Her mind, like its waters, is as deep, clear,
and pure,
But her heart is more hard than its marble, I'm sure.
But her heart is more hard than its marble, I'm sure.

Oh! Kilkenny's a famous town, that shines where it stands,
And the more I think on it, the more my heart warms;
For if I was in Kilkenny, I'd think myself at home,
For it's there I'd get sweethearts, but here I get none.
For it's there I'd get sweethearts, but here I get none.

THE HERMIT OF KILLARNEY.

The authorship of this ballad is attributed to the Right Hon. George Ogle (see p. 138). It is probably not a mere poetic invention, but suggested by an actual occurrence. Mr. Weld, in his account of Killarney, says, "It is scarcely possible, indeed, to enter the confines of this sequestered and enchanting region without feeling the influence of a spell, which abstracts the mind from the noise and folly of the world, and banishes for the moment the desire of returning to the gay and busy scenes of human life. So powerful are its effects, that instances are not wanting of persons who, on first coming hither, have fondly resolved to retire to these distant shades; and who, with the permission of the proprietors of the shores, have actually determined on the precise position of their intended retreats. But as if the spell was liable to be dissolved when the mountains of Killarney faded from view, or as if a temporary absence from the habitual enjoyments of the pleasures of social life served but to

render a return to them the more agreeable, these visionary schemes have been generally abandoned on withdrawing from the scenes which gave them birth.

"One man, however, there was, upon whose romantic mind a deeper impression was made; he was an Englishman, of the name of Ronayn. The spot which he selected for his retreat was this small island, which yet retains his name; and when first I visited Killarney (1800), the ruins of his little habitation, planted in the midst of rocks very near the water, were still visible. They inspired one with a respect for the place; nor was it possible to contemplate them without falling into a train of reflection upon the variety of sentiments entertained by men about happiness, that invariable object of eager and hourly pursuit. The mind was also led to consider how little was actually wanting to supply the real necessities even of a man who had, from infancy, perhaps, been habituated to the comforts and conveniencies of civilised life. Surely the spot should have been held sacred as long as a fragment of the habitation remained visible; but the spirit of improvement, as it is often so falsely styled, has swept away every vestige of Ronayn's cottage, and the mossy rocks where he was wont to seat himself before it, have given place to the trim surface of a smooth-shorn grass-plot.

"Of the motives which induced this gentleman to withdraw from the world, whether they arose from an innate love of retirement, from disappointment in his pursuits, or from

'Strokes of adversity no time can cure,

No lenient hand can soften or assuage;'

or whether they arose from his experience of the insuf

ficiency of the ordinary pleasures and luxuries of life to afford permanent satisfaction, it has never fallen within my power to learn. He avoided all society, and seldom left the island, except to partake of his favourite amusements of shooting or fishing, by which he procured his chief sustenance. Thus singular in his habits, he became exposed to the eye of curiosity; and, offended at frequent and impertinent intrusion, his jealousy of the approach of strangers sometimes betrayed itself in acts of savage moroseness; nevertheless, his name is still mentioned at Killarney with respect-nay, even with admiration."

The enthusiastic and unfortunate John Bernard Trotter, the private secretary of Fox, speaking, in his "Walks through Ireland," of this "celebrated song," the locality of which he confounds with "Banna's Banks," says, "It begins some way thus:

'On Banna's lonely banks I strayed;'

So powerful," continues Trotter," are some early impressions, that I recollect learning the words of this song many years ago when a schoolboy. It then seemed to me the perfection of poetry. Its melancholy strains, so often repeated, of

'Adieu, adieu, thou faithless world,

Thou ne'er wert made for me!'

filled me with mournful pleasure.

Careless of the plays

and sports usual with boys, I have often pored over these

verses, unknowing their full import, but devouring and dwelling on them with secret and indescribable satisfaction! I knew not then what a faithless' world meant; I had never seen or heard of Banna's Banks,' and comprehended not what was misfortune or disappointment. These were the topics which had inspired the author of this pleasing song. By what mysterious sympathy did I conceive feelings which I never imparted! or by what presentiments did I anticipate the afterwards too well understanding this song!"

As on Killarney's bank I stood, near to her crystal wave, I saw a holy hermit retired within his cave;

His eyes he often turn'd to heaven, and thus exclaimed he : "Adieu, adieu, thou faithless world, thou wert not made for me!"

His bed was strewed with rushes, which grew along the

shore,

And o'er his limbs emaciate a sackcloth-shirt he wore; His hoary beard and matted hair hung listless to his knee: "Adieu, adieu, thou faithless world, thou wert not made for me!"

I thought his heart had broken, so heavy were his sighs, I thought his tears would dry up the fountains of his eyes; Oh! 'twas a grievous thing to hear, a piteous sight to see: "Adieu, adieu, thou faithless world, thou wert not made for me!"

His sorrows pierced my bosom, in all I took my share; My sighs, his sighs re-echoed, I gave him tear for tear;

I had no comfort left to give-it might intrusion be: "Adieu, adieu, thou faithless world, thou wert not made for me!"

He ceased awhile his mourning, and seemed in thought profound,

But anguish soon returning, he started from the ground; In agony he smote his heart, and thus exclaimed he: “Adieu, adieu, thou faithless world, thou wert not made for me!

"How vain and foolish mortals are, who sigh for pomp.

and state;

They little know the dangers that on high stations wait; They little know the woes and ills that follow high degree: Adieu, adieu, thou faithless world, thou wert not made for me!

"Ambition's but a bubble, a circle in the sea,

Extending o'er the surface, and ne'er can ended be,

Till in itself, itself is lost, the breath of vanity:

Adieu, adieu, thou faithless world, thou wert not made for me!

"Why did I trust to honour I reckoned by my own? Why did I trust to virtue, when she to heaven was flown? Alas! too late, I now lament my fond credulity:

Adieu, adieu, thou faithless world, thou wert not made for me!

"I thought that there was friendship, but that's a gem

most rare;

I thought that love was sacred, and beauty was sincere ;