Ere long the Towddies deck the board with a cod's head and shoulders,
And the oyster-sauce it surely was great joy to all beholders.
To George our king a jolly cann of royal port is poured-

Our gracious king, who knighted Dan with his own shining sword-
The next we sip with trembling lip-'tis of the claret clear-
To the hero dead that cup we shed, and mix it with a tear.

Sing, Hey ho, the Sneddon, &c.

'Tis now your servant's turn to mix the nectar of the bowl:
Still on the Ring our thoughts we fix, while round the goblets roll,
Great Jackson, Belcher, Scroggins, Gas, we celebrate in turns,
Each Christian, Jew, and Pagan, with the Fancy's flame that burns;
Carnegie's finger on the board a mimic circle draws,

And, Egan-like, h' expounds the rounds, and pugilistic laws.
Sing, Hey ho, the Sneddon, &c.

'Tis thus that worth heroic is suitably lamented.

Great Daniel's shade, I know it, dry grief had much resented-
What signify your tear and sigh?-A bumper is the thing
Will gladden most the generous ghost of a champion of the King.
The tear and sigh from voice and eye must quickly pass away,
But the bumper good may be renewed until our dying day!
Sing, Hey ho, the Sneddon, &c.

LETTER FROM MR W. W. TO MR CHRISTOPHER NORTH.

DEAR SIR,

HAD it not been one of the deepest convictions of my mind, even from very early youth, that there was something in periodical literature radically and essentially wrong, in rerum naturâ, as Bacon Lord Verulam has wisely observed of a subject somewhat different, I should certainly, before the commencement of the present portion of time, have sent divers valuable communications unto your Miscellany. For, concerning both the matter and manner of Blackwood's Edinborough Magazine, it hath fallen to my lot in life, on six, eight, or ten different occasions-some of them not without their importance, considered in relation to the ordinary on-goings of the world which we inhabit, and others of them, peradventure, utterly and thoroughly worthless; -I say, that it hath fallen to my lot in life to hear the Work, of which you are the Editor, spoken of in words of commendation and praise. It appeareth manifest, however, that to form a philosophical, that is, a true character of a work published periodically, it behoveth a man to peruse the whole series of the above-mentioned work seriatim, that is, in continuous and uninterrupted succession, inasmuch as that various articles, on literature, philosophy, and the fine arts, being by their respective authors left unfinished in one number, are mayhap brought to a conclusion in a second-nay, peradventure, continued in a second, and even a third-yea, often not finished until a tenth, and after the intervention of divers Numbers free wholly and altogether from any discussion on that specific subject, but composed, it may be, either of nobler or of baser matter. Thus, it often fareth ill with one particular Number of a periodical work-say for June or January-because, that although both the imaginative and reasoning faculties may be manifested and bodied forth visibly and palpably, so that, as I have remarked on another occasion, they may "lie like surfaces," nevertheless, if there shall be the intervention of a chasm of time between the first portion of the embodied act and the visible manifestation of the second-or again, between the second and third, and so on according to any imaginable or unimaginable series,-then I aver, that he will greatly err, who, from such knowledge of any work, (that is, a periodical work, for indeed it is of such only that it can be so predicated,) shall venture to bestow or to inflict upon it a decided and permanent character, either for good or for evil. Thus, for example, I have observed in divers Numbers of Blackwood's Edinborough Magazine, sarcasms rather witty than wise, in my apprehension, directed

against myself, on the score of the Lyrical Ballads, and my Quarto Poem entitled the Excursion. In other Numbers again-I cannot charge my memory for what months or in what year, nor indeed is it of vital importance to this question methinks I have read disquisitions on my poetry, and on those great and immutable principles in human nature on which it is built, and in virtue of which I do not feel as if I were arrogating to myself any peculiar gift of prophecy, when I declare my belief that these my poems will be immortal;-I repeat, that in such and such Numbers I have perused such and such articles and compositions, in which I have not been slow to discern a fineness of tact and a depth of thought and feeling not elsewhere to be found, unless I be greatly deceived, in the criticism of this in many things degenerate, because too intellectual age. Between the folly of some Numbers, therefore, and the wisdom of others or in other words of still more perspicuous signification, between the falsehood of one writer, and the truth of another, there must exist many shades by which such opposite extremes are brought, without a painful sense of contrariety, before the eyes of what Mr Coleridge has called the "Reading Public." Of all such shades-if any such there be-I am wholly unapprised because I see the work but rarely, as I have already observed, for I am not, to the best of my recollection, a subscriber to the Kendal Book-Club; such institutions being, in small towns, where the spirit of literature is gener ally bad in itself and fatally misdirected, conducted upon a principle, or rather a want of principle, which cannot be too much discommended.

The upshot of the whole is this, that it is contrary both to my theory and my practice to become a regular contributor to any periodical work whatsoever, forasmuch as such habits of composition are inimical to the growth and sanity of original genius, and therefore unworthy of him who writes for "all time" except the present.

