ously to take care of themselves? So, in fact, although the London article should prove, at the present moment, much smarter and handsomer, and withal, sixpence per page cheaper, we shall persevere, against all principles of abstract political economy, in circulating our Irish production for the use of our friends, in the face of the professors and their gracious founder. We acknowledge that Bunting's work could not have been executed in Dublin in the style in which it has been procured from London. We are far, therefore, from blaming the publishers for having gone thither to secure it. What we desire is, that upon this, taking it even as matter of taste merely, we may not be blamed because we endeavour to stand by our country. We shall make it our business to have the state of the different branches of the art investigated and improved; and we are sure the readers of the Citizen will cheerfully read our native airs, printed from the materials of our native manufacture, even whilst we are as yet unable to produce pages which may match the engravings of Hatton Garden. No. IV. This is another air taken from the "Farmer and O'Reilly collection." Its name Fuaim na Dronn signifies "the Sound of the Waves." "the Sound of the Waves." The former word is interpreted by O'Reilly, "sound, rebounding noise, echo, clamour, cry, report;" so that we imagine it is not so much the short uneasy Channel wave that its author thought of, as the rolling billow, borne by the tide four thousand miles across the bosom of the Atlantic, which first breaks, in its awful magnificence, upon our Western coast, such as you may see it, next week, or when you like, from the cliffs about the Hag's Head, or along the wide spread strands of Miltown Malbay. It has often seemed to us to be a fault in the arrangement of our native airs—at least of many of them-that the English style, of placing a syllable under each note to be sung, has been so constantly followed. The harshness of that tongue,—so different, for instance, from the Italian,-at once seems to create the necessity for this arrangement, and to aggravate the disagreeableness of the style. The short, unprolongable vowels,— the multitude of S. es and Z. es,—the perpetual final T. es and D. es, K. es and G. es,— are for ever in the way, and prevent and preclude that flow of the voice so essential to song. The Irish is a far different language, and rejoices in a beauty of diction full of richness and music. It is, therefore, well adapted to the smoother form which the junction or slurring of several notes imparts to the soft airs, which breathe of the "sweet south." We have marked this air "slow," but we by no means intend to indicate that "languid and tedious" manner of playing, which Bunting so eloquently warns against. Better imitate the waves themselves. There are some who fault the metres which the study of the character of our airs gives rise to, and which we have adopted. We know they are not those which are daily chimed to us on foolscap. But we care not for that. Our first endeavour is that they shall suit the melody they are written for; and we trust that when the rhythms themselves are better observed, the poetic ear will not find them unmusical. We accordingly present the following version: Fuaim na Dronn. THE SOUND OF THE WAVES. I. I love to wander when the day is oe'r, II. In dreamy thought my early friends appear, III. I see their smile as oft it beam'd before, I hear their voice amid the ocean's roar; And half forget, while gazing on the waves, No. V. We next come to a favourite of our youthful days. We had but a faint recollection of the words which we had so often heard enthusiastically sung to it, in days long gone by. Whilst we were applying in various directions, and almost in vain, for copies of the words, an old family music book turned up which contained them! We had been noting. the music from recollection, and had determined, from the style, that it was essentially a duet, and were preparing it for our readers accordingly. Our gratification, therefore, was no whit diminished on finding that the old print itself was an arrangement for two voices. Our arrangement differs, but the tune, of course, is preserved unchanged in accordance with our recollections. We know not the original name of the air. We have heard it called Plangsty Lysaght; but that we believe was a name given to it merely on the supposition that Edward Lysaght was the author of the words: and as his poems have appeared without this song, we suppose there was no ground for the belief. Many others have been mentioned; Curran, and even Grattan; but on no authority that we can trace. One of our correspondents calls "the late T. Coppinger, Esq., of Cork," the author; but he accompanies this claim with a copy of the words so spurious as to detract from the confidence which might otherwise attach to it. The date of the composition of the words was clearly antecedent to the Union of 1800. The title on the old copy is this: "NO UNION FOR OUR DEAR NATIVE ISLAND." and it is plain, on internal evidence, that the "destruction" spoken of in the first stanza was the "contemplated Legislative Union." On the other hand, the words in the fourth stanza "A few years ago, Though now she says NO." plainly refer to a period following the era of our Independance in 1782. And then a few lines, which we have taken the (great) liberty of altering, (the 2d, 3d, 4th and 5th of the fifth stanza,) run in the original as follows: "And it shan't be a slavish or vile land, "An attempt on the rights of our island." This fixes the date to the administration of William Pitt. It may be urged that the first stanza alludes to the establishment of the Orange Institution; and that the writing may therefore be referred to a time as late as 1798, or 1799. But this would be, we apprehend, to assign a date later than a more particular enquiry would warrant. Orange and green were, we believe, party colours, long before the Orangemen arose; and Pitt's hostility to Ireland, sucked in with his mother's milk, (if he were ever suckled) was, by many significant signs, very early known to us. In the absence of more distinct tradition, we are inclined to assign the song to 1785, when Orde's celebrated propositions, (relative to commerce and manufactures) of which Pitt was the originator, set the whole kingdom in a ferment. This was a "few years" after '82, and a more likely period to give birth to such sentiments and such a song, than the heart-broken, terror-stricken, despairing efforts of '99 and 1800. However this may be, the song is a good one, so good, that we may fairly suppose that, as all true ballads do, it gathered strength and spirit as it rolled from one end of the land to the other, and when new occasions called for its use, was altered and modified to suit the subject and the time. Here are the words : 1 May God, in whose hand Is the lot of each land, Who rules over ocean and dry land, Ill advisers to fling, Ere destruction they bring on our island. A fertile and fine little island, May orange and green No longer be seen Distained with the blood of our island. 2 The fair ones we prize Declare they despise Those who'd make it a slavish or vile land; Be their smiles our reward, And we'll gallantly guard The rights and delights of our island. But he's wanted again in our island. 3 For her int'rest or pride We oft fought by the side Of England, that haughty and high land; Nay, we'd do so again, If she'd let us remain A free and a flourishing island. * We may be censured for our substitution. But, first, we thought that few in the present day would take much pleasure in singing a song about "Billy Pitt.' Secondly, we could not say with certainty whether his intended epithet was "impotent" or "impudent;" and certainly, if the former, forty years have not verified it. As to his impudence, we think it might be fully matched amongst parliamentary leaders in other days; and we therefore ventured to generalise the sentiment a little. One friend indeed suggests, that our own times would answer quite as well as any other, and would have us read "Nor Stanley commit, An attempt on the rights of our island." But comparisons are odious, and personalities are to be avoided. A third reason was the unmusical ness of such rhymes as "Pitt," and "commit." Another air for the cruit or Violin. We have given a separate part for the Piano-forte, as our readers may prefer it so. The rhythm is set for the Irish dance; and must be tremendously marked. In fact, if EIGHT MILLIONS of feet,-first, right—then, left— stamped the earth with the flat of the sole, each clad with a bróg and all together— the tramp would not be too much. The Greek "Pyrrhic" dance in armour could not have equalled it. We have marked the time "with fire;" which may answer when it is played the first time; but at each repetition the time is to be increased, and "with fury” must become the more proper designation. In fine, like Baltighoran, (No. 108 in Bunting's 3rd collection,) it may be supposed to have been played at the Pagan midsummer-nights' feasts, whilst the mad priests and votaries of Baal danced to it, whirling round their bonfires. |