THE WHITE COCKADE.

Taid mo gra fir fi breataib du.

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.
O! my dear, my fair-hair'd youth,

Thou yet hast hearts of fire and truth;
Then up with shout, and out with blade;
We'll raise once more the white cockade.

My young men's hearts are dark with woe;
On my virgins' cheeks the grief-drops flow;
The sun scarce lights the sorrowing day,
Since our rightful prince went far away;
He's gone, the stranger holds his throne;
The royal bird far off is flown:

But up with shout, and out with blade ;—
We'll stand or fall with the white cockade.

No more the cuckoo hails the spring,

The woods no more with the staunch-hounds ring;
The song from the glen, so sweet before,
Is hush'd since Charles has left our shore.
The Prince is gone: but he soon will come,
With trumpet sound, and with beat of drum,
Then up with shout, and out with blade;
Huzza for the right and the white cockade.

THE AVENGER.

Dù bfeacin sen la sin bo seusta bfeic m’intin.

O! Heavens, if that long-wish'd-for morning I spied, As high as three kings I'd leap up in my pride;

With transport I'd laugh, and my shout should arise, As the fires from each mountain blazed bright to the skies.

The Avenger shall lead us right on to the foe;

Our horns should sound out, and our trumpets should

blow;

Ten thousand huzzas should ascend to high heaven, When our Prince was restored, and our fetters were riven.

O! Chieftains of Ulster, when will you come forth, And send your strong cry to the winds of the north? The wrongs of a King call aloud for your steel,— Red stars of the battle-O'Donnel, O'Neal !

Bright house of O'Connor, high offspring of kings,
Up, up, like, the eagle, when heavenward he springs !
O, break ye once more from the Saxon's strong rule,
Lost race of Mac Murchad, O'Byrne, and O'Toole !

Momonia of Druids,-green dwelling of song!—
Where, where are thy minstrels? why sleep they so long?
Does no bard live to wake, as they oft did before,
M'Carthy,-O'Brien,-O'Sullivan More?

L

O come from your hills, like the waves to the shore,
When the storm-girded headlands are mad with the roar !
Ten thousand hurras shall ascend to high heaven,
When our Prince is restor'd and our fetters are riven.

The names, in this last song, are those of the principal families in Ireland, many of whom, however, were decided enemies to the house of Stuart. The reader cannot fail to observe the strange expectation which these writers entertained of the nature of the Pretender's designs: they call on him not to come to reinstate himself on the throne of his fathers, but to aid them in doing vengeance on the "flint-hearted Saxon." Nothing, however, could be more natural. The Irish Jacobites, at least the Romon Catholics, were in the habit of claiming the Stuarts as of the Melisian line, fondly deducing them from Fergus, and the Celts of Ireland. Who the avenger is, whose arrival is prayed for in the last song, I am not sure; but circumstances, too tedious to be detailed, make me think that the date of the song is 1708, when a general impression prevailed that the field would be taken, in favour of the Pretender, under a commander of more weight and authority than had come forward before. His name was kept a secret. Very little has been written on the history of the Jacobites of Ireland, and yet I think it would be an interesting subject. We have now arrived at a time when it could be done, without exciting any angry feelings.

In Momonia, (Munster,) Druidism appears to have flourished most, as we may conjecture, from the numerous remains of Druidical workmanship, and the names of places indicating that worship. The records of the province are the best kept of any in Ireland, and it has proverbially retained among the peasantry a character for superior learning.

THE LAMENT OF O'GNIVE.

(FEARFLATHA O'GNIAMH was family Olamh, or Bard, to the O'Neil of Clanoboy about the year 1556. The Poem, of which the following lines are the translation, commences with "Ma thruagh mar ataid' Goadhil."

How dimn'd is the glory that circled the Gael,
And fall'n the high people of green Innisfail; *
The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore;
And the mighty of nations is mighty no more!

Like a bark on the ocean, long shattered and tost,
On the land of your fathers at length you are lost;
The hand of the spoiler is stretched on your plains,
And you're doom'd from your cradles to bondage and
chains.

O where is the beauty that beam'd on thy brow?
Strong hand in the battle! how weak art thou now;
That heart is now broken that never would quail,
And thy high songs are turned into weeping and wail.

* Innisfail -the Island of destiny, one of the names of Ireland.

Bright shades of our sires! from your home in the skies O blast not your sons with the scorn of your eyes! Proud spirit of Gollam* how red is thy cheek,

For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are weak!

O'Neil† of the Hostages; Con whose high name, On a hundred red battles has floated to fame,

Let the long grass still sigh undisturbed o'er thy sleep; Arise not to shame us, awake not to weep.

In thy broad wing of darkness enfold us O night;
Withhold, O bright sun, the reproach of thy light;
For freedom, or valour no more canst thou see,
In the home of the Brave, in the isle of the Free.

Affliction's dark waters your spirits have bow'd, And oppression hath wrapped all your land in its shroud,

Since first from the Brehon's|| pure justice you stray'd, And bent to those laws the proud Saxon has made.

* Gollamh-A name of Milesius the Spanish Progenitor of the Irish O's and Macs.

Nial- of the Nine Hostages, the Heroic Monarch of Ireland, in the 4th Century-and ancestor of the O'Neil family.

Con Cead Catha-Con of the Hundred Fights, monarch of the Island in the 2nd Century; although the fighter of a hundred battles, he was not the victor of a hundred fields ;-his valorous Rival, Owen King of Munster, compelled him to a division of the Kingdom.

Brehons-The hereditary Judges of the Irish Septs.