He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer, For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there.. The more we study this ballad, the more extraordinary does it appear, that it should have been the work of an unpracticed hand. Not only is it full of spirit and of melody, qualities not incompatible with inexperience in poetical composition, but the artistic merit is so great. Picture succeeds to picture, each perfect in itself, and each conducing to the effect of the whole. There is not a careless line, or a word out of place; and how the epithets paint; "fibrous sod," "heavy balm," "shearing sword!" The Oriental portion is as complete in what the French call local color as the Irish. He was learned, was Thomas Davis, and wrote of nothing that he could not have taught. It is something that he should have left a poem like this, altogether untinged by party politics, for the pride and admiration of all who share a common language, whether Celt or Saxon. MAIRE BHAN ASTOIR*—“ FAIR MARY MY TREASURE." IRISH EMIGRANT SONG. In a valley far away, With my Maire bhan astoir, Ever loving more and more. Winter days would all grow long With the light her heart would pour, With her kisses and her song And her loving maith go léor.† Fond is Maire bhan astoir, Oh! her sire is very proud, And her mother cold as stone; * Pronounced Maur-ya Vaun Asthore. For he knew I loved her well, And he knew she loved me too, True is Maire bhan astoir, There are lands where manly toil Mild is Maire bhan astoir, Mine is Maire bhan astoir, Saints will watch about the door Of my Maire bhan astoir. I subjoin one of thel yrics, a ballad of the "Brigade," which produced so much effect, when printed on the broad sheet of the "Nation." It is a graphic and dramatic battle-song, full of life and action; too well calculated to excite that most excitable people, for whose gratification it was written. FONTENOY. Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed; Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread, And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course, More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round; "Push on, my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried; To death they rush, but rude their shock, not unavenged they died. On, through the camp the column trod, King Louis turned his rein: "Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain." And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement and true. "Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!" The Marshal almost smiles to see how furiously he goes! How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay! The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day; Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry; On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere, Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, "Fix bayonets-charge !" Like mountain storm rush on these fiery bands !— Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang, Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang; Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore; On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun, With bloody plumes the Irish stand; the field is fought and won! John Banim was the founder of that school of Irish novelists, which, always excepting its blameless purity, so much resembles the modern romantic French school, that if it were possible to suspect Messieurs Victor Hugo, Eugène Sue, and Alexander Dumas of reading the English, which they never approach without such ludicrous blunders, one might fancy that many-volumed tribe to have stolen their peculiar inspiration from the O'Hara family. Of a certainty the tales of Mr. Banim were purely original. They had no precursors either in our own language or in any other, and they produced accordingly the sort of impression, more vivid than durable, which highly-colored and deeply-shadowed novelty is sure to make on the public mind. But they are also intensely national. They reflect Irish scenery, Irish character, Irish crime, and Irish virtue, with a general truth which, in spite of their tendency to melo-dramatic effects, will keep them fresh and life-like for many a day after the mere fashion of the novel of the season shall be past and gone. The last of his works, especially, "Father Connell," contains the portrait of a parish priest, so exquisitely simple, natural, and tender, that in the whole range of fiction I know nothing more charming. The subject was one that the author loved; witness the following rude, rugged, homely song, which explains so well the imperishable ties which unite the peasant to his pastor. SOGGARTH AROON.* Am I the slave they say, Since you did show the way, Their slave no more to be, While they would work with me Soggarth aroon ? Why not her poorest man, Soggarth aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth aroon, Her commands to fulfill Of his own heart and will, Side by side with you still, * Anglice, Priest dear. Loyal and brave to you, Yet be no slave to you, Nor out of fear to you Who in the winter night, When the could blast did bite, Came to my cabin-door, And on my earthen floor Who on the marriage-day, Made the poor cabin gay, And did both laugh and sing, Who as friend only met, Soggarth aroon; Never did flout me yet, Soggarth aroon, And when my hearth was dim, Och! you, and only you, Soggarth aroon! And for this I was true to you, In love they'll never shake, When for ould Ireland's sake, We a true part did take, There is a small and little-known volume of these rough peasant-ballads, full of the same truth and intensity of feeling,-songs which seem destined to be sung at the wakes and patterns of Ire |