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This Day is Published,

BLACKWOOD'S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE,

No. LVIII. FOR DECEMBER.-1821.

7

Contents. I. Stanzas Dedicatory to Francis Jeffrey, Esq. &c. &c. &c.-II. Christmas Chit-Chat.-III. Vanderbrummer ; or the Spinosist.-IV. Seashore Reflections at Sun-set.—V. The Primrose.

- VI. Specimens of a Free and Easy Translation of Horace.- VII. On the Probable Influence of Moral and Religious Instruction on the Character and Situation of Seamen. No. 4.-VIII

. Parini's Giorno.-IX. On the Italian Schools of Painting. No. I. On the Storia Pittorica of the Abate Lanzi, and the Works of Andrea del Sarto, and his Followers.-X. Howison's Canada. - XI. Christophe, late Emperor of Hayti.- XII. Horæ Cantabrigiensis. No. VIII.-XIII. Ancient National Melodies, with the Music. No. 1. Song 1. Comparisons are Odious

. A Chaunt

. Song 2. Cobbet's Complaint. A Dirge.-XIV. A Midsummer Night's Dream, in Blank Verse, by Blaize Fitstravesty, Esq.-XV. Drouthiness.—XVI. The Leg of Mutton School of Prose. No. 1. The Cook's Oracle.—XVII. On Early Bird Rising. In a Letter to Mr North.—XVIII. The Literary Pocket-Book ; or Companion for the Lover of Nature and Art.-XIX. Singular Recovery from Death.-XX. Quip Modest to Mr Barker ; in a Letter to Christopher North, Esq.—XXI. Works Preparing for Publication.-XXII. Monthly List of New Publications.—XXIII.

Monthly Register. Commercial Report. Apa pointments, Promotions, &c. Births, Marriages, and Deaths.

&c. &c. &c.

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PRINTED FOR WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH; AND

T, CADELL, LONDON.

BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

To. LIX.

DECEMBER, (PART II.) 1821.

VOL. X.

IRISH MELODIES.

NO. I.

I
DEAR NORTH,

tered as plumbs in the holiday pudo It has often struck me with asto- dings of a Yorkshire boarding-school, ishment, that the people of Ireland and scattered, for the same reason, just pould have so tamely submitted to to save appearances, and give a title to Ir Thomas Moore's audacity, in pre- the assumed name. There's the Vale xing the title of Irish to his melo- of Ovoca, for instance, a song upon a ies. That the tunes are Irish, I ad- valley in Wicklow, but which would uit; but as for the songs, they in ge- suit any other valley in the world, eral have as much to do with Ire provided always it had three syllables, -.nd, as with Nova Scotia. What an and the middle one of due length. ish affair for example" Go where Were I in a savage mood, I could lory waits thee," &c. Might not it cut him up with as much ease as a uve been sung by a cheesemonger's butcher in Ormond market dissects an iughter of High Holborn when her ox from the county of Tipperary; but aster's apprentice was going in a fit I shall spare him for this time, in

valour to list himself in the third tending, if I have leisure, to devote uffs, or by any other such amatory an entire paper to prove his utter in arson, as well as a Hibernian Virgin? competence; at present I shall only nd if so, where is the Irishism of the ask, whether, in these pseudo-Irish iing at all ? Again,

Melodies, there is one song about our "hen in death I shall calm reclinc,

saints, fairs, wakes, rows, patrons, or Bear heart to my mistress dear ;'

any other diversion among us? Is my ell her it fed upon smiles and wine

there one drinking song which decent

individuals would willingly roar forth ell her it fed upon fiddlesticks ! Pret- after dinner in soul-subduing soloes, or food for an Irishman's heart for the give to the winds in the full swell of a dies ! Not a man of us from Carn- thirty-man chorus ? Not one-nore Point to Bloody Forland would not one. Here am I, M. M. Mulli. ve a penny a pound for smiles; and gan-who, any night these twenty

for wine, in the name of decency, is years, might have been discovered by at a Milesian beverage ? Far from it him whom it concerned, discussing deed; it is not to be imagined that my four-and-twentieth tumbler, and should give five or six shillings for a giving the side of the festive board, or ottle of grape-juice, which would not the chair presiding o'er the sons of > within five quarts of relieving me light, with songs fit to draw nine souls om the horrors of sobriety, when for out of one weaver, and, of course, hearle self-same sum I could stow under ing others in my turn-ready to declare y belt a full gallon of Roscrea, drink that never was song of Moore's sung yond comparison superior. The idea in my company; and that is decisive. in fact absurd. But there would be If any one should appeal from my long ? end were i to point out all the un- experience-let such unbelieving perish points of Moore's poetry. Allu- son leave the case to any independent ons to our localities, it is true, we jury, selected indifferently from all dismetimes meet with, as thinly scat- tricts,-from the honest Inishowen

* This expression, I own, is Irish ; but it is lost by the common punctuation, mistress dear, which is st as bald an epithet as any man would wish to meet with on a day's journey. Vol. X.

