Stern. Remember! Yes; though you're rich now, you're still Tom Grog. Grog. You affronted me aboard the Dreadnought; the Spaniards were then in view, and I didn't think it time to resent private quarrels when it is our duty to thrash the enemies of our country; but, Sam Stern, you are the man that affronted Tom Grog. Stern. Mayhap so. Grog. Mayhap you'll fight me? Grog. The where is here, and when is now; and slaps the word. (Lays his hand on his hanger.) But hold, we must steer off the open sea into some creek. Stern. But I've neither cutlash nor pistols. Grog. I saw a handsome cutlash and a pretty pair of barking-irons in a pawnbroker's window; come, it lies in our way to the War Office. Stern. How much? Grog. I don't know-get your dinner-buy the arms-meet me in two hours at Deptford, and, shiver me like a biscuit, if I don't blow your head off. Stern. Then I can't pay you your money. Grog. True; but mayhap you may take off mine; and if So, I shall have no occasion for it. Stern. Right, I forgot that. (Wipes his eyes with his sleeve.) Grog. What do you snivel for? Stern. What a dog am I to use a man ill, and now be obliged to him for a meal's meat. Grog. Then you own you've used me ill. Ask my pardon. Stern. I'll be d- -d if I do. Grog. Then take it without asking. You're cursed saucy, but you're a good seaman; and hark'ye Sam, the brave man, though he scorns the fear of punishment, is always afraid to Stern. I should like to touch at the Victual- deserve it. Come, when you've stowed your ling office in our voyage. Grog. Why, ha'n't you dined? Stern. I've none to eat. Grog. A seaman in England without a dinner! that's hard, d- -d hard! there's money -pay me when you can. bread-room, a bowl of punch shall again set Stern. Oh, I'm a lubber! (Gives a handful of money.) of the feelings of a man. THOMAS FURLONG. BORN 1794- DIED 1827 [Thomas Furlong, a poet and the translator | of trust in his establishment, with duties so of Carolan's Remains, was born near the town light as to give him time to cultivate his talents. of Ferns, county Wexford, in 1794. He was In 1819 he published a poem entitled "The the son of a small farmer, and early in life, Misanthrope," which took the popular taste with a very imperfect education, he was ap- and gained for him the friendship of Thomas prenticed to a grocer in Dublin. His case, Moore and Lady Morgan. He now became a however, is one of the many where genius has regular contributor to The New Monthly Magaasserted itself under the most adverse circum- zine; and about 1821 he assisted in founding stances. All his leisure moments he devoted The New Irish Magazine, to which he contrito the improvement of his mind, and the buted largely. In 1824 he published a satirical young grocer would sit far into the night poem entitled "The Plagues of Ireland,” levelporing over his favourite authors, and amass-led against the state of parties in the country ing a store of knowledge which contributed to at that time. Furlong was a member of the the success of his after work. The death of his master, for whom he had a sincere affection, evoked from young Furlong's pen an elegy, so matured and full of genius that it attracted attention, and Mr. Jameson, a well-known Dublin distiller, admiring not only the genius but the affection which inspired it, appointed him to a position | Catholic Association and a strenuous agitator for emancipation. He was the intimate friend of O'Connell, and often assisted the "Liberator" with his cool and observant judgment. The labour of giving to Irishmen the songs of their beloved bard Carolan in English occupied his attention for a time, and his flowing translation in the Remains claims for him the They deem'd him a dark wizard, and the name And shapes, not known on earth, kept ever near And, in the wonders which his craft achieved, grateful remembrance of his countrymen.1 In 1825 he wrote a few songs for Hardiman's Book of Irish Minstrelsy. But, alas! like so many sons of genius, his race was to be but a short one. He died of consumption on the 25th of July, 1827, after a few months' illness. Who marked his steps in darkness and in light, Furlong is described as of low stature, with At home, and far beyond it, had avow'd very refined features and eyes remarkable for The strange unnatural truth, that sounds arose their great brilliancy. A portrait of him is pre-Forms from invisible worlds were his companions; Around him on his pathway-voices cameserved among those of the leaders of 1829, in recognition of the services done by his pen to the popular cause. His biographer in the Nation says of him: "He was powerful, quick, impulsive, and impetuous, whilst he had a judgment cool and discriminating. There was some spark of Juvenal's fire in Furlong that presaged for him a high place over his fellowmen." His poem beginning "Lov'd land of the bards and saints!" which we quote, written only a few days before his death, shows his ruling passion-love of native country. In the little church-yard of Drumcondra, where he lies, his friend James Hardiman has erected a monument to his memory. His prose remains, which consisted chiefly of political articles and the lighter magazine tales and sketches, have never been collected. But it is as a poet he was known, and as a poet alone we here present him. The Doom of Derenzie, one of his longer poems, was published in London in 1829.] THE WIZARD WRUE. (FROM "THE DOOM OF DERENZIE.”) Few there were, 'Midst the young group frequenting rural wake To trifle with old Wrue! his air and tone 1 Specimens of these translations are given in our notice of O'Carolan, vol. i. p. 158. [A change came over the life of Wrue the wizard. A brother from whom he had been long estranged died, and left an orphan daughter to his care.] With a wild feeling of instinctive tenderness So she grew, Bright, beautiful, and innocent before him; The years wore fast away, and still she rose Oft did the old man mark her, and he thought At length in bitterness She broke the fearful secret:-In an hour Of fond and credulous softness she had hearkened [The wizard now resumed all his former stern and weird character; his one great object in life being the discovery of his child's destroyer. From some words dropped by the son of Derenzie, a farmer who lived near, his suspicions fell