OH TELL ME, SWEET KATE.

LADY MORGAN.

The following stanzas are taken from "Irish Melodies, by Miss S. Owenson" (the maiden name of Lady Morgan). She, as well as the Hon. Geo. Ogle, G. N. Reynolds, and Edward Lysaght, was before Moore in the worthy work of introducing to the notice of the world the melodies of her native land by means of suitable verse adapted to them, and thus may be honourably noted among the precursors of the illustrious bard who crowned the patriotic work by giving world-wide celebrity to the Irish melodies, and who so often mingled with the charm of his song a plea for his country. Lady Morgan's verses did not aim so high ;— but her novels did :-the authoress of "O'Donnell" and "Florence McCarthy" is among the most freedom-loving and sparkling of the Irish novelists.

Oн tell me, sweet Kate, by what magical art,

You seduced ev'ry thought, ev'ry wish of my soul?
Oh tell how my credulous fond doating heart,

By thy wiles and thy charms from my bosom was stole.

Oh whence, dangerous girl, was thy sorcery, tell,

By which you awaken'd love's tear and love's sigh ;—
In thy voice, in thy song, lurks the dangerous spell ?
In the blush of thy cheek, or the beam of thine eye?

MY LOVE'S THE FAIREST CREATURE.

LADY MORGAN.

My love's the fairest creature,

And round her flutters many a charm,

Her starry eyes, blue-beaming,

Can e'en the coldest bosom warm;

Her lip is like a cherry

Ripely sueing to be cull'd;

Her cheek is like a May rose

In dewy freshness newly pull'd.

Her sigh is like the sweet gale,

That dies upon the violet's breast,

Her hair is like the dark mist,

On which the evening sunbeams rest;

Her smile is like the false light

Which lures the traveller by its beam;

Her voice is like the soft strain,

Which steals its soul from passion's dream.

CATE OF ARAGLEN.

Air, "An Cailin Ruadh."

These sweet stanzas appeared in "The Spirit of the Nation" under the signature of Domhnall Gleannach, and the rhythm of the beautiful air to which they are adapted has been preserved with a fidelity that proves praiseworthy care and a nice ear on the part of the writer. The rhythm is so peculiar, that, without knowing the air, a reader is liable to miss the proper accentuation of the lines, and therefore, to insure his pleasure in enjoying their harmony, I venture to point it out.-Let the accent be laid on the fourth syllable of every line.

WHEN first I saw thee, Cate,
That summer evening late,
Down at the orchard gate
Of Araglen,

I felt I ne'er before

Saw one so fair, a-stor,†
I fear'd I'd never more
See thee agen.

I stopp'd and gazed at thee,
My footfall, luckily

Reach'd not thy ear, tho' we

Stood there so near;

While from thy lips, a strain,
Soft as the summer rain,
Sad as a lover's pain,
Fell on my ear.

I've heard the lark in June,
The harp's wild plaintive tune,
The thrush, that aye too soon
Gives o'er his strain;
I've heard, in hush'd delight
The mellow horn at night
Waking the echoes light

Of wild Loch Lein ;+
But neither echoing horn,
Nor thrush upon the thorn,
Nor lark at early morn
Hymning in air,

Nor harper's lay divine,

E'er witch'd this heart of mine

Like that sweet voice of thine,

That evening there.

Thus spelt in the original. Caitlin is the true spelling of the name which more frequently appears in Anglo-Irish songs as "Kathleen."

† Oh, treasure.

Killarney.

+ In the original mo

Thine is my ev'ry vow!

For ever dear, as now!
Queen of my heart be thou!
My Colleen rhu.†

cailin ruadh;-that is to say, "my red girl," meaning red-haired girl. De gustibus, &c. But let us suppose the lady's locks were auburn. Those, however, who look on a beloved object with eyes of admiration care little for form or tint. Desdemona

"Saw Othello's visage in his mind."

The Scotch lady who so profoundly admired the late eloquent Doctor Irving, reconciled herself to his squint by declaring, "he gleyed na mair than a mon o' genius suld.”

THE LOVE SICK MAID.

THE winter it is past,

And the summer's come at last,
And the small birds sing on every tree;
The hearts of those are glad,

Whilst mine is very sad;

Whilst my true love is absent from me.

I'll put on my cap of black,
And fringe about my neck,
And rings on my fingers I'll wear;
All this I'll undertake,

For true lover's sake,

For he rides at the Curragh of Kildare.

A livery I'll wear,
And I'll comb down my hair,
And I'll dress in the velvet so green;
Straightways I will repair

To the Curragh of Kildare.
And 'tis there I will get tydings of him.

With patience she did wait,
Till they ran for the plate,
In thinking young Johnston to see;
But Fortune prov'd unkind,
To that sweetheart of mine

For he's gone to Lurgan for me.

I should not think it strange,
The wide world for to range,
If I could obtain my heart's delight:
But here in Cupid's chains

I'm obliged to remain,

Whilst in tears do I spend the whole night.

All you that are in love,
And cannot it remove,
For you pittied are by me:
Experience makes me know
That your heart is full of woe,
Since my true love is absent from me.

Farewell my joy and heart,
Since you and I must part,

You are the fairest that I e'er did see;
And I never do design,

For to alter my mind

Although you are below my degree.

The foregoing is taken from the "Roxburg Collection" (Vol. iii, No. 680,) in the British Museum. The celebrated race-course the Curragh of Kildare and also the town of Lurgan being named in the ballad, prove it to be Irish. It has appeared, however, in collections of Scotch Songs, the verses that prove its Irish origin being omitted; the second being written by Burns (as given below), and the fourth slightly altered from the seventh of the original. Its lastest Scottish appearance was made in Wood's "Songs of Scotland,” 1851— a collection wherein many songs and airs are given which are decidedly not Scotch.

Here is the Scottish version with the title altered, which the reader can compare with the Irish original, and may remark that there is not a single Scotticism in the composition.

THE WINTER IT IS PAST.

The winter it is past, and the summer's come at last,

And the small birds sing on ev'ry tree;

Now ev'ry thing is glad, when I am very sad;

For my true love is parted from me.

The rose upon the briar, by the waters running clear,

May have charms for the linnet or the bee;

Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest;

But my true love is parted from me.

My love is like the sun, that in the sky doth run

For ever so constant and true;

But his is like the moon, that wanders up and down,

And every month it is new.

All you that are in love, and cannot it remove,

I pity the pains you endure;

For experience makes me know, that your hearts are full of woe,

A woe that no mortal can cure.

A still more remarkable appropriation of an Irish song may be noticed in "The Banks of Banna," which follows...