THE FAIRY BOY.

SAMUEL LOVER.

When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place.

A MOTHER came when stars were paling,
Wailing round a lonely spring;
Thus she cried while tears were falling,
Calling on the Fairy King:
"Why with spells my child caressing,
Courting him with fairy joy;
Why destroy a mother's blessing,
Wherefore steal my baby boy?

"O'er the mountain, through the wild wood,
Where his childhood loved to play;
Where the flowers are freshly springing,
There I wander day by day.

There I wander, growing fonder
Of the child that made my joy;

On the echoes wildly calling,
To restore my fairy boy.

"But in vain my plaintive calling,
Tears are falling all in vain;
He now sports with fairy pleasure,
He's the treasure of their train.
Fare thee well, my child, for ever,
In this world I've lost my joy ;
But, in the next, we ne'er shall sever,
There I'll find my angel boy!"

THE DEAR IRISH BOY.

MY CONNOR, his cheeks are as ruddy as morning,
The brightest of pearls do but mimic his teeth;
While nature with ringlets his mild brows adorning,
His hair Cupid's bow-strings, and roses his breath.
Smiling, beguiling,

Cheering, endearing,

Together how oft o'er the mountains we stray'd;
By each other delighted,

And fondly united,

I have listened all day to my dear Irish boy.

No roebuck more swift could fly over the mountain,
No veteran bolder meet danger or scars,

He's sightly, he's sprightly, he's clear as the fountain,
His eyes beaming love, oh! he's gone to the wars.
Smiling, beguiling, &c.

The soft tuneful lark, his notes changed to mourning,
The dark-screaming owl impedes my night's sleep,
While lonely I walk in the shade of the evening,
Till my, Connor's return I will ne'er cease to weep.
Smiling, beguiling, &c.

The war being over, and he not returned,

I fear that some dark envious plot has been laid;
Or that some cruel goddess has him captivated,
And left here to mourn his dear Irish maid.

Smiling, beguiling, &c.

I often heard this song, in my boyhood, sung to a very sweet and plaintive melody. Its ambitious style of imagery, as "Cupid's bow-strings"-and absurdities, as "dark screaming owl," &c., stamp it at once as the work of the hedge schoolmaster. If any doubt remained as to the source of its authorship, after these remarks, the "cruel goddess" that "has him captivated," would settle the matter. Nevertheless, with all its faults, there is something pleasing in this song. The note of the lark "changed to mourning" is good, and the words are, generally, well suited to vocalization-a great merit; the successive ringing of rhymes, too, in the refrain

"Smiling, beguiling,

Cheering, endearing,"

falls pleasantly on the ear, and is a grace (as I think) peculiarly Irish. A more modern song, founded on the above and sung to the same air, follows.

MY CONNOR.

OH! weary's on money,-and weary's on wealth,
And sure we don't want them while we have our health:

'Twas they tempted Connor far over the sea,

And I lost my lover-my cushla ma chree.*

Smiling-beguiling,

Cheering endearing,

Oh! dearly I lov'd him, and he loved me.
By each other delighted—

And fondly united

My heart's in the grave with my

cushla ma chree.

* Vein, or pulse of my heart.

My Connor was handsome, good-humoured, and tall ;
At hurling and dancing the best of them all.
But when he came courting beneath our old tree,
His voice was like music-my cushla ma chree,
Smiling, &c.

So true was his heart and so artless his mind,
He could not think ill of the worst of mankind.
He went bail for his cousin who ran beyond sea,
And all his debts fell on my cushla ma chree.
Smiling, &c.

Yet still I told Connor that I'd be his bride-
In sorrow or death not to stir from his side.
He said he could ne'er bring misfortune on me ;-
But sure I'd be rich with my cushla ma chree,
Smiling, &c.

The morning he left us I ne'er will forget;
Not an eye in our village with tears but was wet,
Don't cry any more, oh ma vourneen,* said he,
For I will return to my cushla ma chree.

Smiling, &c.

Sad as I felt then, hope was mixed with my care,-
Alas! I have nothing left now but despair.
His ship it went down in the midst of the sea,
And its wild waves roll over my cushla ma chree.
Smiling-beguiling,
Cheering endearing,

Oh! dearly I loved him and he loved me.

By each other delighted

And fondly united

My heart's in the grave with my cushla ma chree.

* My darling.

In this song there is more simplicity and greater truth of feeling, than in the foregoing. The leading couplet of the third verse

"So true was his heart and so artless his mind,

He could not think ill of the worst of mankind."

is deserving of mark, and the going "bail for his cousin," however homely the illustration, is a truthful characteristic of a confiding nature,

* For the convenience of the English reader the sound of the Irish title is given, in this spelling of it. In its native form it is spelt Eibhlin a ruin—meaning "Ellen my secret love." A closer approximation to the pronunciation would be obtained by the spelling Ile-yeen; but that is too far removed from the native orthography.

The old Irish air to which this is written is called "Eileen Aroon;" is very ancient and of great beauty. The Scotch claim it under the title of "Robin Adair;" but it is altered, much for the worse, a lilting character, or what Dr. Burney calls the Scotch snap, being given to the third and seventh bars of the first part of the air, and the seventh bar of the second part. Burns, whose ear was so finely attuned to sweet measures, objects to it, on this very account; here are his words:

"I have tried my hand on 'Robin Adair,' and you will probably think with little success: but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that I despair of doing anything better to it."-Burns to Mr. Thomson, August, 1793.

Now, the Irish air, in its original purity, is as smooth as an unbroken ascending and descending scale can make it; it is anything but the "cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure, of which Burns' sensitive ear was so painfully conscious in the Scottish form.

THE BLUSH OF MORN.

Translated from the Irish by Miss BALFOUR.

THE blush of morn at length appears ;
The hawthorn weeps in dewy tears;
Emerging from the shades of night,
The distant hills are tipped with light;