Page images
PDF
EPUB

away on his beutiful stallion, an' he tould the Frinch fellow throw'd hisself down what Boney sed.

agin, to lave the shot go over him. Faix, “ « Now boys l' sed the Juke, an' he tuk Paddy did'nt fire till the boy was down, an' off his cocked-hat, an' the feathers flyin' thin he tuk him clane an' nate in the small mighty grand, there's the Frinch forninst of the back, an' tbe dickens a wan ov the ye; an' if ye don't bate thim, why, be Frinch gladhiator ever riz off ov the airth gorra, they'll bate ye, an' that's all! I tell agin!" ye what's more, above that same, they'll Paddy, bad he now been present, would pinithrate into yer counthry, an' there'll be have heard a loud shout of admiration at the no ind to what they'll be afther doin' to mention of his achievement. every livin' sowl ov yer people, men, wo- “Well," continued Murty, “afther scrimmen, and babbies !'

mages here an' there an’everywhere, Boney Oh, my dear, 'tis the Juke sed enuf to seen the day a'goin' agin bim; an' he called put 'em on their mettle ; an' whin down the a sargint ov Frinch Dhragoons, an'he cannins begin to rattle, the ould boy him- tould him to run down, as fast as his horse self could'nt stand 'em, they war so mad would carry him, an' to tell his father-inbe at the Frinch! An', to bate it all, the law, the king of Jarminee, that the battle band begin to shtrike up Garryoven' an' was a'goin’agin him, an' for him to be af* Patrick's Day in the Morning,' so fine, to ther sindin' up help immaydbitly: keep up their sperrets !"

“ The sargint wint, sure enuf, an' be soon “Oh, thin glory to you, Misther O’Cal. cum to where all the tints of the king of Jarlaghan, 'tis yerself is the fine warrant for a minee war on the green sod. He seen a ginestory!" was the cry.

ral, an' he axed him where was the king, Returning the compliment by a broader an' that hisself was carryin' a message from smile than the former one, the elated Murty Boney to him. The gineral, civil, an' dacontinued :

cent, tould him that he'd see him a walkin' Well, thin the battle begin'd in rael before his own tint, wid his dhressin' gown airnest, the music playin', the horses charg. on, an' red shlippers on his two feet, an' he in', the cannons a'rattlin', and the sodgers readin' a book. So the sargint cum up to huzzaing, whin they war puckin' aich other where the king was apposite a large tint, wid the swoords, an' proddin' aich other with a beutyful colour a'fyin' out on the wid the bagnets! There they war dhrivin', top ov it; and he wint down on his knees, and pushin', an' skelpin', an' they shtandin' as be coorse he should, to a rael king, an' up to their ancles in blood, all the same as he sed he cum from Boney. af it war a pool ov wather.”

" . How's the battle a goin', ye bliggard ?' “ The Lord be good to us, an' save us sez the king, mighty proud. from all harm !” ejaculated the group, with ""'Tis a goin' agin Boney ;' sez the poor a strong expression of horror.

sargint, 'an' I was ordhered to cum to yer “Oh," said Murty,“ 't'would take me a majesty for help.' week to tell ye the killin', an' murtherin', «• Do ye tell me 'tis goin' agin my sonan' batin' they had; an' they no sooner in-law ?' sez the king agin. stoppin' for a mouthful of fresh air, than « • The divil a word ov a lie I'm tellin', they'd begin as if they'd never get enuf ov but the blessed thruth, as I hope to be the wars! There was wan young Frinch saved, amin,' sez the sargint, an' he crossin' chap, an' the divil a wan ov him, but he hisself mighty piess, for he was a rael killed a hundred-an'. forty min wid a long Roman. gun

he had ! He'd fire an' sboot his man; « « Well thin, my man, ye may go to the ihin, whin he'd see the balls comin' towards seventeen divils, for all I care about the him, faix he'd, cute enuf, go down on his likes ov you or him; for since I gave him face and hands, an' lave thim to go over his my beutiful daughther, he's keepin' ov me own showlder, an' kill anybody they'd plase! in bilin' wather, an' risin'inimies, like He was risin' his hundred-an’-forty, whin musharoons, up before me. Go away ; I'll Paddy Magrath, & corporal in the Con- give the vagabone no help, but to bate him; naught rangers, see what the purty boy was an' go tell him so from me.

