But will'd me your fortune As I sat by you crying. And your lands and your money Frank, my true love and darling, Again I'll not marry; Will evermore tarry. And all you've bequeath'd me, And to me confided, Shall between your two daughters Be fairly divided. KEEN ON YOUNG DRINAN. TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH BY THE EDITOR. THE original was obtained from the Editor's nurse, in April 1829, and he was told by her, that it was composed about forty years before by the nurse of a boy named Drinan, as she accompanied his funeral from Cork to Carrigaline. A woman, said to be the nurse's sister-in-law, and who appears to have entertained an enmity towards her husband's family, excited by the boast in the sixth verse respecting her fatherin-law's abundant table, replied in a severe commentary. But whether this produced a rejoinder from the prima donna, or whether, as is very improbable, she remained silent under the insult, the Editor is unable to state, having faithfully translated all (and apparently it is a mere fragment) that he has obtained. For the amusement of the English reader, the sixth verse, which called forth the sister-in-law's retort, is here written according to the sound on the ear. It will be however sufficient to enable the Irish scholar to recognize the closeness of the translation. The first line, which forms the burden, and signifies, "My darling, you were without doubt," is used indifferently at the commencement or close of every verse: in Irish it is termed "the consequence of the verse." By the Editor it is omitted in his translation, being merely required in an extemporaneous composition, to allow time for the mental arrangement of the verse which is to follow, and as it is often repeated twice or thrice over, without system, to the evident injury of the keen when transferred to paper. Ma harrow though gan doubt Augus shrovagh de vahig, ma haddeen a chlun Le fien own Vrank an owl. THE pulse of my heart, and the prop of my years The child of my breast, whom its softness had cherish'd, Lies there and I see through the mist of my tears In the darkness of death, that my sunshine* has perished. Had he lived, open home he'd have kept for all men, Tho' a child, who that mark'd his high spirit could doubt him? But he now lies as cold as the snow in the glen, And what is this world to be left in without him? * Mo grianach (my sunshine) is the usual term applied in the south of Ireland by mothers to their children. My gossips, the ways of the world I'll explain: They are falsehood, and meanness, and cheating, and squeezing, Since small bits of sheep-skin, will great rents obtain, And the agent is warm, while the tenant is freezing. The rents they are heavy, then look at the ground, Every foot is twice measured by learned surveyors. No landlord in Ireland is now to be found Who will give the odd acre to gain a man's prayers. With clothing and victuals the needy and poor My child would have help'd through the cold of the winter; In summer the thirsty would have drank at his door; And his nurse, in no manner of thing would he stint her. She never was stinted-fresh fish every day To give her; and honey, and butter and whey, THE SPEAKER'S SISTER-IN-LAW REPLIES. MAY a heart raw and scalding be yours for the boast, Your father, poor man, to his wit's end was driven; Your fresh fish-the limpet, picked up on the coast; Your potatoes the small things to pigs only given.* * Literally, the cut or wounded potatoes (créadhach) put aside H Your butter-slocaune*-that's the scum of the strand, Your honey from sea comb† flung up by the ocean; Your whey-the sour milk of a dead woman's hand,‡ And the best wine of France ?-you're a fool I've a notion ! THE CONVICT OF CLONMEL. TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH BY MR. CALLANAN. Although these verses are not precisely a lamentation for the dead, they nevertheless possess so much of the character of the Keen, that they are here introduced. They first appeared with the Keen for O'Sullivan Bear (p. 52), for pigs' food. To be fed on small potatoes is considered as little short of actual starvation. Thus a damsel in the popular song tells her lover; "I'm none of your Looneys nor half-famished Mooneys, That picked out and sold the big minions [a species of potato], To portion off Joane:-the Crehás eat at home, With a dip [relish] made of salt and boil'd inions." [onions.] * Correctly written Sleabhacan, Anglicè, lever. The word appears to the Editor to be compounded of Sleabh or Sláib, and Can, that is, mud butter. † Muirineach, literally sea-weft,—the name given to a common marine production thrown up on the shore, and not unlike a wasp's nest. A superstitious fancy of a most disgusting kind prevails in some districts of Ireland, namely, that stirring the milk with the hand of a dead person will cause it to produce an extraordinary quantity of cream. in Blackwood's Magazine, and they were afterwards reprinted in the Collection of Mr. Callanan's Poems, called, "The Recluse of Inchidony," 1830. "Who the hero of this song (Ir dubac é mo cás) is, I know not," remarks the translator, "but convicts, from obvious reasons, have been peculiar objects of sympathy in Ireland. Hurling, which is mentioned in one of the verses, is the principal national diversion, and is played with intense zeal by parish against parish, barony against barony, county against county, or even province against province. It is played not only by the peasant, but by the patrician students of the University, where it is an established pastime." Mr. Callanan proceeds with some observations respecting the game, which, as they do not illustrate the song, the Editor deems it unnecessary to repeat. And vain my repining! The strong rope of fate For this young neck is twining; My strength is departed My cheek sunk and sallow; While I languish in chains In the gaol of Clonmala.* No boy in the village Was ever yet milder, I'd play with a child And my sport would be wilder. I'd dance without tiring From morning till even, *Irish for Clonmell. |