When de regiment marched into de Commons,

'Twould do your heart good for to see;

You'd tink not a man nor a woman

Was left in Cork's famous city.
De boys dey came flocking around us,
Not a hat nor wig* stuck to a skull,
To compliment dose Irish heroes
Returned to de groves of de Pool.

Ri fol, &c.

Wid our band out before us in order,
We played coming into de town;
We up'd wid de ould "Boyne water,"
Not forgetting, too," Croppies lie down."+
Bekase you might read in the newses
'Twas we made dose rebels so cool,

Who all tought, like Turks or like Jewses,
To murther de boys of de Pool.

Ri fol, &c.

* In "Castle Rackrent," a note upon the Irish practice of using the wig instead of a sweeping brush states, "that these men (labourers of the old school) are not in any danger of catching cold by taking off their wigs occasionally; because they usually have fine crops growing under their wigs. The wigs are often yellow, and the hair which appears from beneath them black; the wigs are usually too small, and are raised up by the hair beneath, or by the ears of the wearers."

+ Two loyal tunes. The Cork militia were especially Orange. They suffered severely in the rebellion of 1798, particularly at Oulart, where they lost 115 men. The officers killed in this unfortunate affair were Major Lombard, the Honourable Captain De Courcy, Lieutenants Williams, Ware, Barry, and Ensign Keogh.

Oh, sure dere's no nation in Munster

Wid de groves of Blackpool can compare,
Where dose heroes were all edicated,

And de nymphs are so comely and fair.
Wid de gardens around entertaining,

Wid sweet purty posies so full,

Dat is worn by dose comely young creaturs
Dat walks in de groves of de Pool.

Ri fol, &c.

Oh! many's de time, late and early,

Dat I wished I was landed again,
Where I'd see de sweet watercourse flowing,
Where de skinners dere glory maintain :
Likewise dat divine habitation,*

Where dose babbies are all sent to school

Dat never had fader nor moder,

But were found in de groves of de Pool.
Ri fol, &c.

Come all you young youths of dis nation,
Come fill up a bumper all round;
Drink success to Blackpool navigation,
And may it wid plenty be crowned.
Here's success to the jolly hoop-coilers;
Likewise to de shuttle and de spool;
To de tanners, and worthy glue-boilers,
Dat lives in de groves of de Pool.

Ri fol, &c.

* Alias, the Foundling Hospital. Established under act of parliament in 1735.

THE COURT OF CAHIRASS.

"About a mile from Croom," says the "History of Limerick," by Fitzgerald and MacGregor (vol. i. p. 332), "situated on the Maig, is Cahirass House, with its finely wooded park and plantations, belonging to David Roche, Esq.* a descendant of the house of Fermoy;" and a note adds, "There was once a chapel of ease here belonging to the Carbery family, whose property it was. The chaplain falling desperately in love with the daughter of Lord Carbery, and being disappointed, hanged himself in the chapel, which soon afterwards went to decay. This unfortunate lover had composed a song beginning with At the Court of Cahirass there lives a fair maiden,' which is still recollected by the country people."

Another version of the tradition, which the Editor obtained from his sister, Mrs. Eyre Coote, in 1827, agrees with the above, except in the manner of the imprudent chaplain's death, who is stated to have shot himself on a tomb in the churchyard of Cahirass, when this song was found in his pocket; and it is said that the marks of his blood are still visible on the tombstone.

Unluckily, however, for the romance of this story, the name of Katey occurs as a rhyme in the first and seventh verses, and is twice repeated in the last; and five manuscript copies of the song, procured through various channels, though differing materially in many lines, all retain that name. It is, therefore, impossible to reconcile this with the facts, that the only daughter of the first Lord

*Now Sir David Roche, Bart. M.P.

Carbery was named Anne; the only daughter of the second lord, Frances Anne; and the only daughter of the third lord, Juliana. So stands the case in Archdale's edition of 66 Lodge's Irish Peerage," vol. vii., versus Tradition.

In the Court of Cahirass there dwells a fair lady,
Of beauty the paragon, and she is called Katey ;
Her lofty descent, and her stately deportment,
Prove this lovely damsel was for a king's court meant.

There's many a great lord from Dublin has sought her;
But that is not strange for a nobleman's daughter:
Yet if she was poor as the poorest of creatures,
There's no one her rival in figure or features.

On a fine summer's morning, if you saw but this maiden, By the murmuring Maig, or the green fields she stray'd in; Or through groves full of song, near that bright flowing river,

You'd think how imperfect the praise that I give her.

In order arranged are her bright flowing tresses,
The thread of the spider their fineness expresses;*
And softer her cheek, that is mantled with blushes,
Than the drift of the snow, or the pulp of the rushes.

* The verse of an Irish song, in which the poet describes the first meeting with his mistress, was thus translated to the Editor by Mr. Edward Penrose:

"Her hair was of the finest gold,

Like to a spider's spinning;

In her, methinks, I do behold

My joys and woes beginning."

But her bosom of beauty, that the heart which lies under, Should have nothing of womanlike pride, is my wonder; That the charms which all eyes daily dwell on delighted, Should seem in her own of no worth, and be slighted.

When Charity calls her she never is weary,

Though in secret she comes with the step of a fairy;
To the sick and the needy profuse is her bounty,
And her goodness extends through the whole of the county.*

I felt on my spirit a load that was weighty,

In the stillness of midnight, and called upon Katey;

And a dull voice replied, on the ear of the sleeper,

"Death! death!" in a tone that was deep, and grew deeper.

Twas an omen to me- -'twas an omen of sadness,
That told me of folly, of love, and of madness;

That my fate was as dark as the sky that was o'er me,
And bade me despair, for no hope was before me.

O, Katey, dear Katey, disdain not your lover;

From

your frowns and your coldness he cannot recover: For if you but bid him his passion to smother, How fatal the day when we first met each other.

The prosaic close of this verse is strangely contrasted with the strain of poetry which pervades those immediately following; but inequality of sentiment appears to be the chief characteristic of Irish song in the English as well as the Irish language; in fact, the Irish style.