hearty enough; but then it is a mere black-
letter curiosity. It is very remarkable, too,
say these same glowing national writers,
that in spite of the glory of their navy the
English have only one thoroughly good sea
song, and that, singularly enough, was
written by Mr. Hoare, an Irishman, to blind
Carolan's rattling air, the Princess Royal.
Of our boasted national humour they find
traces only in a few songs relating to
thieves and poachers, such as Nix my Dolly
Pals and 'Tis my Delight of a Shiny
Night in the Season of the Year.  Nor are
these Irish critics one whit more satisfied
with the few English love songs they have
condescended to read.  They find even, She
Walks in Beauty like the Night (Byron),
I Awake from Dreams of Thee (Shelley),
Drink to Me only with Thine Eyes (Ben
Jonson), or even that passionate and tender
inspiration,

Come into the garden, Maud,
When the black bat night has flown:
Come into the garden, Maud,
For I'm here at the gate alone.

equally clever, cold, dull, glittering, and
heartless.  But in such Scotch songs as,
Will ye gae to the Ewe Brights, Marion?
Nannie O ! and My ain Countree! the same
somewhat fretful Celtic gentlemen find
intense passion, pure love, honest mirth, and
true patriotism.

Irish patriots profess a great anxiety to
see more good songs written in Celtic.
Dr. M'Hale translated all Moore's into the
vernacular; but in too dry and literal a
manner, by no means adding the idiom
and colour in which they were deficient.
We have so slight a knowledge of Irish
that we cannot either confirm or refute the
eulogies heaped upon the tongue by
eminent Celtic writers: who claim for "the
despised and forsaken language," and we
believe justly, an especial adaptation to the
purposes of the poet, and particularly the
lyric poet.

The old Irish bards, whose works
even Spenser found to savour "of sweet
wit and good invention," and to be
"sprinkled with some pretty flowers of
natural device, which give good grace and
comeliness," delighted in metaphor.  In
their poems Erin figures as Ros geal
Dove or Droimann Donn; she is an
enslaved virgin who leads the poets through
Fairy land, to dismiss them at last with a
prophecy of the day when her warriors
shall set her free.  The only fault of these
early singers in the minds of the writers of
'ninety-eight, was that they sang of a clannish,
not of an united, Ireland.  They sang
of M'Carthy's prowess, O'Rourke's hospitality,
O'More's courage, O'Connor's valour,
and O'Neill's pride; but only at such great
moments as Aodh O'Neill's march to
Munster, or Owen Roe's victory at Beinnburb,
do they rise to wider patriotism.

Only once or twice did a minstrel tell
of "a soul that has come into Eire," and
summoned with clash of shield the Milesian
spearmen to battle for Ireland, and to
summon "the red branch knights to the danger
call."

One of the earliest of the patriotic songs
still popular, is the Ros gal dubh (the
white-skinned, black-haired Rose). The
poet typifies Erin as a beautiful maiden
in distress, hints at Rose's dangers, and
at mysterious help from Italy and Spain,
and ends with a fiery outburst of passion
over the bloody struggle that must take
place ere his Rose shall be finally torn
from him.  This poem dates from the time
of Elizabeth.

The Jacobite troubles were sources of
inspiration to the Irish song- writers,
whether hiding in Wicklow, or starving at
St. Germains.  Many a pining exile, faithful
to Erin as the banished Israelite to Judæa,
poured forth his soul in passionate longings
for Erin Ogh. One of the most beautiful
of these laments is the Ban-Chnoic Erin
Ogh (the fair hills of Virgin Ireland).
This plaintive song commences:

Beautiful and broad are the green fields of Erin,
Uileacán dov O.
With life giving grain and golden corn,
Uileacán dov O.
And honey in the woods with the mist wreaths deep,
In the summer by the paths the high streams leap
At burning noon rich sparkling dew the fair flowers
steep,
On the fair hills of Erin Ogh!

It is said to have been written by an
Irish student at St. Omer.  The Irish
Jacobite songs are seldom gay or hopeful,
as, Over the Water to Charley, Charley is
my Darling, or Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye
Wakin' yet? There are a few exceptions,
and the most remarkable of these is the
White Cockade, which Mr. Callanan has
translated with spirit. Like most songs
the first verse is the best, and contains the
central idea; the second and third are in
some respects makeshifts, and in the last
verse the minstrel rousing himself again,
once more soars to a respectable height.
The poet begins:

King Charles he is King James's son,
And from a royal line is sprung;
Then up with shout and out with blade,
And we'll raise once more the white cockade.