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of Ovoca, for instance, a song upon a valley in Wicklow, but which would suit any other valley in the world, provided always it had three syllables, and the middle one of due length.

Were I in a savage mood, I could cut him up with as much ease as a butcher in Ormond market dissects an ox from the county of Tipperary; but I shall spare him for this time, intending, if I have leisure, to devote an entire paper to prove his utter incompetence; at present I shall only ask, whether, in these pseudo-Irish Melodies, there is one song about our saints, fairs, wakes, rows, patrons, or any other diversion among us? Is there one drinking song which decent individuals would willingly roar forth after dinner in soul-subduing soloes, or give to the winds in the full swell of a thirty-man chorus? Not one

no

--not one. Here am I,-who, any night these twenty years, might have been discovered by him whom it concerned, discussing my four-and-twentieth tumbler, and giving the side of the festive board, or the chair presiding o'er the sons of light, with songs fit to draw nine souls out of one weaver, and, of course, hearing others in my turn-ready to declare that never was song of Moore's sung in my company; and that is decisive. If any one should appeal from my long experience-let such unbelieving person leave the case to any independent jury, selected indifferently from all districts, from the honest Inishowen consumers of the north, down to the wet gulletted devourers of Tommy Walker* in the south, and he will be convinced. In fact, my dear North, read over his "Fill the bumper fair," and you will find, that instead of giving us a real hearty chanson-aboire, as we say in Dunkirk, you have a parcel of mythological botheration about Prometheus, and other stale personages, which, in the days of heathenism, would be laughed at for its ignorance, as it is now, in the days of Christianity, voted a bore for its impertinence. And is this the national song-writer for this much injured and hard drinking island ?— Perish the idea!—As an oratorical friend of mine once said at an aggregate meeting in Fishamble Street, such a thought is a stigma upon humanityand a taint upon the finer feelings of man!

A fair sort of young man, the Hon. Mr. O'Callaghan, of the

* Thomas Walker and Co., extensive whiskey-distillers in Cork.-M.

White Knight's family,* has been so struck with this deficiency of Mr. T. Moore, that he is going to give us a number of melodies in opposition to those of our little bard. I wish him success, but I am afraid that, though he is an ingenious person, he is not possessed of that ideal faculty which is requisite for the task. For fear he should fail, I have determined to start, and show the world a real specimen of true Irish melody, in a series of songs symphonious to the feelings of my countrymen. Neither Moore nor O'Callaghan will, I flatter myself, be much read after this series of mine. I hate boasting; but,-pocas polabrasas Christopher Sly observes.

We were talking about the business last Thursday, at the Cork in Mary-street, while Talbot was playing most divinely on the Union pipes. There were present Terence Flanagan, Pat. Moriarty, Jerry O'Geogheghan, Phelim Macgillicuddy, Callaghan O'Shaughnessy, and some other equally well known and respected characters, who are to a man good judges of punch, porter, and poetry; and they agreed it would be a sin if I did not publish a half-dozen of melodies, four of which I wrote in the tap-room the night before, just to get rid of a quarter of an hour or so, while I was finishing a few pints in solitary reflection. No man can resist pressing of the kind, and I yielded. Talbot, in the handsomest manner, volunteered to set the airs— for which, though I offered him instant payment, he would not suffer me to remunerate him in any other manner than by permitting me to treat him to a hot glass. When it was asked what would be the best vehicle for giving them to the public, we voted that the only Irish Magazine, [Blackwood,] was the fit soil for the planting of Irish melodies; and it was carried unanimously that they should be instantly transmitted to Mr. North.

I have not aimed, or rather Talbot has not aimed, at bothering the plain and simple melody by any adventitious airs and graces. You have them, unadorned, adorned the most-that is, stark naked. The piano trashery has bedevilled the tunes given by Moore; and this is another instance of the man's in

* There are yet, in Limerick and Kerry, three branches of one of the old Irish families, respectively headed by the White Knight, the Knight of Glyn, and the Knight of Kerry.-M.

sufficiency. Just think of the piano being chosen as the instrument for Irish airs, when he had, as a southern correspondent of yours sings,

The harp or bagpipe, which you please,

to melodize with! Moore first had Sir John Stephenson as his composer, (who now is at work for Mr. O'Callaghan,) and then he took up Bishop—both friends of mine, with whom I often have cleaned out a bottle, and therefore I shall not say any thing derogatory of either. In short, let the public judge between Moore, myself, and O'Callaghan-Bishop, Talbot, and Stephenson and God defend the right. I shall make a few remarks on the melodies I send, and then conclude. Indeed I had not an idea of writing half so much when I began.

