Dear head of my darling High spiked on their gaol; A curse, blessed ocean, Is on thy green water, With the red wounds of fear, Of Muiertach Oge, Our O'SULLIVAN Bear. THE GIRL I LOVE. Súd i sios an caóin ban álain óg. A large proportion of the songs I have met with are love songs. Some how or other, truly or untruly, the Irish have obtained a character for gallantry, and the peasantry beyond doubt do not belie the "soft impeachment." Their modes of Courtship, are sometimes amusing. The 'malo me Galatea petit,' of Virgil would still find a counterpart among themexcept that the missile of love (which I am afraid is not so poetical as the apple of the pastoral, being neither more or less than a potato,) comes first from the gentleman. He flings it with aim, designedly erring at his sweet heart, and if she returns the fire, a warmer advance concludes the preliminaries and establishes the suitor. Courtships, however, are sometimes carried on among them with a delicacy worthy of a more refined stage of society, and unchastity is very rare. This perhaps is in a great degree occasioned by their extremely early marriages, the advantage or disadvantage of which I give to be discussed by Mr. Malthus and his antagonists. At their dances, (of which they are very fond,) whether afield, or in ale-house, a piece of gsllantry frequently occurs which is alluded to in the following song. A young man, smitten suddenly by the charms of a danseuse, belonging to a company to which he is a stranger, rises, and with his best bow offers her his glass and requests her to drink to him. After due refusal it is usually accepted and is looked on as a good omen of successful wooing. Goldsmith alludes to this custom of his country in the Deserted Village. The coy maid, half willing to be prest, The parties may be totally unacquainted, and perhaps never meet again; under which circumstances it would appear that this song was written. The girl I love is comely, straight and tall; Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free ;- The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek; Here's a health to the charming maid whoe'er she be ! When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound, Had I the wealth, that props the Saxon's reign; Five pounds of Gold for each lock of her hair I'd pay, Then my dear may I drink a fond deep health to thee! THE CONVICT OF CLONMEL. Is dubac é mo cás. Who the hero of this song is, I know not; but convicts from obvious reasons, have been peculiar objects of sympathy in Ireland. Hurling which is mentioned in one of the verses, is the principal national diversion, and is played with intense zeal by parish against parish, barony against barony, county against county, or even province against province. It is played not only by the peasant, but by the patrician students of the University, where it is an established pastime. Twiss, the most sweeping calumniator of Ireland, calls it, if I mistake not, the cricket of barbarians; but though fully prepared to pay every tribute to the elegance of the English game, I own that I think the Irish sport fully as civilized, and much better calculated for the display of vigour and activity. Perhaps I shall offend Scottish nationality if I prefer either to golf, which is I think but trifling compared with them. In the room belonging to the Golf Club on the Links of Leith, there hangs a picture of an old Lord (Rosslyn) which I never could look at without being struck with the disproportion between the gaunt figure of the Peer and the petty instrument in his hand. Strutt, in "Sports and Pastimes," (page 78) eulogizes the activity of some Irishmen, who played the game about 25 years before the publication of his work, (1801,) at the back of the British Museum, and deduces it from the Roman harpastum. It was played in Cornwall formerly, he adds: but neither the Romans nor the Cornishmen used a bat, or, as we call it in Ireland a hurly.--The description Strutt quotes from old Carew is quite graphic. The late Dr. Gregory I am told used to be loud in panegyric on the superiority of this game when played by the Irish students, over that adopted by his young countrymen north and south of the Tweed, particularly over golf, which he called "fiddling wi' a pick," but enough of this And vain my repining ; The strong rope of fate For this young neck is twining; My strength is departed, My cheeks sunk and sallow; While I languish in chains In the gaol of Clonmala.* No boy of the village Was ever yet milder; I'd play with a child And my sport would be wilder ; I'd dance without tiring From morning 'till even, And the goal-ball I'd strike To the light'ning of Heaven. At my bed foot decaying My hurl-bat is lying; * Clonmala, i. e. the solitude of deceit, the Irish name of Clonmel. |