4 H

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consumers of the north, down to the can resist pressing of this kind, and I wet-gulleted devourers of Tommy yielded. Talbot, in the handsomest Walker in the south, and he will be manner, volunteered to set the airsconvinced. In fact, my dear North, for which, though I offered him inread over his “ Fill the bumper fair, stant payment, he would not suffer me and you will find, that instead of gi- to remunerate him in any other manving us a real hearty chanson-a-boire, ner than by permitting me to treat as we say in Dunkirk, you have a par- him to a hot glass. When it was askcel of mythological botheration about ed what would be the best vehicle for Prometheus, and other stale person- giving them to the public, we voted ages, which, in the days of heathen that the only Irish Magazine, as you ism, would be laughed at for its igno- truly styled your great work last Norance, as it is now, in the days of Chris- vember, was the fit soil for the planting tianity, voted a bore for its imperti- of Irish melodies; and it was carried nence. And is this the national song- unanimously that they should be in. writer for this much-injured and hard- stantly transmitted to your care, Mr drinking island ? --Perish the idea !- North. If you publish them, my fame

, As an oratorical friend of mine

once and that of my country, will be matesaid at an aggregate meeting in Fish- rially extended. I think you will find amble Street, such a thought is a stig- them superior to the mere milk-andma upon humanity, and a taint upon water affairs which you see in your the fiuer feelings of man !

every-day reading. A fair sort of young man, the Hon. I have not aimed, or rather Talbot Mr O'Callaghan, of the White Knight's has not aimed, at bothering the plain family, has been so struck with this and simple melody by any adventitious deficiency of Mr T. Moore, that he is airs and graces. You have them, un going to give us a number of melodies adorned, adorned the most—that is, in opposition to those of our little bard. stark-naked. The piano trashery has I wish him success, but I am afraid bedevilled the tunes given by Moore

; that, though he is an ingenious per- and this is another instance of thie son, he is not possessed of that ideal man's insufficiency. Just think of the faculty which is requisite for the task. piano being chosen as the instrument For fear he should

fail, I have deter for Irish airs, when he had, as a southmined to start, and shew the world a ern correspondent of yours sings, real specimen of true Irish melody, The harp or bagpipe, which you please

, in a series of songs symphonious to to melodize with ! Moore first had Sir the feelings of my countrymen. Nei- John Stevenson as his composer, (who ther Moore nor O’Callaghan will, I now is at work for Mr OʻCallaghan

) flatter myself, be much read after this and then he took up Bishop-both series of mine. I hate boasting; but, friends of mine, with whom I often pocas polabras—as Christopher Sly have cleaned out a bottle, and thereobserves.

fore I shall not say any thing derogaWe were talking about the business tory of either. In short, let the publast Thursday, at the Cock in Mary- lic judge between Moore, Mulligan, street, while Talbot was playing most and O'Callaghar-Bishop, Talbot, and divinely on the Union pipes. There Stevenson-and God defend the right

. were present Terence Flanagan, Pat. I shall make a few remarks on the Moriarty, Jerry O'Geogheghan, Phea melodies I send, and then conclude. lim Macgillicuddy, Callaghan O’- Indeed I had not an idea of writing Shaughnessy, and some other equally half so much when I began. well-known and respected characters, Melody the first is theological

, who are to a man good judges of punch, taining the principal acts of our na: porter, and poetry ; and they agreed tional Saint-his

coming to Ireland or it would be a sin if I did not publish a stone-his never-emptying can, comma I wrote in the tap-room the night be changing a leg of mutton into a sala half-dozen of melodies, four of which monly called St Patrick's pot-bis fore, just to get rid of a quarter of an

mon in Lent time--and his banishhour or so, while I was finishing a few

ment of the snakes. Consult Jocelyn, pints in solitary reflection. No man or his translator, E. L. Swift, Esq. (1)

(1) The tune to which Mr Mulligan has put these words is a great favourite in Tereta land. It is said the original words ("* The night before Lary was stretched”) were ten by a very learned gentleman, who is now a dignitary of the established church in Ireland. It is a first-rate slang song. C. N.