upon him, but years elapsed, the young man left home, and the wizard made no discovery. At length young Derenzie returned, and Wrue, by the performance of some mystic rite, is persuaded that he and no other is the murderer of his Margaret. Derenzie weds a maiden of his own and his father's choice, and while the marriage feast is going on the wizard wandered near the house, and breaks in among the guests with his fearful accusation. Almost before he has time to prove his words, a party of military arrests the bridegroom for some criminal transaction he has been implicated in. For this he is found guilty and executed. After all is over the wizard visits Derenzie and proves his son guilty of the murder.] "It were vain to ask By what mysterious noiseless warning urg'd, ness, Was fram'd of fairy echoes, for it rung All hollowly beneath me. Low I knelt Upon the spell-mark'd place, and tore away, As though the cold unconscious clay had shar'd The toy, the simple toy, that in an hour From which even years could not efface the mark He drew a small blade forth, he stretched his hand, Forth walked the wizard, and his parting words Rang on the old man's car-he gently stoop'd, Took from the earth that fatal blade, and gazed Tremblingly on it—from his hand it fell. "Awful and wondrous are thy ways, O Lord!" Exclaimed the mourner; "thy all-righteous hand Hath struck me in its justice-it is his." He sunk even as he spoke, and from the place O'ercrowded his kind kinsmen slowly bore him. THE SPIRIT OF IRISH SONG. Lov'd land of the bards and saints! to me Than the lay whose ling'ring notes recall The thoughts of the holy, the fair, the free, Belov'd in life, or deplor'd in their fall! Fling, fling the forms of art aside Dull is the ear that these forms enthrall; Let the simple songs of our sires be triedThey go to the heart, and the heart is all. OH! IF THE ATHEIST'S WORDS BE TRUE! Oh! if the atheist's words be true- If life thus closed, how dark and drear Blest be that strain of high belief, More heaven-like, more sublime, That, far beyond this speck of pain, There spreads a brighter clime; MARY MAGUIRE. (FROM THE IRISH.) Oh! that my love and I From life's crowded haunts could fly To some deep shady vale, by the mountain, Where no sound could make its way Save the thrush's lively lay, And the murmur of the clear-flowing fountain: Where no stranger should intrude On our hallowed solitude, Where no kinsman's cold glance could annoy us; Where peace and joy might shed Blended blessings o'er our bed, And love! love! alone still employ us. Still, sweet maiden, may I see, In vain in lost love I lie pining; That o'er my dull pathway keeps shining: Fond hope will remain, For rarely from hope can we sever; Unchanged in good or ill, One dear dream is cherished stillOh! my Mary, I must love thee for ever. How fair appears the maid, As she moves forth at dawn's dewy hour; And her cheek all gaily glowing, May his dwelling want a wife, And his nights be long, cheeriess, and dreary, Who cold or calm could be, With a winning one like thee Or for wealth could forsake thee, my Mary MARY DEAR! (FROM THE IRISH.) Oh! Mary dear! bright peerless flower- Behold me droop through each dull hour, In friends-in wine-where joy was found- But still, while pleasure reigns around, The cuckoo's notes I love to hear, When summer warms the skies; That blithe bird sings her song so clear, From town to town I've idly strayed, I find there's none that can compare, ROISIN DUBH.1 Oh! my sweet little rose, cease to pine for the past, For the friends that came eastward shall see thee at last; They bring blessings and favours the past never knew To pour forth in gladness on my Roisin Dubh. Long, long, with my dearest, through strange scenes I've gone, O'er mountains and broad valleys I still have toiled on; O'er the Erne I have sailed as the rough gales blew, While the harp poured its music for my Roisin Dubh. Though wearied, oh! my fair one! do not slight my song, For my heart dearly loves thee, and hath loved thee long; In sadness and in sorrow I still shall be true, There's no flower that e'er bloomed can my rose excel, There's no tongue that e'er moved half my love can tell, Had I strength, had I skill the wide world to subdue, Oh! the queen of that wide world should be Roisin Dubh. Had I power, oh! my loved one, but to plead thy right, I should speak out in boldness for my heart's delight; I would tell to all round me how my fondness grew, And bid them bless the beauty of my Roisin Dubh. The mountains, high and misty, through the moors must go, The rivers shall run backward, and the lakes overflow, And the wild waves of old ocean wear a crimson hue, Ere the world sees the ruin of my Roisin Dubh. 1 This song is a translation. Mr. Hardiman, in his Irish Minstrelsy, says of it:-" Roisin Dubh (Little Black Rose) is an allegorical ballad in which strong political feelings are conveyed as a personal address from a lover to his fair one. The allegorical meaning has been long since forgotten, and the verses are now remembered and sung as a plaintive love ditty. It was composed in the reign of Elizabeth of England, to celebrate our Irish hero Hugh Ruadh O'Donnell of Tirconnell. By Roisin Dubh, supposed to be a beloved female, is meant Ireland." VOL. II. JOHN O'DWYER OF THE GLEN.2 Blithe the bright dawn found me, Rest with strength had crown'd me, Sweet the birds sung round me, Sport was all their toil. The horn its clang was keeping, War and confiscation Shade the lost land o'er. Throng our blood-stained shore. Where's my goat to cheer me? Now it plays not near me; Friends no more can hear me; Strangers round me stand. Nobles once high-hearted, From their homes have parted, Scatter'd, scared, and started By a base-born band. Hark! the foe is calling, Fast the woods are falling; Scenes and sights appalling Thicken round the land. Oh! that death had found me, Grew so sweet, so dear. Plague and haunt me here. 2 This is supposed to be a very ancient poem, from the allusion to the falling of the woods which destroyed the hiding-places of the flying Irish. Spenser, in his View of the State of Ireland, says:-"I wish that orders were taken for cutting and opening all places through the woods: so that a wide way, of the space of one hundred yards, might be laid open in every of them." 36 |