depression of their party and their religion. James II. is universally spoken of, by the lower orders of Ireland, with the utmost contempt; and distinguished by an appellation, which is too strong for ears polite, but which is universally given to him. His celebrated exclamation at the battle of the Boyne, "O, spare my English subjects !" being taken in the most perverse sense; instead of obtaining for him the praise of wishing to shew some lenity to those whom he still considered as rightfully under his sceptre, even in their opposition to his cause, was, by his Irish partizans, construed into a desire of preferring the English, on all occasions, to them. The celebrated reply of the captive officer to William, that "if the armies changed generals, victory would take a different side," is carefully remembered; and every misfortune that happened in the war of the revolution, is laid to the charge of James's want of courage. The truth is, he appears to have displayed little of the military qualities which distinguished him in former days.

The first of these three songs is a great favourite, principally from its beautiful air. I am sure, there is scarcely a peasant in the south of Ireland who has not heard it. The second is the White Cockade, of which the first verse is English. The third is, at least, in Irish, a strain of higher mood; and, from its style and language, evidently written by a man of more than ordinary information.

O, SAY MY BROWN DRIMIN !

A Drimin doan dilis no sioda* na mbo.

(Drimin is the favourite name of a cow, by which Ireland is here allegorically denoted. The five ends of Erin are the five kingdoms, Munster, Leinster, Ulster, Connaught, and Meath, into which the island was divided, under the Milesian dynasty.)

Silk of the cows, an idiomatic expression, for the most beautiful of cattle, which I have preserved in translating.

O, say my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kine,
Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of thy line?

Too deep, and too long, is the slumber they take,
At the loud call of freedom, why don't they awake?

My strong ones have fallen, from the bright eye of day,
All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay;
The cold turf is o'er them, they hear not my cries,
And, since Lewis no aid gives, I cannot arise.

O! where art thou, Lewis? our eyes are on thee;
Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the sea?
In freedom's last strife, if you linger or quail,
No morn e'er shall break on the night of the Gael.

But should the king's son, now bereft of his right,
Come proud in his strength, for his country to fight;
Like leaves on the trees, will new people arise,
And deep from their mountains, shout back to my cries.

When the prince, now an exile, shall come for his own,
The isles of his father, his rights, and his throne,
My people in battle the Saxons will meet,

And kick them before, like old shoes from their feet.

O'er mountains and valleys, they'll press on their rout,
The five ends of Erin shall ring to the shout;
My sons, all united, shall bless the glad day,
When the flint-hearted Saxon they've chas'd far away.

THE AVENGER.

Da bfeacin se'n la sin bo seasta bfeic m'intin.

O, Heavens ! if that long-wished for morning I spied,
As high as three kings I'd leap up in my pride;
With transport I'd laugh, and my shout should arise,
As the fires from each mountain blaz'd bright to the skies.
The Avenger should lead us right on to the foe,
Our horns should sound out, and our trumpets should

blow,

Ten thousand huzzas should ascend to high heaven, When our Prince was restored, and our fetters were

riven.

O! chieftains of Ulster, when will you come forth,
And send your strong cry on the winds of the north?
The wrongs of a king call aloud for your steel,
Red stars of the battle, O'Donnel, O'Neal !

Bright house of O'Connor, high offspring of kings,
Up, up like the eagle, when heavenward he springs!
O, break ye once more from the Saxon's strong rule,
Lost race of Mac Murchad, O'Byrne, and O'Toole !

Mononia* of Druids, green dwelling of song,
Where, where are thy minstrels, why sleep they so long?

* In Mononia, (Munster) Druidism appears to have flourished most, as we may conjecture, from the numerous remains of Druidical workmanship, and the names of places indicating that worship. The records of the province are the best kept of any in Ireland, and it has proverbially_retained among the peasantry, a character for superior learning.-Blackwood's Magazine.

Does no bard live to wake, as they oft did before,
M'Carthy,-O'Brien,-O'Sullivan,-More?

O, come from yon hills, like the waves to the shore, When the storm-girded headlands are mad with the roar! Ten thousand hurras shall ascend to high heaven, When our prince is restor'd, and our fetters are riven.,

The names in this last song are those of the principal families in Ireland, many of whom, however, were decided enemies of the house of Stuart. You cannot fail to observe the strange expectation: which these writers entertained of the nature of the Pretender's designs. They call on him, not to come to re-instate himself on the throne of his fathers, but to aid them in doing vengeance on the "flint-hearted Saxon." Nothing, however, could be more natural. The Irish Jacobites, at least the Roman Catholics, were in the habit of claiming the Stuarts, as of the Milesian line, fondly deducing them from Fergus, and the Celts of Ireland. Who the Avenger is, whose arrival is prayed for in the last song, I am not sure; but circumstances, too tedious to be detailed, make me think, that the date of the song is 1708, when a general impression prevailed, that the field would be taken in favour of the Pretender, under a commander of more weight and authority than had come forward before. His name was kept a secret. Very little has been written on the history of the jacobites of Ireland, and yet, I think it would be an interesting subject. We have now arrived at a time when it could be done, without exciting any angry feelings.

Blackwood's Magazine.

ODE TO IMAGINATION.

As we are intimately acquainted with the author of this Ode, we must forbear commenting upon it. We therefore leave its merits to be determined by the judgment of our readers.-ED.

Say, who art thou, whose vivid eye,
Darting the vault of heav'n along,
Proclaims thee daughter of the sky,
Parent of poesy and song?
Of thee the ancient poets told,

That grac'd the happier age of gold,

Ere art had strung the unpractis'd lyre,—

Ere the soft voice of music stole
In melting sweetness on the soul,
And 'woke celestial fire.

But still to us thou art unknown,
Spite of the poet's well-sung lay;
Who can ascend thy fairy throne,

Or trace thy devious, hermit way?
A sylvan nymph thou oft dost rove
The dark-browd wood, the twilight grove,
Or, musing 'neath some aged tower,
Thou dost behold, in pause divine,
The heavenly constellations shine,
And mark eternal power.

Visions of high, ethereal bliss,
And madding inspirations glow,
Scenes of romantic happiness,

That never lingered here below;