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: Melody the second is pathetic, be on the spur of the occasion this morning the Lamentation of a Connaught ing, at the time noted. It is to the Ranger, discharged. I had eleven famous tune of Lillebullero--my uncle cousins in that regiment. I may as Toby's favourite; and the tune, as well give it as my opinion, that the you may see, by Burnet, with which only cure for our present difficulties, Lord Wharton whistled King James, is to go to war without delay; and I of the unsavoury surname, out of venture to say, if an aggregate meet- three kingdoms. It is among us a. ing of the seven millions of us could party air, and called the Protestant be called any where, a war would be Boys; but honest men of all parties voted nem. con.

I don't much care must approve of my words. They with whom, that being an after- come home to every man's feelings. thought, but I certainly would prefer The last is sentimental. I wrote it having a shaking of those ugly-looking merely to prove I could write fine if garlic-eaters, the Spaniards, who are

I liked;

but it cost me a lot of trouble. now so impudent as to imagine they I actually had to go to the Commercould have fought the French without cial Buildings, and swallow seven cups Cis. I heard one Pedro Apodaca say of the most sloppish Bohea I could s much, and I just knocked him get, and eat a quartern loaf cut into lown, to shew him I did not agree thin slices before I was in a fit mood to with him in opinion. I would en- write such stuff. If I were to continue çage, that 200,000 men would be rain that diet, I should be the first of your ed in a day in this country, and if we pretty song writers in the empire; but would not batter the Dons I it would be the death of me in a week. eave it to the reader.

I am not quite recovered from that The third is amatory. Compare this breakfast yet—and I do not wonder at vith the best of Tom Moore's ditties. the unfortunate figure the poor

CockBut to be sure it is absurd to think of neys cut who are everlastingly suffer

man of his inches talking of making ing under the deleterious effects of ove to half the girls of the country, tea-drinking: is he does in Little's poems.

I have scribbled to the end of my The fourth is warlike—something paper, so must conclude. Believe me in the manner of Sir Walter Scott's to

my

dear North, fatherings. It relates to a feud in

Your's truly, Kerry. (2)

Morty MACNAMARA MULLIGAN. The fifth is convivial, and was ex- P. S. Why don't you come to Duba empore. I did not write it with the lin? ther four, but actually chaunted it 9, Suffolk Street, Nov. 16, 1820.

SONG I.

SAINT PATRICK

A

FIG for St Den-nis of France, He's a trumpery fellow to

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brag on; A fig for St George and his lance, Which spitted a

(2) The tune of this (“ The Groves of the Pool”) is indigenous of the South of Ireind. There is a capital song to this tune, by R. Millikin of Cork, beginning with Now the war, dearest Nancy, is ended, and peace is come over from France." Milkin is the author of the Groves of Blarney, which Mathews sings with so much effect. 'he Standard-Bearer has supplied us with some lines on that unknown poet. See No. LVII, p. 382.

There is a sort of sketch of his life in Ryan's Worthies of Ireland. We should ladly make room for a fuller account, with specimens of his poetry. If it is goodmas e are sure it must its locality will be of little consequence. C. N.

&

heathenish dragon: And the saints of the Welshman and Scot Are

pi-ti- ful couple of pipers, Both of whom may just travel to pot, If come

pared with the pa-tron of swipers, St Patrick of Ireland, my dear.

1.
A fig for St Dennis of France,

He's a trumpery fellow to brag on;
A fig for St George and his lanee,
Which

spitted a heathenish dragon ;
And the Saints of the Welshman or Scot

Åre a couple of pitiful pipers,
Both of whom may just travel to pot,
Compared with that patron of swipers,

Patrick of Ireland, my dear!

2.
He came to the Emerald Isle

On a lump of a paving-stone mounted;
The steam-boat he beat

by a mile,
Which mighty good sailing was counted ;
Says he, “ The salt water, I think,

Has made me most bloodily thirsty,
So bring me a flagon of drink,
To keep down the mulligrubs, burst ye,

Of drink that is fit for a saint.

3.
He preach'd then with wonderful force,

The ignorant natives a-teaching ;
With a pint he wash'd down his discourse,

“ For," says he, “I detest your dry preaching.
The people, with wonderment struck,

At a pastor so pious and civil,
Exclaimed, We're for you, my old buck,
And we pitch our blind gods to the devil,

Who dwells in hot water below.

4.
This ended, our worshipful spoon

Went to visit an elegant fellow,
Whose practice each cool afternoon

Was to get most delightfully mellow.
That day, with a black jack of beer,

It chanced he was treating a party ;
Şays the saint, “ This good day, do you heaks
drank nothing to speak of, my hearty,

So give me a pull at the pot.'

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