[James Orr was born in 1770 at the little village of Ballycarry, between Larne and Carrickfergus, and in early life followed the trade of a journeyman weaver. When the Northern Star, the organ of the United Irishmen, was established in Belfast he became one of its poetical contributors, being already well known in his own neighbourhood as "the Poet of Ballycarry." Orr believed in the cause which he advocated; his poetry was not mere verse-making, but the genuine outburst of his heart; and he soon became an affiliated member of the political union. In 1798 he took an active part in the battle of Antrim, and as a consequence was obliged to go into hiding. For a time he skulked about from place to place, but at last, being conscious that he was not guilty of any really criminal action, he appeared before the authorities and surrendered himself. He was sent to prison, where he lay for a long time; but as nothing like an overt act of treason could be proved against him, except by his own confession, he was in the end set free on condition of transporting himself to America. He fulfilled this condition, and on the outward passage wrote his pathetic "Song of an Exile." In America he did not remain many years; matters had rapidly improved at home, and he returned to his native village and his original loom. But his misfortunes seem to have had a depressing influence on his spirit, for after his return his poetic efforts were much inferior to those of earlier times, and soon ceased altogether. Orr died on the 24th of April, 1816, on the spot where he was born, leaving behind him at least one song, "The Irishman," which will live so long as there are men to deserve its name.] THE IRISHMAN. The savage loves his native shore, Their isle, which nature formed so fair. What flood reflects a shore so sweet As Shannon great, or pastoral Bann? Or who a friend or foe can meet So generous as an Irishman? His hand is rash, his heart is warm, And none forgives with nobler pride; If strange or poor, for you he'll pay, And if he may your secrets scan, By honour bound in woe or weal, Whate'er she bids he dares to do; Be where it ought, in danger's van; Erin! loved land! from age to age Be thou more great, more famed, and free; May peace be thine, or, shouldst thou wage Which gentle breezes softly fan, EXTRACT FROM "ODE TO DANGER." Truth's firm friend you cannot awe Though the dying round him mourn, Though the dead the shore bestrew, Smoke, fire, fury, cannot turn From your path the patriot true; Following close his faithful leader, Low he lays the proud invader. Ever honour'd be their graves, Mighty men of valour tried, Who, unaw'd in fields and waves, You in every form defied; Who, like Wolfe, led on their legion, Or, like Cook, explor'd each region. Frown, terrific tyrant, frown! Barb thy dart, and whet thy lance; Danger! they who seek renown, To thy front, unaw'd, advance: All thy terrors, were they double, But inflame the mind that's noble. SONG OF AN EXILE. In Ireland 'tis evening-from toil my friends hie all, And weary walk home o'er the dew-spangled lea; The shepherd in love tunes his grief-soothing viol, Or visits the maid that his partner will be; The blithe milk-maid trips to the herd that stands lowing; The west richly smiles, and the landscape is glowing; The sad-sounding curfew, and torrent fast-flowing, Are heard by my fancy, though far, far at sea! What has my eye seen since I left the green valleys, What's seen but the fowl, that its lonely flight urges, The lightning, that darts through the sky-meeting surges, And the sad-scowling sky, that with bitter rain scourges For powerful friends to plead thy cause step forth: But more unblest, oppression, want, and dearth, The poor neglected native of thy north, This cheek care sits drooping on, far, far at sea? Till death was sent by Heaven to bid his soul How hideous the hold is!-Here, children are screaming There, dames faint through thirst, with their babes on their knee! Here, down every hatch the big breakers are streaming, ascend. The blameless Cottier, wha his youth had pass'd And aft his thoughts are by delirium thrall'd: And there, with a crash, half the fixtures break An' mutters through his sleep o' truth an' right; free! An' after pondering deep, the weans are tald Some court, some contend, some sit dull stories The readiest way he thinks they justly might telling; Support themselves thro' life when he shall sink in night. The mate's mad and drunk, and the tars tasked and yelling; What sickness and sorrow pervade my rude dwell- Wi' patient watchfu'ness, lasses an' lads, ing! A huge floating lazar-house, far, far at sea! How changed all may be when I seek the sweet village: A hedge-row may bloom where its street used The floors of my friends may be tortured by tillage, And shades be my shield that as yet are unplanted, In Ireland 'tis night on the flowers of my setting heave for Carefu' an' kin', surroun' his clean caff bed, An' ane behin' supports his achin' head; Rang'd roun' the hearth, where he presides nae Th' inquirin' nybers mourn their sufferin' frien'; An' now an' then divert awa their care By tellin' tales to please some glaiket wean, An' much they say, but a', alas! in vain, And while they're provin' that his end is sure The swain your fine image haunts, far, far at The minister comes in, wha' to the poor Without a fee performs the doctor's part: To quat braid Scotch, a task that foils their art; An' lo! the sick man's dyin' words to 'tend, Th' alarm'd auld circle gather roun', an' weep; Deceiv'd by hope, they thought till now he'd mend, But he thought lang in death's embrace to sleep. I can but lea my blessin' an' advice- An' you, my senior sons, that ay were wise, They a' may walk in wisdom's heavenward way, Do for my late-born babes, an' train them for the Like him, the man o' worth, that's now a clod o' skies. "Be honest an' obligin'; if ye thrive, Be meek; an' firm whan crosses come your road; Should rude men wrang ye, to forgie them strive; An' gratefu' be for benefits bestow'd: Scorn nae poor man wha bears oppression's load, Nor meanly