For he knew I loved her well,

And he knew she loved me too,
So he sought their pride to quell,
But 'twas all in vain to sue.

True is Maire bhan astoir,
Tried is Maire bhan astoir,
Had I wings I'd never soar
From my Maire bhan astoir.

There are lands where manly toil
Surely reaps the crop it sows,
Glorious woods and teeming soil
Where the broad Missouri flows;
Through the trees the smoke shall rise
From our hearth with maith go léor,
There shall shine the happy eyes
Of my Maire bhan astoir.

Mild is Maire bhan astoir,

Mine is Maire bhan astoir,

Saints will watch about the door

Of my Maire bhan astoir.

I subjoiae of thel yrics, a ballad of the "Brigade," which produced so auch effect, when printed on the broad sheet of the "Nation." It is a graphic and dramatic battle-song, full of life and action; too well calculated to excite that most excitable people, for whose gratification it was written.

FONTENOY.
(1745.)

Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed;
And twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly through De Barri's wood the British soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops like clouds at eventide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head.
Steady they step adown the slope, steady they mount the hill,
Steady they load, steady they fire, moving right onward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast,
Through rampart, trench and palisade, and bullets showering fast;

And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course,
With ready fire, and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force.
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks,
They break as breaks the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks!

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;
Bomb-shell and grape and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired,
Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired.

"Push on, my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried;

To death they rush, but rude their shock, not unavenged they died. On, through the camp the column trod, King Louis turned his rein: "Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain."

And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo

Had not these exiles ready been, fresh, vehement and true.

"Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!" The Marshal almost smiles to see how furiously he goes!

How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay!
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day;
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry;

Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's parting cry;
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown;
Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,

Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,

"Fix bayonets-charge!" Like mountain storm rush on these fiery bands!—
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill, to face that battle-wind;
Their bayonets the breakers' foam; like rocks the men behind!
Onc volley crashes from their line, when through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!

Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sacsanagh !"

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang,

Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang;

Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore;
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, scattered, fled;
The green hillside is matted close with dying and with dead.
Across the plain, and far away, passed on that hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,

With bloody plumes the Irish stand; the field is fought and won!

John Banim was the founder of that school of Irish novelists, which, always excepting its blameless purity, so much resembles the modern romantic French school, that if it were possible to suspect Messieurs Victor Hugo, Eugène Sue, and Alexander Dumas of reading the English, which they never approach without such ludicrous blunders, one might fancy that many-volumed tribe to have stolen their peculiar inspiration from the O'Hara family. Of a certainty the tales of Mr. Banim were purely original. They had no precursors either in our own language or in any other, and they produced accordingly the sort of impression, more vivid than durable, which highly-colored and deeply-shadowed novelty is sure to make on the public mind. But they are also intensely national. They reflect Irish scenery, Irish character, Irish crime, and Irish virtue, with a general truth which, in spite of their tendency to melo-dramatic effects, will keep them fresh and life-like for many a day after the mere fashion of the novel of the season shall be past and gone. The last of his works, especially, "Father Connell," contains the portrait of a parish priest, so exquisitely simple, natural, and tender, that in the whole range of fiction I know nothing more charming. The subject was one that the author loved; witness the following rude, rugged, homely song, which explains so well the imperishable ties which unite the peasant to his pastor.

SOGGARTH AROON.*

Am I the slave they say,

Soggarth Aroon?

Since you did show the way,

Soggarth Aroon,

Their slave no more to be,

While they would work with me

Ould Ireland's slavery,

Soggarth aroon!

Why not her poorest man,

Soggarth aroon,

Try and do all he can,

Soggarth aroon,

Her commands to fulfill

Of his own heart and will,

Side by side with you still,
Soggarth aroon?

* Anglice, Priest dear.

There is a small and little-known volume of these rough peas. ant-ballads, full of the same truth and intensity of feeling,-songs which seem destined to be sung at the wakes and patterns of Ire

land. But, to say nothing of his fine classical tragedy of " Damon and Pythias," Mr. Banim, so successful in the delineation of the sweet, delicate, almost idealized girl of the people, has written at least one song that may rival Gerald Griffin in grace and sentiment. A lover sings it to his mistress.

'Tis not for love of gold I go,

'Tis not for love of fame;

Though fortune may her smile bestow,

And I may win a name,

Ailleen;

And I may win a name.

And yet it is for gold I go,

And yet it is for fame;

That they may deck another brow,

And bless another name,

Ailleen;

And bless another name.

For this, but this, I go-for this
I leave thy love awhile,

And all the soft and quiet bliss
Of thy young faithful smile,
Ailleen;

Of thy young faithful smile.

And I go to brave a world I hate,
And woo it o'er and o'er,

And tempt a wave, and try a fate

Upon a stranger shore,

Ailleen;

Upon a stranger shore.

Oh! when the bays are all my own,

I know a heart will care!

Oh! when the gold is sought and won,
I know a brow will wear,

Ailleen;

I know a brow will wear!

And, when with both returned again
My native land I see,

I know a smile will meet me then,
And a hand will welcome me,

Ailleen;

And a hand will welcome me!