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 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 combf 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. How hard is my fortune 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. And the gaol-ball I'd strike To the lightning of heaven. At my bed-foot decaying My horse 'mong the neighbours Next sunday the patron At home will be keeping, KEEN ON THE EDITOR'S DEPARTURE FROM TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH BY THE EDITOR.-MAY 1829. I TRUST I shall not be accused of egotism for giving a keen, or rather some impromptu verses on my leaving Ireland, as they afford a specimen of the improvisatory power of the professional keener. The evening previous to leaving my mother's cottage at Blackrock, near Cork, for England, as I sat after dinner, the well-known face and hooded head of Mrs. Leary appeared before the open window. After a cough, to attract attention, Mrs. Leary thus proceeded: ""Twas last night I came back, sir, from a great funeral that I was sent for to, down into Muskerry; and 'twas this morning I heard your honour was going from us away; so I just made bold to step up to wish you a safe journey, and that luck and grace may attend you wherever you go." Here the further good wishes of Mrs. Leary were checked by a glass of wine being offered to her. "Your health, and long life to you, sir, and the same to the good ladies that are there with you, and the gentleman—sure I ought to know him, I'm thinking; but my eyes, you see, are getting very weak from all the crying I have to do." "Your nurse?" inquired the gentleman alluded to. "No, not my nurse, but a far more extraordinary woman in her way—a keener. Well, Mrs. Leary, have you picked up any new keens for me in Muskerry?" "May be 'tis a funning of me you want to make this evening for the ladies and gentleman there. Sure 'tis to no use keening unless the corpse was stretched out before one; and, praise be to God for it! 'tis only the best of wine that is laid out there." "But, Mrs. Leary," said the writer, who, like Sir Condy in Castle Rackrent, had taken a great fancy to hear what would be said of him after his departure, "now suppose that I am dead, and that you were sent for to keen me." "Glory be to the Almighty for it, 'tis alive and hearty you are this blessed day, and not in want of keening," replied Mrs. Leary. "But suppose I was dead, Mrs. Leary; or suppose I should be drowned going to England, you surely then would keen me?” "The Lord forbid" "But if it did so happen" 66 Oh, then, indeed, no one would keen you as I would; and |