Nevertheless, it hath so happened, that in seasons prior to this, I have transmitted to the Editors of divers periodical Miscellanies, small portions of large works, and even small works perfect in themselves; nor, would it be altogether consistent with those benign feelings which I am disposed to cherish towards your Miscellany, as a Periodical that occasionally aimeth at excellence, and may even, without any flagrant violation of truth, be said occasionally to approximate thereto, to withhold from it such slight marks of my esteem, as, upon former occasions, I have not scrupled to bestow upon others haply less worthy of them. I therefore send you first, an Extract from my Great Poem on my Own Life, and it is a passage which I have greatly elaborated;-and, secondly, Sir Daniel Donnelly, a Ballad, which, in the next edition of my works, must be included under the general class of " Poems of the Imagination and the Affections."

EXTRACT FROM MY GREAT AUTO-BIOGRAPHICAL POEM.

Ir is most veritable,-that sage law

Which tells that, at the wane of mightiness,

Yea even of colossal guilt, or power

That, like the iron man by poets feign'd,
Can with uplifted arm draw from above
The ministering lightnings, all insensible
To touch of other feeling, we do find

That which our hearts have cherish'd but as fear,
Is mingled still with love; and we must weep
The very loss of that which caus'd our tears.-
Ev'n so it happeneth when Donnelly dies.
Cheeks are besullied with unused brine,
And eyes disguis'd in tumid wretchedness,
That oft have put such seeming on for him,
But not at Pity's bidding!-Yea, even I,
Albeit, who never " ruffian'd" in the ring,
Nor know of " challenge," save the echoing hills;

Nor "fibbing," save that poesy doth feign;
Nor heard his fame, but as the mutterings
Of clouds contentious on Helvellyn's side,
Distant, yet deep, agnize a strange regret,
And mourn Donnelly-Honourable Sir Daniel :-
(Blessings be on them, and eternal praise,
The Knighter and the Knighted.)-Love doth dwell
Here in these solitudes, and our corporal clay
Doth for its season bear the self-same fire,
Impregnate with the same humanities,
Moulded and mixed like others.

I remember,

Once on a time,-'twas when I was a boy,
For I was childish once, and often since
Have, with a cheerful resignation, learnt
How soon the boy doth prophecy the man,—
I chanced, with one whom I could never love,
Yet seldom left, to thread a thorny wood,
To seek the stock-doves' sacred domicile ;-
Like thieves, we did contend about our crime,
I and that young companion. Of that child
His brief coevals still had stood in awe,
And Fear did do him menial offices,

While Silence walk'd beside, and word breath'd none.
Howbeit, mine arm, which oft in vassal wise
Had borne his satchel, and but ill defended
From buffets, half in sport, half tyrannous,
With which I was reguerdon'd,-chanced prevail.
His soul was then subdued, and much and sore
He wept, convulsive; nay, his firm breast heav'd,
As doth the bosom of the troublous lake
After the whirlwind goeth; and so sad
Did seem the ruins of his very pride,

I could not choose but weep with him, so long
We sobb'd together, till a smile 'gan dry

The human rain, and he once more was calm ;-
For sorrow, like all else, hath end. Albeit,
Those tears, however boyish, were more fit,

Since nature's self did draw them from their source,
Than aught that cunning'st poet can distil
By potent alchemy, from human eye,
To consecrate Donnelly's grave. Even so;
For they discours'd with a dumb eloquence,
Beyond the tongue of dirge or epitaph,

Of that which passeth in man's heart, when Power,
Like Babylon, hath fall'n, and pass'd away.

SIR DANIEL DONNELLY.—A BALLAD.

I came down to breakfast-And why all this sobbing,
This weeping and wailing? I hastily cried;
Has Grimalkin, my boy, ta'en away your tame Robin ?
Has Duckling, or Pullet, or White Coney died?

"Twas thus the short list of his joys I ran over,

While the tears were fast coursing down Timothy's face,
And strove the small darling his red cheek to cover.-
What is this?-thought my soul-Is it grief or disgrace?

I looked on the Courier, my weekly newspaper,
For I felt that the cause of his sorrow was there;
So quick is grief's eye that no word could escape her-
"Dead is Daniel, the hero of Donnybrooke fair!"

O mournful was then the low song of the kettle,

And long look'd my face in the bright polish'd grate;
Dull, dull clank'd the tongs, tho' composed of true metal,
They seemed to my fancy the long shears of fate.

I sought the fresh air, but the sun, like a firebrand,
In my dark bosom kindled grief's faggotty pile:
Ah, me! ye five Catholic millions of Ireland,
What now will become of your bull-breeding isle?
Mine eyes met the earth, in their wand'ring uneasy;
And I thought, as I saw through the vanishing snow
The flower of Sir Daniel, the bright shining Daisy,
On that beautiful poem I wrote long ago.

By the stroke of the thunder-stone split in its glory,
On the earth lay extended a green-crested pine;
Then I dreamt, poor Sir Dan, of thy pitiful story,
For the trunk was as straight and as knotty as thine!

Thus sun, flower, and tree all, in blaze, blight, or blossom,
The same sombre image of sorrow supplied,

While Nature breath'd forth from her mountainous bosom,
'Weep, weep for the day when Dan Donnelly died !"

