DEIRDRE

PAGE

. 3431

After a drawing by J. D. Batten.

IRISH FISHING CURRAGH OR CORACLE

From a photograph.

These wicker work boats use from time immemorial.

3458

covered with hides have been in
Made in the same way, but covered

with tarred canvas, they are still in use in some parts of Ire-
land, and in places as far asunder as Thibet and Egypt.

CROSS AT MONASTERBOICE

From a photograph.

FAMINE SCENE IN IRELAND

From a photograph by A. Ayton, Londonderry.

From a photograph by Elliott and Fry, London.

HISTORICAL MAP OF IRELAND.

3486

3575

. 3651

. 3708

After Joyce and others.

STREET SONGS AND BALLADS AND ANONYMOUS

VERSE.

(Continued.)

[This section is arranged alphabetically according to titles, beginning on page 3271 of Volume VIII., with 'The Boyne Water,' and ending on page 3322 of Volume IX., with 'Willy Reilly.']

THE MAID OF CLOGHROE.1

As I roved out, at Faha, one morning,
Where Adrum's tall groves were in view—
When Sol's lucid beams were adorning,
And the meadows were spangled with dew-
Reflecting, in deep contemplation,

On the state of my country kept low,
I perceived a fair juvenile female

On the side of the hill of Cloghroe.

Her form resembled fair Venus,

That amorous Cyprian queen;

She's the charming young sapling of Erin,
As she gracefully trips on the green;

She's tall, and her form it is graceful,

Her features are killing also;

She's a charming, accomplished young maiden,
This beautiful dame of Cloghroe.

Fair Juno, Minerva, or Helen,

Could not vie with this juvenile dame;
Hibernian swains are bewailing,

And anxious to know her dear name.

She's tender, she's tall, and she 's stately,
Her complexion much whiter than snow;
She outrivals all maidens completely,
This lovely young maid of Cloghroe.

▲ Air—' Cailin deas cruithi-na-mbo, The Pretty Girl Milking the Cow."

At Coachfort, at Dripsey, and Blarney
This lovely young maid is admired;
The bucks, at the Lakes of Killarney,
With the fame of her beauty are fired.
Her image, I think, is before me,
And present wherever I go;

Sweet, charming young maid, I adore thee,
Thou beautiful nymph of Cloghroe.

Now aid me, ye country grammarians!
Your learned assistance I claim,
To know the bright name of this fair one—
This charming young damsel of fame.
Two mutes and a fiquid united,

Ingeniously placed in a row,
Spell part of the name of this phoenix,
This beautiful maid of Cloghroe.

A diphthong and three semivowels
Will give us this cynosure's name—
This charming Hibernian beauty,

This lovely, this virtuous young dame.
Had Jupiter heard of this fair one,
He'd descend from Olympus, I know,
To solicit this juvenile phoenix-
This beautiful maid of Cloghroe.

MOLLY MULDOON.1

Molly Muldoon was an Irish girl,
And as fine a one

As you'd look upon

In the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl.
Her teeth were white, though not of pearl,
And dark was her hair, though it did not curl;
Yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair,
But owned that a power o' beauty was there.
Now many a hearty and rattling gorsoon,
Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune,
Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon,
But for that in her eye

Which made most of them shy

And look quite ashamed, though they couldn't tell why

1 This poem was written about 1850, and its authorship has always been a mystery. It has been ascribed to Fitzjames O'Brien.

Her eyes were large, dark blue, and clear,

And heart and mind seemed in them blended.

If intellect sent you one look severe,

Love instantly leapt in the next to mend it.

Hers was the eye to check the rude,

And hers the eye to stir emotion,

To keep the sense and soul subdued,
And calm desire into devotion.

There was Jemmy O'Hare,

As fine a boy as you'd see in a fair,
And wherever Molly was he was there.
His face was round and his build was square,
And he sported as rare

And tight a pair

Of legs to be sure, as are found anywhere.
And Jemmy would wear

His caubeen and hair

With such a peculiar and rollicking air,
That I'd venture to swear

Not a girl in Kildare,

Nor Victoria's self, if she chanced to be there,

Could resist his wild way-called "Devil may care."
Not a boy in the parish could match him for fun,

Nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor run

With Jemmy-no gorsoon could equal him-none.
At wake or at wedding, at feast or at fight,

At throwing the sledge with such dext'rous sleight,-
He was the envy of men, and the women's delight.

Now Molly Muldoon liked Jemmy O'Hare,

And in troth Jemmy loved in his heart Miss Muldoon.

I believe in my conscience a purtier pair

Never danced in a tent at a patthern in June,

To a bagpipe or fiddle

On the rough cabin-door

That is placed in the middle

Ye may talk as ye will,

There's a grace in the limbs of the peasantry there

With which people of quality couldn't compare.

And Molly and Jemmy were counted the two

That could keep up the longest and go the best through
All the jigs and the reels

That have occupied heels

Since the days of the Murtaghs and Brian Boru.

It was on a long bright sunny day

They sat on a green knoll side by side,
But neither just then had much to say;

Their hearts were so full that they only tried

To do anything foolish, just to hide.

What both of them felt, but what Molly denied.

They plucked the speckled daisies that grew

Close by their arms,-then tore them too;

And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalk
They threw at each other for want of talk;
While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile,
Reflected pure souls without art or guile;
And every time Molly sighed or smiled,
Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child;
And he fancied the sky never looked so bright,
The grass so green, the daisies so white;
Everything looked so gay in his sight

That gladly he'd linger to watch them till night-
And Molly herself thought each little bird,
Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred,-
Sang only his lay but by her to be heard.

An Irish courtship's short and sweet,
It's sometimes foolish and indiscreet;

But who is wise when his young heart's heat
Whips the pulse to a galloping beat—
Ties up the judgment neck and feet,

And makes him the slave of a blind conceit?

Sneer not therefore at the loves of the poor,

Though their manners be rude, their affections are pure;

They look not by art, and they love not by rule,

For their souls are not tempered in fashion's cold school.

Oh! give me the love that endures no control

But the delicate instinct that springs from the soul,
As the mountain stream gushes in freshness and force,

Yet obedient, wherever it flows, to its source.

Yes, give me the love that but Nature has taught,

By rank unallured and by riches unbought;

Whose very simplicity keeps it secure

The love that illuminates the hearts of the poor.

All blushful was Molly, or shy at least,
As one week before Lent

Jem procured her consent

To go the next Sunday and speak to the priest.
Shrove Tuesday was named for the wedding to be,