First meets the gaudy glaring of the day,
And seems to close its beauty from the ray
Of unaccustom'd light that rudely prys
Into its gentle, modest, azure eyes.

What led her thither I could never learn.
But, hark! who comes? it is Miss Pebby Byrne,
All spick and span, to grace our hero's feast ;-
And last, Miss Reilly, who, tho' last, not least,
Contributes by her dress and portly mien
To swell the splendour of the joyous scene.
Juno herself ne'er walk'd with such an air!
A bright-blue band encircled her red hair,
Clasp'd on her forehead by a neat shoe-buckle!
Her dress was gaudy,—though as coarse as huckle-*
Back, or the web call'd linsey-woolsey,-flowing
In graceful negligence; tho' sometimes showing
It had been out for a more sylphid shape,
As sundry pins, o'ertir'd, releas'd the cape!

But now the christ'ning 's o'er: of wine and cakes
First Father Martin, then each fair, partakes ;
The youths incline to porter and potcheen.
Miss Reilly condescends to be the queen,
Presiding o'er the rites of dear bohea,
Whose incense in one corner you might see
Rising in volumes from four sacred stills,
Which, as Miss Reilly empties, Darby fills
With boiling fluid from a cauldron spoutless,"
That had been ages at the Three Blacks, doubtless.

But now the pipes are smoking both and playing:
"Come, boys!" says Father Martin, "no delaying!
Let's have a song. Come, you first, Tommy Byrne,
And then we 'll get a stave all round in turn."
Tommy, obedient, put his dudheen† in
His waistcoat pocket, and thus did begin :—

Here a loud squeak of grunting praise was heard

From the new pig-house in the stable-yard:

Th' applause awhile the minstrel's music drown'd;

But soon he did resume, and all around

Remark'd how much his voice of late improv'd in sound.

*The usual spelling of this word is "huckaback;" but I suppose Mr. Kelly's excuse would be " licet facere verba."

+ Dudheen, short pipe.

Another says, "You idle dog,
Why do ye lock your door up,
And every sason quit your bog
To thravel into Europe?"
Sure we would gladly stop at home
The whole year round, and labour,
But for the harvest-pence we roam

III.

To pick up in the neighbour-
Hood of England, wirrasthrue!
Wouldn't Erin's glory,
With the pen

Of clever men,

Make a pleasant story?

[I could not help laying the book down at this passage to reflect whether the imputation of idleness can be justly thrown upon the Irish. Men who year after year toil through the perils and privations of a journey into another land for the sake of a few shillings, can scarcely be termed lazy; and it is to be regretted that some mode of employment at home is not devised by those in whose power it is to meliorate and tranquillise their condition.]

IV.

St. Patrick (many days to him!)
Thought he kilt all the varmin
That through the land did crawl or swim,
But he left their cousins-giarmin!
He never dreamt of two-legg'd snakes,
Or toads that were toad-eathers,

Or those dartlukers* the law makes

To hunt our fellow-crathurs!
(Chorus, boys!)

Wirra! wirra! wirrasthrue!
Isn't Erin's glory,

By sword and pen
Of wicked men,
Made a dismal story?

"Success, avourneen !" cried the jolly friar,
"An' may yir whistle, 'lanna! never tire!
Now for a toast, my boys, or sentiment,
An' here is one from me with your consent:
A saddle prickly as a porcupine,

A pair of breeches like a cobweb fine,
High-trottin' horse, and many a mile to go,
For him that to ould Ireland proves a foe!""

Miss Biddy Reilly was the siren next

Knock'd down for melody: she seem'd perplext,
And said: "Upon my conscience-ralely-now-
I-Tommy, sing for me—well, anyhow,

I've nothin' new to trate ye with—”

"No matther!"

(From all parts of the room,) "sing Stoney Batther !"
With that she hem'd to clear her pipe, and through
Her bright-red curls her radish fingers drew;
Then looking round, and smiling as she look'd,
(While many a heart upon her bait she hook'd,)
Her ditty once, twice, she commenced too high,-
At last she found the key;- then, with a sigh
Long-drawn and deep, her quivering voice she woke,
Which rose and curl'd-ay, gracefully as smoke
Seen at a distance-misty-wreathing-dimly
Issuing from some wood-bound cottage chimley.

* Dartluker, the Irish name for a peculiar kind of leech that preys upon a

small fish called pinkeen.

