him; but, judging of his feelings by his demeanour, I experienced satisfaction in forcing him to know and lament his perverseness. "Where is your son-in-law?" said I abruptly, and addressing the wife. Verily it is wonderful that a woman can bear malice in her heart, she chastises so severely with the tongue. I could not recount all the revilings O'Connor's wife showered upon her son-in-law; but from her unconnected detail, I learned that poor Mary was obliged to separate from him, and return to her father's house to meet her death; and he, as his mother-inlaw expressed it, could no longer keep house, and was gone to skulk among his relatives.

"Well," said I, "have I been mistaken in my predictions? I said you deserved to be childless-I did not wish it so; but from the folly of your conduct, I foresaw what would come to pass. Only one year since, your daughter was alive and in health. What has sent her to an early grave, made you desolate and miserable, survivors of an only child—the comfort of your old age? Your own petty, contemptible ideas concerning your fellow-beings. Forsooth, indeed, you could recount the names of your great-grandfathers, and because these gentlemen were possessed of a sufficient property to enable them to lead a life of laziness, you would not unite your daughter with any one who could not trace his pedigree to a similar line. A young man was attached to her; his circumstances were better than your own; he was intelligent, industrious, and offered to prosper in the world. But his father had been a pauper; you could not think of uniting a descendant of the O'Connors with a man who was ignorant of his ancestors' names. You would wed her to one who had never been obliged to work for his living-a gentleman by birth, every inch of him

In the warmth of my invective, I approached nearer to O'Connor. He had sate down, and when I came in front of him, I perceived that his head was bowed upon his knees, and that his body trembled from the excessive emotion he was endeavouring to suppress. I felt that I had said too much and when I thought upon the prejudices to which he had been subject from childhood, and the little opportunities he had had of acquiring liberal ideas, I was much provoked with myself for taunting him so bitterly, and at such a time.

"Well,” said I, "there are none of us immaculate; we have all our failings, and 'tis seldom we are wise, till experience of our error instructs us." "Oh, if I could undo what is done," said O'Connor, with a husky sob, more moving than all the woman's wailing; "but it's no use in amendI killed her, and I deserve to be without any comfort in my

ing now.

old age." "You cannot, indeed, recal what is passed," said I to myself, as I shortly after left their dwelling, for I thought not of further intruding on their grief with my untimely reproaches; "but it is hardly ever too late for a man to divest himself of the prejudice which has been the cause of his misfortunes. Then be it ever remembered that virtue, energy, and

talent form the basis of the happiness enjoyed by mankind. These are not circumscribed to nation, sect, or order. As nature not unfrequently forms the lowliest peasant with features fair as a noble, so does she likewise endow him with a mind and abilities capable to secure the respect of his fellow-men. For these attributes he is honoured, and by these alone should be weighed every individual's claims upon universal respect."

ODE TO PLUM PUDDING.

BY A CITIZEN.

Queen of our Christmas festival!

We deem your presence best of all
The signs that mark the time,

And now, with all the loyalty
Due to your ancient royalty,

We welcome you in rhyme!

Pleasures there are in plenty here,
And dishes rare of dainty cheer,

With much to praise in each;
We gladly yield them honour due,
But still to you we will be true,
For none are half so rich!

Oft does the Englishman abroad,
With fond regret your virtues laud,
And proudly make you known;

Nor can the airy trifles there

Wean him from you, whose merits are
As solid as his own!

In distant regions, hot or cool,
Wherever Britain spreads her rule,
Your glories are adored!

Even in that world-divided clime*
Where Christmas comes in summer's prime,
You smoke upon the board!

BATTLE SONG.

Hail to the hour, whose battle roar

Shall trumpet to the wondering world,
That freedom's standard is, once more,
By chainless native hands unfurl'd:
And may we use the red hour's chance
Of bonds for ever burst, like men
Whose swords and spirits-fail this once-
Our country ne'er can test again.

We have been steep'd in slav'ry's tide,

To make us pliant to the will

Of tyranny, but have defied

And baffled both its strength and skill: And for our foul sojourn in chains,

The proud oppressors shall atone;

If cruel despots have not veins

As bloodless as the veins of stone.

Behold the foe, whose faulchions bright,

Like drunkards, should be blotch'd with rust,

From the red revel of the fight

That laid our fathers in the dust:

They come to quench, with crimson shower,
The flame we lit on freedom's shrine;
And if such tyrants have such power,
Oh! freedom's light is not divine.

