popularity. Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, notices the inadmissable rhyme,

"But when the fight's begun,

Each serving at his gun."

And, strange to say, he tells us Sheridan would insist upon it the rhyme was good. Now, clearly, it is not. The sound here is not a match for a preceding sound, but identical with it, and, therefore, not a rhyme. Indeed, Sheridan seems to have been very careless as to rhymes throughout this otherwise perfect composition; for, in the first verse, the word "mind," in the seventh line, does not rhyme to anything.

CAITRIN, THE DAUGHTER OF JOHN.

From the Irish.

The very title of this ballad is of antique mould-no surname-she is Catharine, the daughter of John. Her Christian name, even, is mentioned only once. She is the cold virgin-or a splendid jewel-light of the poet-fairest of beauty's train-the harp's inspiration--and, finally, "Bright swan of Lough Glynn." This has the ring of the old metal about it.

SING the Hunter of Bera,* who from Ballagh came hither,
Our gates opened wide to his coming at noon,
And the virgin whose coldness did suitors' hopes wither,
The snow-waisted Caitrin, the daughter of John!

There are tall sons of bravery that pine in her slavery ;
Her eye all beguiling-small lips like the rose;
She's a jewel all splendid, of brightest hues blended,
Each gold-wreathed ringlet to her white ancle flows!

Now why should we wonder if thousands surrender,
Like Connor to Deirdre,† their hearts to her chain;
Guiding light of the poet, of sun-glancing splendour,
The fairest in Erin of beauty's bright train!

O'er her kindred and nation she holds highest station,
Dispensing rich guerdons to minstrels of song;
Clan-Murray's fair darling-my harp's inspiration,

Bright swan of Lough Glynn, beauteous daughter of John!

* Bera means the old O'Sullivan Country in the south-west of Cork. The head of the family is still called O'Sullivan Bear by the peasantry. Hence the name of the fine harbour in that locality, Bearhaven. The scenery in this region is very fine.

+ Allusion to Deirdre is frequently made by the Irish minstrels. A sketch of her strange story and fate is given in this volume. See "Deirdre."

THE FETCH.

JOHN BANIM.

In Ireland, a Fetch is the supernatural fac simile of some individual, which comes to insure to its original a happy longevity, or immediate dissolution. If seen in the morning, the one event is predicted; if in the evening, the other.-Author's note.

THE mother died when the child was born,

And left me her baby to keep;

I rocked its cradle the night and morn,
Or, silent, hung o'er it to weep.

'Twas a sickly child through its infancy,
Its cheeks were so ashy pale;

Till it broke from my arms to walk in glee,
Out in the sharp, fresh gale.

And then my little girl grew strong,
And laughed the hours away;

Or sung me the merry lark's mountain song,
Which he taught her at break of day.

When she wreathed her hair in thicket bowers,
With the hedge-rose and hare-bell blue,
I called her my May, in her crown of flowers,
And her smile so soft and new.

And the rose, I thought, never shamed her cheek,
But rosy and rosier made it;

And her eye of blue did more brightly break,
Through the bluebell that strove to shade it.

One evening I left her asleep in her smiles,
And walked through the mountains lonely;
I was far from my darling, ah! many long miles,
And I thought of her, and her only!

She darkened my path, like a troubled dream,
In that solitude far and drear;

I spoke to my child! but she did not seem
To hearken with human ear.

She only looked with a dead, dead eye,
And a wan, wan cheek of sorrow,
I knew her Fetch! she was called to die
And she died upon the morrow.

SWEET thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be, All comfort else has flown;

For every hope was false to me,

And here I am alone.

What thoughts were mine in early youth!

Like some old Irish song,

Brimful of love, and life, and truth,

My spirit gush'd along.

I hoped to right my native isle,
I hoped a soldier's fame,
I hoped to rest in woman's smile,
And win a minstrel's name.
Oh! little have I served my land,
No laurels press my brow,

I have no woman's heart or hand,
Nor minstrel honours now.

But fancy has a magic power,

It brings me wreath and crown, And woman's love, the self-same hour It smites oppression down.

Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be, I have no joy beside;

Oh! throng around, and be to me

Power, country, fame, and bride.

WHOE'ER SHE BE, I LOVE HER.

From the Irish. Translated by EDWARD WALSH.

THROUGH pleasure's bowers I wildly flew,
Deceiving maids, if tales be true,
Till love's lorn anguish made me rue
That one young Fair-neck saw me,
Whose modest mien did awe me,
Who left my life to hover

O'er death's dark shade-
The stainless maid,

Whoe'er she be, I love her!

But since soft ties are round us wove,
Which nought but death can e'er remove,
That balsam-bearing Lip of love

That spell-bound left me dying-
Now far together flying

The ocean-billows over,

Who can divide

From me my bride?

Whoe'er she be, I love her!

But first to Eirne's lovely lake,

Where maids are gay, our course we'll take,
Where generous chiefs bright banquets make,
And purple wine is flowing;
Then from our dear friends going,
We'll sail the ocean over,

I and my dame

Of stainless fame

Whoe'er she be, I love her!

Her secret name I'll not impart,
Although she pierced my wandering heart,
With such a death-dispensing dart

As love-sick left me lying,

In fiery torment dying,
Till pity mild did move her-

But wine of Spain

To her we'll drain,
Whoe'er she be, I love her!

FROM Sweet Tipperary

See light-hearted Mary,

Her step, like a fairy, scarce ruffles the dew,
As she joyously springs,
And as joyously sings,

Disdaining such things as a stocking or shoe;
For she goes bare-footed-

Like Venus, or Cupid,

And who'd be so stupid to put her in silk,
When her sweet foot and ankle
The dewdrops bespangle,

As she trips o'er the lawn,

At the blush of the dawn,