II.

"The finest skin, sir,

You ever saw;
Without or in, sir,
There's not a flaw!
No hat or bonnet
You ever made,
With gloss upon it

Of such a shade!"

"Then put it down," The hatther cried;

"And here's yir crown,

And thanks beside."

III.

But, oh! what wondher
When he did find
The wicked plundher
The rogue design'd!
"My cat is missin',"
(Says he,) "black Min,
They've cut yir wizzin,—
I've bought yir skin!
Of neighbours' cats,"
Then wild he swore,
"I'll make my hats
For evermore!"

Miss Biddy Reilly ceased her pensive ditty,
And, with a look that made his rivals jealous,
She call'd upon our hero, who, quite witty,

Express'd a hope they would excuse his bellows,
As he had lately caught cold in the water,
'Stead of an eel that he was lookin' a'ter!

A loud horse-laugh first trumpets Darby's praise,
Then thus his low bass voice he high did raise.

Ducks on a pond, when gobblin' up duck-meat,
Ne'er smack'd a music half so sadly sweet!
Miss Biddy Reilly's long-lash'd eyes of jet
Were red (as rivalling her hair) and wet !
Some inward feeling caus'd this outward woe;
But what it was but love for Darby, I don't know!

But now tay-tay and coffee-tay are done,
And of the night begins the raal fun :

The dance is nam'd, and straightway on the floor
Two dozen couple start,-I might say more.
But Darby interposes, and cries, "Stop!
Afore we have a reel let's have a hop:
First-boy an' girl; then girl relieve the girl,
Next boy the boy, till all round have a whirl!
Miss Reilly an' myself will lead the first ;-
Come, piper! squeeze yir bags until they burst!
Tatther Jack Welsh,' or Smash the Windows,' play,
The wind that shakes the barley,' Flow'rs in May,
Or any rantin' roarin' lilt ye know:
What! Ligrum Cuss?' hurroo! then here we go!

o!"

"He spake: and, to confirm his words," they all Sate down obedient in the festive hall! None but himself and Biddy upward stood, All eyes were on them of the multitude! But how shall I describe the wondrous pair, Terpsichore! that worshipp'd thee then there? Such grace, such action, on a malt-house floor, Was never seen or heard of, e'en, before! O'Ryan's arms at stiff right angles to His body were, which to the gazer's view Betray'd no motion; while his legs below

Seem'd all St. Vitus' nimblest shakes to know!

With knees bent inward, heels turn'd out, and toes
That seem'd contending like two deadly foes
For one small spot of earth, he digg'd the ground,
And sent the mortar pulveriz'd around!
"Look at his feet!" was the admiring cry;
"Hold down the light that we may closely spy:
There's double-shuffle for ye! hoo! success!
He'd dance upon a penny-piece, or less !"

Meanwhile, Miss Reilly, with her hands aside,
A varied change of steps and movements plied;
Now bold advancing in her partner's face,
Now shooting by a side-slip to a place
The farthest on the floor:-at every turn,
As round and graceful as a spinning churn!

But, ah! not long was she the dance's queen;
For young Kate Duff, who owed her long a spleen,
Swift as the lightning from a cloud of gloom,
Shot from a dim-lit corner of the room,
And sent the frowning Biddy to her seat,
Who mutter'd something that I can't repeat!

Long Curly next our hero's post relieves, And Kitty Duff gives place to Nelly Reeves: Curly, the piper's son, Ned Joyce, supplants; The blind old father knows his step, and chants The lilt with double force: Miss Higgins next Sets down Miss Reeves; Ned Joyce retires, half vext,

For Knock-knee'd Phelim, who, despite his pins,
Applause from all for heel-and-toeing wins!

Thus did they trip it for a goodly hour;
When, oh! what charm there is in music's pow'r!
Old Joyce the piper seizes a short stay

To change his pipes :-and, what's the merry lay
They now lilt up?- The Priest in his Boots,' and lo!
(Whether 'twas all concerted I don't know,)

Fat Widow Higgins, 'midst the general shout,

By Father Martin is led waddling out!

Oh! how they tramp'd and stamp'd, and flounc'd and bounc'd!

A mercy 'twas they trod on the ground-floor,

For through a loft they surely would have pounc'd—
As 'twas, the earth was trembling to its core:

Sure such flochoolah dancers ne'er were seen before!

A FEW ENQUIRIES.