Revenge on foes for battle rang'd,
Is but an echo of the wrong
We bore like slaves-as if it chang'd
Our natures to be tame so long:
And if their riven hearts to day

But furnish to our desp'rate steel
Sufficient blood, we'll wash away

Each vestige of their iron heel.

Oh! how-while Freedom's god-like pow'r,
Could sternly be array'd, as now,—

How did she bear one single hour
A thorny crown upon her brow?
On to the conflict-lost or won-
To die or conquer is to save
Ourselves, at least, ere set of sun,

From captive's life-or coward's grave.

J. De J.

ODE TO MY NIGHT CAP.

Yes, my warm friend, the myrtle wreath
May twine around frail pleasure's head,
And laugh at you and me,

While Affluence trims her waxen lights,
And wanton Frolic wastes her nights
In mirth and festive glee;

Yes, let it laugh-'tis folly's hour;
If folly loves the blooming flower,'
Then let the floweret bloom:
Yes, let it laugh-the morning gray
Will see its blossoms fade away,

And strewed on folly's tomb.

Thou, on thy master's head, meanwhile,
With easy pride shall sit and smile,
And sooth his lonely hours;

While, with its little cheering ray,

Our glimmering friend shall round thee play
And waken fancy's powers.

Oft musing on the laurel crown,
That Virgil or that Horace won,

Perhaps, I've often said,

Perhaps those bards who sung so well,
Us'd in their night caps (who can tell?)
To court the Muse's aid.

And many and many a time, I ween,
Our laureats, could they but be seen,
Have laid aside their bays,

And sat, like me, whole nights alone,
With nothing but their night cap on,
To frame their votive lays,

Blest be the man, whoe'er he be,
Whose genius first invented thee,

And called thee by thy name;

For much to him does Morpheus owe,
And much the peaceful muses, too,

Who toil for honest fame.

When slumbers close my languid eyes, 'Tis thou who biddest fancy rise,

With all her fairy train;

For thee she trims her rainbow car,

And mounting in the waving air,
Begins her magic strain;

In thee, my little busy dreams,
That tremble at the morning beams,
A friendly shelter take;

There laugh and prattle on, till day

Through my close curtains darts his ray,

And bids thy master wake.

A. R.

THE NATIVE MUSIC OF IRELAND.

DECEMBER.

THE PEELER AND THE GOAT.

The republication of this song, long well known in the country parts of Ireland, has led to more inquiries respecting it from our town correspondents than we are well able to answer. The interest it has excited amongst the citizens is really surprising. We can attribute this to nothing but the soreness of the public under the inflictions which we daily endure from the swarms of idle gentry, who now infest our streets under the name of "the New Metropolitan Police." The fact is, our poor pestered people, many of whom have seldom, if ever, extended their walks beyond the boundaries of the Tolka, the Dodder, and the Killiney Hills,—within which metes every bye-road and green lane, as well as street and alley, is now subjected to the impertinencies of "The Force," are astonished to find that an evil so new to them is one of rather old standing in provincial localities, and has long since been signalized in the records of the rustic lay. The town dog finds himself even worse used than the country goat; the peaceful citizen suffers more from petty-constable persecution than the simple peasant. say nothing, here, of the graviora delicta-the homicides-the woundingsand the shootings at the peasantry in the country parishes and unions. Thank goodness! our choleric young puppy policemen have not yet been armed with musket and bayonet-rifle, powder and ball! We are speaking

We

of simple arrests in our streets, called "apprehensions,"-imprisonment in station-houses, called "lock-ups,"-trials at police-offices, called "bail" and "custody" cases-fines and recognisances to keep the peace, called " fees to the fund,"-convictions without judge and jury, called "summary jurisdictions," and the like.

We have been called on to explain the causes of these effects;

"Or rather say, the cause of this defect;

"For this effect, defective, comes by cause."

As to the old evil in the country, we may in some measure eviscerate the matter from the very bowels of the song itself.

Bansha.] This name of a village is selected, we presume, because baseaċ means "retired, desolate ;" and, taken substantively, it stands for " a plain or field, a sheepwalk, a solitary place ;"-O'Reilly. No retirement protects its inhabitant from the meddling ruffianism of a hired blackguard,

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