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, There are tall sons of bravery that pine in her slavery ; Now why should we wonder if thousands surrender, O'er her kindred and nation she holds highest station, 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, 'Twas a sickly child through its infancy, Till it broke from my arms to walk in glee, And then my little girl grew strong, Or sung me the merry lark's mountain song, When she wreathed her hair in thicket bowers, And the rose, I thought, never shamed her cheek, And her eye of blue did more brightly break, One evening I left her asleep in her smiles, She darkened my path, like a troubled dream, I spoke to my child! but she did not seem She only looked with a dead, dead eye, 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 have no woman's heart or hand, 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, O'er death's dark shade- Whoe'er she be, I love her! But since soft ties are round us wove, That spell-bound left me dying- 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, I and my dame Of stainless fame Whoe'er she be, I love her! Her secret name I'll not impart, As love-sick left me lying, In fiery torment dying, But wine of Spain To her we'll drain, FROM Sweet Tipperary See light-hearted Mary, Her step, like a fairy, scarce ruffles the dew, Disdaining such things as a stocking or shoe; Like Venus, or Cupid, And who'd be so stupid to put her in silk, As she trips o'er the lawn, At the blush of the dawn, |