justified. Moore unquestionably revived the spirit of Irish melody and first infused into poetry the legends of the land. It is Callanan's distinction-a great one, though ignored till now that he was the first to give adequate versions of Irish Gaelic poems. Compared with preceding and many subsequent attempts, they are marvellously close and true to their originals. Take, for example, the passionate vehemence of the 'Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear,' the native simplicity of 'The Girl I love' and 'Brown Drimin,' the strain of weirdness in The Outlaw of Loch Lene,' given in a metre unusual in English, but known in Irish, and the pure ballad pathos of The Convict of Clonmel.' The 'Lament of O'Gnive' is a paraphrase and somewhat Byronised: Ferguson's more faithful rendering is more effective. Callanan was among the first (after the popular balladists) to introduce a Gaelic refrain into English poetry, as witness his verses entitled 'Tusa ta measg na reultan mōr' (Thou who art among the greater planets'). He is not, indeed, one of the greater planets, but yet shines with a clear light. GEORGE SIGERSON.

THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY was published in 1830, and a volume of collected poems in 1861, since when there have been several reprints.

DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEAR

(FROM THE IRISH)

One of the Sullivans of Bearhaven, who went by the mame of Morty Oge, fell under the vengeance of the law. He had long been a very popular character in the wild district which he inhabited, and was particularly obnoxious to the local authorities, who had good reason to suspect him of enlisting men for the Irish Brigade in the French service, in which it was said he held a captain's commission. Information of his raising these wild geese' (the name by which recruits were known) was given by a Mr. Puxley, on whom in consequence O'Sullivan vowed revenge, which he executed by shooting him on Sunday while on his way to church. This called for the interposition of the higher powers, and accordingly a party of military was sent round from Cork to attack O'Sullivan's house. He was daring and well armed; and the house was fortified, so that he made an obstinate defence. At last a confidential servant of his, named Scully, was bribed to wet the powder in the guns and pistols prepared for his defence, which rendered him powerless. He attempted to escape, but while springing over a high wall in the rear of his house he received a mortal wound in the back. They tied his body to a boat, and

dragged it in that manner through the sea from Bearhaven to Cork, where his head was cut off and fixed on the county gaol, where it remained for several years. Such is the story current among the people of Bearhaven. The dirge is supposed to have been the composition of O'Sullivan's aged nurse. -Author's note.

THE sun on Ivera

No longer shines brightly,
The voice of her music

No longer is sprightly,
No more to her maidens

The light dance is dear,
Since the death of our darling
O'Sullivan Bear.

Scully thou false one,

You basely betrayed him,

In his strong hour of need,

When thy right hand should aid him ;

He fed thee-he clad thee-

You had all could delight thee:

You left him-you sold him—

May Heaven requite thee!

Scully! may all kinds

Of evil attend thee!

On thy dark road of life

May no kind one befriend thee!

May fevers long burn thee,

And agues long freeze thee!

May the strong hand of God

In His red anger seize thee!

Had he died calmly

I would not deplore him,

Or if the wild strife

Of the sea-war closed o'er him ;

But with ropes round his white limbs

Through ocean to trail him,

Like a fish after slaughter-

'Tis therefore I wail him,

Long may the curse

Of his people pursue them :
Scully that sold him,

And soldier that slew him!
One glimpse of heaven's light
May they see never!
May the hearthstone of hell

Be their best bed for ever!

In the hole which the vile hands
Of soldiers had made thee,
Unhonour'd, unshrouded,
And headless they laid thee;
No sigh to regret thee,

No eye to rain o'er thee,

No dirge to lament thee,

No friend to deplore thee!

Dear head of my darling,
How gory and pale
These aged eyes see thee,

High spiked on their gaol!
That cheek in the summer sun
Ne'er shall grow warm;
Nor that eye e'er catch light,
But the flash of the storm.

A curse, blessed ocean,

Is on thy green water, From the haven of Cork

To Ivera of slaughter: Since thy billows were dyed

With the red wounds of fear,

Of Muiertach Oge,

Our O'Sullivan Bear!

THE CONVICT OF CLONMEL

(FROM THE IRISH)

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,

And the goal-ball I'd strike
To the lightning of heaven.

At my bed-foot decaying,
My hurlbat is lying ;
Thro' the boys of the village

My goal-ball is flying;
My horse 'mong the neighbours
Neglected may fallow,

While I pine in my chains

In the gaol of Clonmala.

Next Sunday the patron

At home will be keeping,
And the young active hurlers
The field will be sweeping;
With the dance of fair maidens
The evening they'll hallow,
While this heart, once so gay,

Shall be cold in Clonmala.

Cluain meala (Field of honey'): Irish of Clonmel.'

GOUGAUNE BARRA

THERE is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra,
Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow,

In deep-vallied Desmond—a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake from their home in the mountains.
There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow,
As, like some gay child that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.

And its zone of dark hills-oh! to see them all bright'ning,
When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning,
And the waters rush down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle
Like clans from the hills at the voice of the battle;
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,
And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming,
Oh where is the dwelling, in valley or highland,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island?

How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara,
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,

Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean,
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion,
And thought of thy bards when, assembling together
In the clefts of thy rocks or the depth of thy heather,
They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter
And waked their last song by the rush of thy water.

High sons of the lyre, oh! how proud was the feeling,
To think while alone through that solitude stealing,
Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number,
I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,
And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains

The songs even Echo forgot on her mountains;

And glean'd each grey legend that darkly was sleeping
Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty were creeping.

Least bard of the hills were it mine to inherit
The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit,

H