollow
That shone like a sun-burst,
Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.

No more shall mine ear drink
Thy melody swelling;
Nor thy beamy eye brighten
The outlaw's dark dwelling;
Or thy soft heaving bosom
My destiny hallow,

With thy twining arms round me,

Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.

The moss couch I brought thee
To-day from the mountain,

Has drank the last drop

Of thy young heart's red fountain,

A plant found in bogs, the top of which bears a substance resembling cotton, and as white as snow.

+ The monadan is a red berry, growing on an humble creeping plant found on wild marshy mountains.

For this good skiant beside me
Struck deep and rung hollow
In thy bosom of treason,

Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.

With strings of rich pearls
Thy white neck was laden,
And thy fingers with spoils
Of the Sassanach maiden:
Such rich silks enrob'd not
The proud dames of Mallow-
Such pure gold they wore not
As Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.

Alas! that my loved one

Her outlaw would injure-
Alas! that he e'er proved

Her treason's avenger!

That this right hand should make thee
A bed cold and hollow,

When in death's sleep it laid thee,

Young Mairgréad ni Chealleadh!

And while to this lone cave

My deep grief I'm venting,
The Saxon's keen bandog
My footsteps is scenting:
But true men await me
Afar in Duhallow,
Farewell, cave of slaughter

And Mairgréad ni Chealleadh.

A knife; pronounced as if written skeen. We may infer the skian was of high repute of old, for mention of it is made in ancient English ballads. Robin Hood, that celebrated outlaw, designated in ancient annals as "Of all theeves the prince and the most gentle theefe," is invested with an "Iryshe knife" by the minstrel; and we may suppose the prince of thieves would have the best. In the ballad of "Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne," Robin makes use of this knife on Guy, and afterwards uses it to loose "Little John" from the bonds of the enemy.

"But Robin pulled forth an Irysh knife,

And losed John hand and foote.

And gave him Sir Guye's bowe into his hand,

And bade it be his boote."

WHEN 'tis night, and the mid-watch is come,
And chilling mists hang o'er the darkened main,
Then sailors think of their far-distant home,
And of those friends they ne'er may see again;
But when the fight's begun,
Each serving at his gun

Should any thought of them come o'er your mind;
Think, only, should the day be won,

How 'twill cheer

Their hearts to hear

That their old companion he was one.

Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind

Have left on shore, some pretty girl and true,
Who many a night doth listen to the wind,
And sighs to think how it may fare with you:
Oh, when the fight's begun,

You serving at your gun,

Should any thought of her come o'er mind:

your

Think, only, should the day be won,

That her own true sailor he was one.

This is a charming song, and full of sweet sentiment, and has, therefore, enjoyed great