Here stands a wood bedeckt with summer's pride,
There the Blackwater rowls his dusky tide;

Here a canal of waters, deep and clear,

Whose spouting cascades please the eye and ear,.
While on the pebble-walks fresh air you breathe,
Trees nod above, and fishes swim beneath.
Music, in consort, from a side retreat,

Gives life to all, and makes the scene complete ;

At night a gay assembly and a ball,

Murphy's sweet harp, and dancing closes all."

The ballad mentioned very glibly runs on in praise of the springs of Mallow, according to this fashion, to the air of " Ballyspellen,"

"All you that are

Both lean and bare,

With scarce an ounce of tallow,

To make your flesh

Look plump and fresh,

Come, drink the springs at Mallow!

For all that you

Are bound to do

Is just to gape and swallow;

You'll find by that

You'll rowl in fat,

Most gloriously at Mallow!

Or, if love's pain

Disturbs your brain,

And makes your reason shallow,

To shake it off,

Gulp down enough

Of our hot springs at Mallow!"

Notwithstanding this advice, the author of the " Adieu to Mallow," instead of there shaking off "love's pain,"

seems to have become so fascinated by the charms of Susan, or Mary, or Bess, that if the words of man are to be believed, one of these damsels should have had an early opportunity of considering whether she would like to

"cry ballow,

To lull and keep

Her babe asleep

Beside the springs of Mallow!"

Oh, Mallow, dear Mallow, adieu !

How oft have I walked by thy spring,
While the trees were yet dropping with dew,
Ere the lark his shrill matin did sing.
How often at noon have I strayed,

By the streamlet that winds through thy vale;

How oft, at still eve, on thy mead,

The soft breeze have I joyed to inhale.

O'er thy green hills, high-bosomed in wood,
O'er thy sweetly diversified ground,
How oft, as my walk I pursued,

Have I gazed in wild transport around!

Invoking the powers that preside

O'er the stream, o'er the grove, o'er the hill,

With their presence my fancy to guide,

With their fire my wrapt bosom to fill.

On a rock hanging over the flood,

Through the wild glen meandering slow,
Half-frighted, how oft have I stood,
To pore on the mirror below.

To see, in the heart of the wave,

The glen, and the rock, and the sky, How bright the reflection it gave,

How pleased, how delighted was I.

At the foot of an elm, or a lime,

How oft have I stretched me along,
Enchanted with Collins's rhyme,
Or Akenside's rapture of song!

How oft, too, as accident led,

Through the churchyard path's fear-stirring ground,

Busy Fancy has called up the dead,

To glide in dread visions around.

These sweet walks, this soft quiet, and all

Those blameless, those rational joys,

Must I quit for the buzz of the hall,

For dissonance, wrangling, and noise;

For the city's dull uniform scene,

Where jobbing, and party, and strife,
Dissipation, and languor, and pain,
Fill up the whole circle of life.

"The language which flows from the heart,"
In Susan, in Mary, and Bess,
How exchanged for the polish of art,
Smooth nonsense, and empty address !
For painting, which Nature bestows

On the village-maid's innocent cheek, 'Mid the birthnight's fantastical rows,

How lost were the labour to seek!

Yet oft shall fond Memory anew,
Present each loved scene to my eye,
And, with painful enjoyment, review
The delights that too hastily fly;
Through all the sweet landscape around,
Not a stream, not a rock, nor a tree,
Not a field-flower nor shrub shall be found,
Unmarked or unhonoured by me.

And ye, my companions so dear,

What words my deep anguish can tell? Receive from a witness this tear,

How it pains me to bid you farewell. Ye, too, for I read in your eyes

The emotions that swell at your heart, Ye have not yet learned to disguise,"Ye are sorry to see me depart."

Sweet seat of Contentment and Ease,
Where Rest her still sabbath may keep,
Where all may live just as they please,

Eat, drink, read, laugh, saunter, or sleep; The next spring may new-brighten thy scene, And thy leaves and thy blossoms restore: But bring the loved circle again,

Or the landscape will charm me no more.

Sweet commerce of unison minds,

A treasure how rarely possess'd;
How seldom, through life, the heart finds
The joy that gives worth to the rest.

But, hark! 'tis the chaise at the door,
My mare is already in view;
Alas! I have time for no more,

Oh, Mallow, dear Mallow, adieu !

THE RAKES OF MALLOW.

So were the young men of that fashionable waterdrinking town proverbially called; and a set of "pretty pickles" they were, if the song, descriptive of their mode of life, here recorded after the most delicate oral testimony, is not very much over-coloured.

Air-" Sandy lent the man his Mull."

Beauing, belling, dancing, drinking,
Breaking windows, damning, sinking,*

Ever raking, never thinking,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

Spending faster than it comes,
Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns,

Bacchus's true begotten sons,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

One time naught but claret drinking,

Then like politicians thinking

To raise the sinking funds when sinking,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

* Cursing extravagantly; i.e. "damning you to hell, and sinking

you lower."