The planetary sisters all And weep this hapless brother's fall But deepest of the choral band From the deep chambers of the dome The thousand car-borne cherubim All join to chant the dirge of him From THE FIGHT OF THE FORLORN THE CHIEF loquitur: BARD! to no brave chief belonging, Hath green Eire no defenders? See her sons to battle thronging, Gael's broad-swords and Ir's bow-benders! Clan Tir-oer! Clan Tir-conel ! Atha's royal sept of Connacht! Fierce O'More! and stout MacDonacht Hear the sounding spears of Tara 1 Humming his short song of battle! 2 'Darley has a note deriving Tara,' originally Teamur,' from Teachmor, or 'Great House '-the palace of the Irish Kings. 2 This phrase evidently refers to the metrical structure of the Gaelic Rosg-catha, or battle-song. Ullin's chief, the great O'Nial, And disdains this long delaying! Gray O'Ruark's self doth chide me, Red-branch crests, like roses flaming, SAMUEL LOVER THE versatility of Lover is one of the stock examples in Irish biography, and it is somewhat difficult to say in which of his various capacities he best succeeded. I am inclined to think that it is as a humorous poet that he ranks highest. He has many competitors in other branches of intellectual activity, but there are very few indeed who can be placed on the same level as a humorist in verse. His work as a miniature painter, as a composer, and as a novelist, excellent as it is, is likely to be forgotten long before such racy songs as 'Widow Machree,' 'Molly Carew,' 'Barney O'Hea,' and 'Rory O'More,' to name but a few of his best-known pieces, have become obsolete. There is an archness, an irresistible gaiety in these effusions to which it is difficult to find a parallel even among Irish writers. When he attempts the serious or sentimental, he generally fails lamentably. Humour is his most legitimate quality he is the arch-humorist among Irish poets. He was born in Dublin on February 24, 1797, and gave early indication of his literary and musical gifts, to the annoyance of his father, a worthy stockbroker, whose intention it was to train him in business, and who disliked the arts. Finally his scruples were overcome, but the result was a permanent estrangement. The younger Lover began his career as a painter, and obtained very considerable reputation by his admirable miniatures of Paganini, Thalberg, and others, which were declared by competent judges to be worthy of the best professors of the art. Weakness of sight compelled him to turn to another means of livelihood, and he wrote many clever short stories, afterwards collected together in the two volumes of LEGENDS AND STORIES OF IRELAND. Subsequently he produced the longer stories known to most readers as HANDY ANDY; RORY O'MORE; and TREASURE TROVE: OR, HE WOULD BE A GENTLEMAN. These were illustrated by capital comic etchings of his own. Meanwhile his songs, nearly three hundred of which were set to music as well as written by himself, extended his fame far and wide. His more ambitious poetical efforts are weak, and the same thing may be practically said of his stories. He has never done anything in fiction better than BARNEY O'REARDON THE NAVIGATOR, and certainly his richly humorous songs are the only tolerable efforts of his Muse. He was granted a Civil List pension of 100/. in 1856, and after a long and prosperous life died in Jersey on July 6, 1868. In person he was almost as diminutive as his countrymen, Tom Moore and Crofton Croker; and, like them, he was very popular with all who had the pleasure of meeting him. D. J. O DONOGHUE. WIDOW MACHREE WIDOW MACHREE, it's no wonder you frown, Och hone! Widow Machree, Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown, How altered your air With that close cap you wear, 'Tis destroying your hair That should be flowing free; Be no longer a churl Of its black silken curl, Och hone! Widow Machree. Widow Machree, now the summer is come, Och hone! Widow Machree, When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum ? Och hone! Widow Machree. See, the birds go in pairs, And the rabbits and hares- Now in couples agree And the mute little fish, Though they can't spake, they wish Och hone! Widow Machree. Widow Machree, and when winter comes in, To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, Sure the shovel and tongs To each other belongs, While the kettle sings songs Full of family glee! Yet alone with your cup, Like a hermit you sup, Och hone! Widow Machree. And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld, Och hone! Widow Machree, But you're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld? With such sins on your head Some ghost or some sprite That would wake you at night, Crying, 'Och hone! Widow Machree!' Then take my advice, darling Widow Machree, And, with my advice, faith, I wish you'd take me, You'd have me to desire And sure Hope is no liar That the ghosts would depart When you'd me near your heart, BARNEY O'HEA Now let me alone, though I know you won't, It makes me outrageous When you're so contagious, And you'd better look out for the stout Corney Creagh ; For he is the boy That believes I'm his joy, So you'd better behave yourself, Barney O'Hea! Impudent Barney, None of your blarney, Impudent Barney O'Hea! I hope you're not going to Bandon Fair, For Corney's at Cork, And my brother's at work, And my mother sits spinning at home all the day, Of poor me to take care, So I hope you won't follow me, Barney O'Hea! None of your blarney, Impudent Barney O'Hea! But as I was walking up Bandon Street, He said I looked killin', I called him a villain, |