Sighs more precious far than gold,
Neither to be bought nor sold;
Lips and cheeks of vernal hues,
Nods, and smiles, and soft adieus ;
Dreams as light as summer air,
Valentines when linnets pair.

Now she's coy and now she's kind,

Then, as fickle as the wind;

Talks of nunneries and beads—
What a life a lover leads!

Connaught.

CONNAUGHT, long fam'd for pedigrees
Of man and beast of all degrees ;
With many a Mac, and many an O,
The darling pride of high and low;
And if united in one race,
Make way and give OMac that place.
What do ye think, ye sons of earth,
Who place no price, alas! on birth,
Whose souls are all absorb'd in gains,
If you should visit these dear plains,
You'd be despis'd, and so you should,
For I myself can boast some blood.

Say, Connaught, fam'd for woods and waters,

Can I forget thy lovely daughters?

As straight as any solar beam,

As pure as any limpid stream;

With snowy neck and coal-black hair,
And breasts as soft as yielding air;

There

There Cupid should reside alone,

There Venus should erect her throne;
There Mars would find a body guard,
And ev'ry glorious deed a bard;
There hospitality resides,

There plenty flows in copious tides;
There Bacchus shews his honest face,
And there chaste Dian wings the chase.
Where'er I chance to roam by day,
In Connaught let me pass the night;
There let me modulate the lay,

There let the muse take her last flight.

If Thaddeus Ruddy could not paint his passion in all the glow of Petrarch, it was at least as warm and as pure; and if Bridget was not so beautiful as Laura, she was at least as cruel poets, in truth, are seldom successful in love; the haughty fair seldom yield to the "concord of sweet sounds;" and our bard may be added to the number of those who have sung, but sung in vain; for Bridget gave her hand to a young man, that found a powerful advocate in a large herd of swine, and a flock of sheep. I could not learn how the poet bore this severe stroke; it appears, however, that he found consolation in religion, the never-failing balm of a bleeding heart! The battles between the Danes and the Irish have furnished the poets of both countries with fruitful themes, particularly the

latter.

latter. As the Song of Dearg is one of the most popular of these ballads, especially in the West of Ireland, I have attempted a literal translation of it, but must confess that it is not an easy task to catch the spirit of the original, as it was undoubtedly composed in moments propitious to poetry, and is allowed by the best judges of the original to be the most happy effusion of any that now remain of Thaddeus Ruddy, whose memory will be dear to the few who have any taste for productions of this kind,

THE SONG OF DEARG.

"The religion of the North was military; if they could not find enemies, it was their duty to make them: they travelled in quest of danger, and willingly took the chance of empire or Johnson's Journey to the Hebrides,

death."

O, YE snowy-breasted nymphs of Erin, with gray-blue glistening eyes, lend attention to the song of Dearg! swell his weak notes with your accents, while softly he awakes the living string : while yet the whispers of the morn sleep on the pillowy palely lighted waves of Gowna, and the blue stream of light is yet untinged by the inconstant blushes of the East. I will sing of the great man, and his exploits; the strong man,

great

who rushed to our shore, full of glory and strength, to contend with our chiefs; the man whose name was Dearg Mac Drucoll. Before he rode to us on the bosom of the deep, he spoke the word, and sealed it with a vow, that the great and mighty of our land should bend to his power; for the wind had scattered the fame of our heroes abroad, and Dearg Mac Drucoll spread his sails to the breezes. From the East he came, from the country of Finnland, to the golden and peace-inviting vales of Erin*. He sought our men of strength to play death with them in every combat. He gained the whitetoothed harbour of Bin Edur† of the host, for the powers of sleep had fallen on the souls of Rosgglan, the son of Fion, and Coal Croda, the son of Criomtin, two of no slender courage, appointed to guard the haven of White Froth: they slept, and the strong man approached be neath a winning form, with the point of his sword foremost. He leaped from his bark, which float, ing softly after on the gentle swell, soon pressed the cloud-freaked sandy shore. His hair flew loosely on the wanton gale, or fell amusive in yellow folds of parting white; while eyes of softest blue shone mild, diffusing smiles around the warrior's ruddy brow.

* One of the poetical names of Ireland.

↑ The hill of Howth.

He

He ranged the shore, and climbed the rising pride of Edur; thence he viewed a wide and fertile land. He saw his ships now struggling with the wind, for it rose high, and rolled upon the deep with anger. He was troubled at the sight, and he descended heavily towards the waves. A lance, stained with the blood of thousands that had fallen beneath his arm, the hero bore; the hero who ranged around to encounter men of mighty deeds. A flowing robe, sprinkled with stones of living light, hung loosely over the chief, with eyes of beaming blue. A sword of flame, whofe hilt was richly graced, filled his warlike hand. A golden shield, bright as the burnished moon, when she lifts her broad orb from behind the sea, fell over the left shoulder of the prince, the son of the high king; and a helmet of wondrous frame shone high on his towering head.

Dearg Mac Drucoll levied tribute from all the princes of the East, by his power and his strength, and mighty achievements in battles and single combat.

Now, then, bursting from the bonds of sleep, the son of the bright eye arose and seized his spear, which, glancing on the face of day, shone dreadful to the approaching foe. His wanton locks flowed loose, like new-poured gold, and his eye appeared like the evening star