LETTER FROM ODOHERTY.

Killarney, May 9th. MY DEAREST KIT,-Here am I, living at rack and manger, with my old schoolfellow, Blennerhasset; and you and your Magazine may go to the devil, for any thing I care about either of you. We embark on the lake about 11 o'clock, after a decent breakfast, and contrive to kill the evening till about five, soon after which we enter ourselves for the sweepstakes, and, to use the phraseology of my friend, the Reverend Hamilton Paul, generally contrive to stow away under our belt a bottle of black-strap, before tumbling in. You may think this monotonous-but you are quite wrong. One day we fish trout, another eels, and another salmon, which produces an agreeable variety; and it was only last Thursday that Rowan Cashel and myself swam across the Devil's Punch Bowl on the top of Mangerton. We also attend wakes, fairs, funerals, and patrons, and go to church as regular as clock-work. In short, I have some intention of marrying again, and settling for the remainder of my life, at least for a year or two, somewhere in Kerry. I hear Mullcocky blowing his horn for us to join a batch of young ladies, on a party of pleasure, to the upper lake, and we are going to dine on cold provisions on Ronayne's Island, which is as beautiful and romantic a spot as ever you clapt eyes on. I enclose for you the only piece of poetry I have composed since I past through Cork. I jotted it down with a black-lead pencil, in a silver case, belonging to a young gentleman with a good-natured face, on the outside of the coach; and I am sorry to say, that on parting from us, he forgot to ask it back again; so I keep it for the sake of an agreeable travelling companion. You will observe, from its stopping short all at once, that the Poem is only a fragment. Mullcocky is in a big passion, I hear, so good-b'ye Kit, prays ever your hearty chum,

MORGAN ODOHERTY.

P.S. Something seems to have gone wrong with the barge, so I have time for a P.S. I encountered the Champion's funeral; and it was the biggest I ever witnessed. It was duly celebrated by games too; for, as the story went, certain persons, suspected of being young surgeons or their jackalls, were met and severely beaten by some of the champions of the fist, who jaloused, as your Scottish peasantry say, that they were on the watch for the hero's remains. Another version of the story is, that the designs of the knights of the scalpel were all along suspected by the knights of the daddle, who appointed a trusty band to watch, for two days and nights, the holy shrine where their saint was laid. Having gone, however, to indulge themselves in a funeral libation for

an hour or two, at the "honor," (a drinking bout at a burial) they found, on repairing to their post, that the enemy had been before them, and had, with infinite judgment, effected the resurrection, before the champion was well warm in his grave. A deputation of very respectable gentlemen waited on the corpse next day, to ascertain the fact: but it is absolutely impossible to ascertain any fact in Dublin; and you meet thousands and tens of thousands every day, and in every company, who maintain that the champion is now in Edinburgh. If you have seen him on any of your dissecting tables there, pray let me know. -But I hear the ladies giggling, so I must be after joining the water-party.

ODONNELLY, AN ODE BY MORGAN ODOHERTY.

I.

WHEN green Erin laments for her hero removed,
From the Isle where he flourished, the Isle that he loved,
Where he entered so often the twenty foot lists,
And, twinkling like meteors, he flourished his fists,
And gave to his foes more set downs and toss overs,
Than ever was done by the greatest philosophers,
In folio, in twelves, or in quarto,

Shall the harp of Odoherty silent remain,
And shall he not waken its music again?
Oh! yes with his soul and his heart too!

II.

Majestic Odonnelly! proud as thou art,
Like a cedar on top of Mount Hermon,

We lament that death shamelessly made thee depart,

In the gripes, like a blacksmith or chairman.

Oh! hadst thou been felled by Tom Crib in the ring;

Or by Carter been milled to a jelly,

Oh! sure that had been a more dignified thing,

Than to kick for a pain in your belly!

III.

A curse on the belly that robbed us of thee,
And the bowels unfit for their office;

A curse on the potyeen you swallowed too free,
For a stomach complaint, all the doctors agree,
Far worse than a headache or cough is.

Death, who like a cruel and insolent bully, drubs

All those he thinks fit to attack,

Cried Dan, my tight lad, try a touch of my mulligrubs,
Which soon laid him flat on his back!

IV.

Great spirits of Broughton, Jem Belcher, and Fig,

Of Corcoran, Pierce, and Dutch Sam ;

Whether up stairs or down, you kick up a rig,
And at intervals pause your blue ruin to swig,
Or with grub, your bread baskets to cram.
Or, whether for quiet you're placed all alone

In some charming retired little heaven of your own,
Where the turf is elastic, in short just the thing

That Bill Gibbons would choose when he's forming a ring,
That wherever you wander you still may turn too,

And thrash and be thrashed till your all black and blue;
Where your favourite enjoyments for ever are near,
And you eat, and you drink, and you fight all the year;
Ah! receive then to join in your milling delight,
The shade of Sir Daniel Donnelly, knight;

With whom a turn up is no frolic;

His is no white or cold liver,