cringe for favours frae the proud; In ae short sentence-Serve baith man an' God. Sae, whan your clay lies mould'rin' in a shroud, Your saul shall soar to heaven, and care nae mair becloud." His strength here fail'd, but still affection's e'e The speechless widow watch'd the stiff'ning clay, And shed some "nat'ral tears"-rack'd yet resign'd; To loud laments the orphan group gied way, An' mourn'd, unfelt, the wants and wrangs they'd find, clay. An' now a striplin', wi' becomin grace, Han's the wauk-supper, in a riddle, roun'; Hard bread, an' cheese, might nicest palates please, Bought frae a huxter in the nyb'rin' town; An' gies them gills a piece o' rum sae brown, By polished sots wi' feign'd reluctance pried; Though here an' there may sit a menseless loun, The thoughtfu' class consider poor folks' need, An' only "kiss the cup," an' hardly ance break bread. While thus they sit, the widow lifts the sheet, To kiss the corps that worms will shortly gnaw; Some argue Scripture some play tricks-some greet; Here they're asleep-an' there they slip awa'. Folk wha lay list'nin' till the cock wad craw, Now rise frae rest, an' come to sit a while; Salute their frien's, and speer for their folk a', An' to the fire step ben, frae which a file O' warmer rustics rise, polite in simplest style. Flung friendless on the warl, that's seldom unco Syne wi' anither glass they hail day-light, kind. Come hither, sons of plenty! an' relieve The bonny bairns, for labour yet owre wee, An' that mild matron, left in life's late eve, Without a stay the ills o' age to dree: Had I your walth, I hame wad tak wi' me The lamb that's lookin' in my tear-wat face; An' that dejected dame should sit rent free In some snug cot, that I wad hae the grace To visit frequently, and bid her hardships cease. Cou'd he whose limbs they decently hae stretch'd, To be mair wise than mind sic notions dark? To bare the shelves o' plates they fa' to wark; Before the looking-glass a claith they cast; An' if a clock were here, nae ear might hark Her still'd han's tell how hours an' moments pass'd; Ignorance bred such pranks, an' custom gars them last. Belyve an old man lifts the Word o' God, Gies out a line, an' sings o' grief an' pain; Reads o'er a chapter, chosen as it should, That maks them sure the dead shall rise again; And prays, that He, wha's hand has gien and ta'en, May be the orphan's guide, the widow's stay; An' that, rememb'rin' death ere health be gane, An' crack mair cruse o' bargains, farms, an' beasts; Or han' tradition down, an' ither fright, Wi' dreadfu' tales o' witches, elves, an' ghaists. The soger lad, wha on his pension rests, Tells how he fought, an' proudly bears his scaur; While unfledg'd gulls, just looking owre their nests, Brag how they lately did their rivals daur, Before their first sweethearts, an' dashed them i' the glaur. An' while some lass, though on their cracks intent, Turns to the light and sleely seems to read; The village sires, wha kent him lang, lament The dear deceas'd, an' praise his life an' creed; For if they crav'd his help in time o' need, Or gied him trust, they prov'd him true an' kin'; "But he," they cry, "wha blames his word or deed, Might say the sun, that now begins to shine, Warn'd to the Cottier's burial, rich an' poor Cam' at the hour, tho' win' an' rain beat sair; An' monie met it at the distant moor, An' duly, time-about, bore up the bier, Twa youths knelt down, and humbly in the grave An' while the sexton earth'd his poor remains, The circling crowd contemplatively stood, That only tald the inmates' years an' names; An' ithers, kneeling, stream'd a saut, saut flood, On the dear dust that held their kinsfolks' framesThen, through the gate they a' pass'd to their diff'rent hames. Erin! my country! while thy green sward gilds Full many a bright man strips thy meads to mow; LORD CASTLEREAGH. BORN 1769 DIED 1822. [Robert Stewart, Lord Castlereagh, after- | the power, and the resources of the British wards Marquis of Londonderry, was the second son of the first marquis, and was born in county Down in the year 1769. The earlier part of his education was received at Armagh, from whence he proceeded to Cambridge in 1786. On leaving college he made the tour of Europe, and on his return in 1790 was elected member for his native county in the Irish parliament. He joined, perhaps without much consideration, the popular party, and made a highly successful début in advocating the right of Ireland to trade with India. For some years he continued to support the popular cause; but as the mutterings of the rebellion drew near he shrank from taking a part with the wild spirits likely soon to rise into power. While some more timid politicians in these circumstances merely held aloof, Lord Castlereagh adopted a decided course: he became a supporter of the government, and in 1798 accepted the office of secretary to Lord Camden. During the rebellion that followed he was most active and untiring in his endeavours to suppress the unfortunate outbreak; but we are constrained to say that none of the cruelties which characterized the government proceedings can be fairly charged to him. The rebellion was scarcely suppressed when the government determined upon bringing about the union of the two countries, Pitt having already decided on this measure even when he had been giving fair promises to Grattan. In the address from the throne at the opening of the Irish parliament in January, 1799, the union was proposed, "for the purpose of consolidating as far as possible into one firm and lasting fabric the strength, Empire." Lord Castlereagh made a speech On After the union Castlereagh remained for a time at his post, though now regarded as the most unpopular man in Ireland-where even to this day his memory is disliked. In 1805 his English career practically commenced by his being appointed secretary at war and for the colonies. In 1809 a long-continued jealousy between him and Mr. Canning, the secretary for foreign affairs, culminated in a duel, in which the latter was wounded, and both secretaries resigned their office. In 1812 |