Mild is Maire bhan astoir, Saints will watch about the door Of my Maire bhan astoir. I subjoin one of the lyrics, 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. (1745.) Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed; For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye, Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread, fast: And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force: Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks, They break as breaks the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks ! More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round, As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground; Bomb shell and grape and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired; Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. "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. The Marshal almost smiles to see how furiously he goes! Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown ; Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone. 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! Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow, Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show. They dress their ranks upon the hill, to face that battle-wind; Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks the men behind! One volley crashes from their line, when through the surging smoke, With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke. On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza! "Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanagh!" Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang, gore; Through shattered ranks and severed files and trampled flags they tore; The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, scattered, fled; The green-hill side is matted close with dying and with dead. Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack, While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track. 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 Alexandre 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 highlycoloured 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 Soggarth aroon? you did show the way, Soggarth aroon, Their slave no more to be, While they would work with me Ould Ireland's slavery, Soggarth aroon? Why not her poorest man, Soggarth aroon, Try and do all he can, Soggarth aroon, Her commands to fulfil Of his own heart and will, Loyal and brave to you, Yet be no slave to you, Soggarth aroon, Nor out of fear to you Stand up so near to you— Och! out of fear to you, * Anglice, Priest Dear. 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, 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, Soggarth aroon ; 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 Ireland. But, |