'Twould bring some comfort to my heart in earth to see them laid, And hear in Affadown the wild lamentings for them made. O would that like the gay wild geese* my sons had left this land, From their poor father in his age, to seek a foreign strand; Then might I hope the Lord of heaven in mercy would restore My brave and good and stately sons some time to me once more! E. F. THE WIDOW LANE'S KEEN ON HER DAUGHTER. TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH BY THE EDITOR, And printed in Fraser's Magazine, No. II, for March 1830, where it was thus prefaced. “The following lamentation was composed, about thirty or forty years since, by a poor widow who resided near Bandon, on the death of Betty Lane, her only daughter, a celebrated rustic beauty. The tradition, which, if true, is a melancholy one, states, that a Mr. Henry Beamish paid particular attentions to the unfortunate girl; and at an interview one morning, spoke to her of marriage, when he offered to pay the rent of her mother's * This was the popular name given to young men who left Ireland to join the Irish brigade in France, or who entered into other foreign services. cabin, as is hinted at in the second and third verses. A quarrel appears to have subsequently taken place between the lovers; and, on that very evening, Betty Lane was discovered hanging from a tree in a neighbouring plantation, having probably, under the excitement of strong feelings, committed suicide. However, the popular belief was, that Mr. Beamish had caused her to be murdered, and had bribed his groom with three guineas to decoy her into a lonesome place, and there hang her. This is the circumstance alluded to in the sixth verse. In the seventh verse, the phrase "guns wrapped in straw" may, perhaps, require explanation. The Irish peasantry being obliged to secrete their fire-arms, it is a common practice with the possessor of a gun to deposit the lock, which occupies but little room, in some secure place, and then, after greasing the barrel, and securing the touch-hole with a small plug, and the muzzle with a cork, to wrap it tightly up in straw or hay-bands. Thus protected, it is buried in the ground, or hid in the bank of a river. Dean Story, the historian of William's Wars, gives precisely the same account of the manner in which the rapparees, or freebooters of that time, concealed their arms; and I well remember my father describing the capture of a large quantity of muskets, which was made by a party of the 38th Regiment under his command, in the north of Ireland, in 1793, by carefully prodding all suspected ground with iron rods. My pet and my darling, My gentle housekeeper, For whose death, full of sadness, I'm this day a weeper; Your long yellow tresses 'Twas a comb and hot water Kept them in nice order, My beautiful daughter. G But Henry the faithless, 'Twas he who betray'd theeTwas his cruel deceit That a lifeless corpse made thee ! "Twas he who admired themYour tresses so yellow, As he spoke of the rent The rent of our cabin, 'Twas easy to pay it; If you look in the depth Of my pocket, you'll say it. But what's gold or silver, From all we love parted; And left weak and lonely, To die broken-hearted? Yet, though weak there's a strength That the feeble may borrow, Like the flash of despair From the black cloud of sorrow. Revenge will I have Should I fail in a halter, I'll try a true gun, And its aim shall not falter. Oh, Henry! you black rogue That day will I revel; I'll have thousands to dance, And to drink, and be frisky, And to speed you to hell With huge bumpers of whisky. My curse on that villain, Who took from his master A bribe of three guineas, I'll hunt as a ferret His fate I'll determine, And hang him, though hanging's Ask ye where are my people- Are their guns wrapped in straw; They but bide for a little, And wait for my telling Till they've laid my poor child Then will follow the season, The time of my pleasure, When my cup of revenge Shall be filled brimming measure— When my friends and my faction Around me shall rally, And drive the destroyer As a wolf from the valley. The summer is coming, And with it is bringing For the hemp that is springing! But I pray to His throne, That the rope now is making, Will be Henry's life taking! KEEN ON YOUNG RYAN. TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH BY THE EDITOR, AND was procured by him in July 1821. It appears to be an address from a mother to the keeners, who were hired to attend her child's funeral, and was probably delivered as the procession was about to depart from her house to the burial-ground. The name of the subject of this lamentation was said to be Ryan; and, judging from the allusion to the River Dowr, it may be presumed that he was a resident in the eastern part of the county of Cork. Some of the verses were printed in the first volume of "The Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland," as illustrative of the superstitious belief in the Banshee. MAIDENS, sing no more in gladness |