Melody the first is theological, containing the principal acts of our national Saint-his coming to Ireland on a stone-his never-emptying can, commonly called St. Patrick's pot-his changing a leg of mutton into a salmon in Lent time-and his banishment of the snakes. Consult Jocelyn.*

Melody the second is pathetic, being the Lamentation of a Connaught Ranger, discharged. I had eleven cousins in that regiment. I may as well give it as my opinion, that the only cure for our present difficulties, is to go to war without delay; and I venture to say, if an aggregate meeting of the seven millions of us could be called any where, a war would be voted nem. con. I don't much care with whom, that being an afterthought, but I certainly would prefer having a shaking of those ugly-looking garlic-eaters, the Spaniards, who are now so impudent as to imagine they could have fought the French without us. I heard one Pedro Apodaca say as much, and I just knocked him down, to show him I did not agree with him in opinion. I would engage that 200,000 men would be raised in a day in this country, and if we would not batter the Dons- I leave it to the reader.

The third is amatory. Compare this with the best of Tom *The tune to which these words are put is a great favourite in Ireland. It is said the original words ("The night before Larry was stretched") were written by a very learned gentleman, who is now a dignitary of the established church in Ireland. It is a first-rate slang song.-M. OD. [The Rev. Dr. Burrowes, Dean of Cork, wrote the song in question.—M.]

Moore's ditties. But to be sure it is.absurd to think of a man of his inches talking of making love to half the girls in the country, as he does in Little's poems.

The fourth is warlike-something in the manner of Sir Walter Scott's Gatherings. It relates to a feud in Kerry.*

The fifth is convivial, and was extempore. I did not write it with the other four, but actually chanted it on the spur of the occasion this morning, at the time noted. It is to the famous tune of Lillebullero-my uncle Toby's favourite; and the tune, as you may see, by Burnet, with which Lord Wharton whistled King James, of the unsavoury surname, out of three kingdoms. It is among us a party air, and called the Protestant Boys; but honest men of all parties must approve of my words. They come home to every man's feelings.

The last is sentimental. I wrote it merely to prove I could write fine if I liked; but it cost me a lot of trouble. I actually had to go to the Commercial Buildings, and swallow seven cups of the most sloppish Bohea I could get, and eat a quartern loaf cut into thin slices, before I was in a fit mood to write such stuff. If I were to continue that diet, I should be the first of your pretty song writers in the empire; but it would be the death of me in a week. I am not quite recovered from that breakfast yet—and I do not wonder at the unfortunate figure the poor Cockneys cut, who are everlastingly suffering under the deleterious effects of tea-drinking.

I have scribbled to the end of my paper, so must conclude.

SONG I.

SAINT PATRICK.

A fig for St. Dennis

of France, He's a

*The tune of this ("The Groves of the Pool") is indigenous of the South of Ireland. There is a capital song to this tune, by R. Millikin, of Cork, beginning with "Now the war, dearest Nancy, is ended, and peace is come over from France." Millikin is the author of the Groves of Blarney, which Mathews sings with so much effect.-M. OD. There is a sort of sketch of his in Ryan's Worthies of Ireland.-C. NORTH.

trum-pe-ry fellow to brag on; A fig for St.George and his lance, Which

spitted a heathenish dragon: And the saints of the Welshman and Scot Are a

pi- ti-ful couple of pipers, Both of whom may just travel to pot, If com

pared with the patron of swipers, St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear!

1.

A FIG for St. Dennis of France,

He's a trumpery fellow to brag on;
A fig for St. George and his lance,
Which spitted a heathenish dragon;
And the Saints of the Welshman or Scot
Are a couple of pitiful pipers,

Both of whom may just travel to pot,
Compared with the patron of swipers,
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear!

2.

He came to the Emerald Isle

On a lump of a paving-stone mounted;

The steam-boat he beat to a mile,

Which mighty good sailing was counted:

Says he, "The salt water, I think,

Has made me most bloodily thirsty,

So bring me a flagon of drink,

To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye,
Of drink that is fit for a saint."

3.

He preach'd then with wonderful force,

The ignorant natives a-teaching;

With a pint he wash'd down his discourse,

"For," says he, "I detest your dry preaching."

The people, with wonderment struck,

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