Don't say a at, an' he sez, "Be the powers of pewter ! word, or I'll cut yer head of yer shoulmy bouchal, but I'll take the coal off ov yer ders,' sez the king to the onfortinate pipe in a hurry. Naboclish !' sez Paddy. sargint. Wid that he watched, an' he pretinded to * Wid that, he called the gineral, an' he take aim at the young Frinch sodger; an' tould him to get a hundred tousand horsemin, an' to jine the Juke ov Willington's | Jarmans purshued the Frinch, an' they murarmy, an' to bang Boney off ov the face or thered an' killed 'em right an' left, till the the airtb.

never a wan ov 'em remained upon the field “Oh! my dear sowls, down they cum ; ov battle. an' they war jist in time enuf to see my “ An' so that was the way that the Juke bould Juke batin' ov the Frinch, an' Boney an' Boney had their divarshin at the battle dhrivin' away in his coach-an'-six, an' be of the WatherLoo !" all wounded in the pole, wid a red hand

J. F. M. kercher tied round about it! Well, the

[blocks in formation]

THE NATIVE MUSIC OF IRELAND.

No. X.

The simplicity and purity of the structure of the air, named Goirtin Opnaó, or “ The Little Field of Barley," indicate its genuineness, and, although not in triple time, it may be classed amongst our ancient melodies. It is formed, as those very old airs usually are, of four strains of equal length, the first gentle and closing with the common cadence on the tonic; the second ascending in the scale, more impassioned, and closing upon the emphatic sixth; the third a repetition of the second; and the fourth of the first, with slight variation. We believe it was first reduced to writing very recently ; when one of our fair friends in the county of Cork noted it down from the singing of a young woman, a native of Kerry. This was the song which it was her great delight to sing—as she milked her cow in the green fields, with her heart full of the innocence of her occupation and of her years. Some more learned antiquarian may say that there is no proof that this is an old air, and that some of the triplets are not of the antique character. Suppose it to be modern, what is the result? It shows that our population, in the sequestereà parts of our island, retain the same indigenous musical dispo. sition which belonged to our ancestors. There is no country in Europe, save Ireland, in which the imitative relations between the parts of airs ever assumed this peculiar form ; and then, if you will, we hare here an unstudied effusion in modern times, conceived in all the essential attributes of the ancient music—a living testimony of the identity of our people in times and in regions the most removed from each other.

The Irish words which are sung with it relate to the story of a young man, the son of a rich farmer, whose relations did not wish him to marry the girl he loved, and were very anxious to “make a match” for him with one that had “A field of Barley, Cows and Horses.” We have not been able as yet to get a copy of the Irish words, which we are told are very beautiful, but the sense is given in the following rustic translation, as we have been informed by our fair and obliging correspondent, to whom we are indebted not only for the air itself, but for the information we have been able to acquire concerning it.

Translation from the Irish :“I wish myself and my sweet girl were far away at the island where the hundred ships were drowned.—Then myself and my darling would live happy together, and not care for my father or mother."

“ It is not for her Field of Barley, my darling, that I give the love, nor for her two chests of Yellow Gold, if they be full, nor for her Cows nor Horses. No! no !-I'd rather have two kisses from you, my heart's love, than all she has.”

“If I eat but the grass that grows where my 'Cailin dheas' (lovely girl) is, I would get my health and be satisfied with her (and if I were in the blackest church-yard in the world, what would it be to THEM?)—If I got a breath of air from where she was, I'd get well again."

My father says he will cut me off' now, and what good would I be to her then, when I would have nothing for her ? and he wishes she would go off and get another lover.”

“I'll give my curse to any one that minds father or mother to take their advice-only when they are fond of their own sweetheart to marry them. And now I and my own darling are married and live happy on what I earn every day. "*

• Since we commenced the publication of our “ National Music,” we have received several contributions to our stock of unpublished Irish Airs from various individuals, anxious, like ourselves, to assist in preserving the relics of the “ days of our glory." We have also received promises of valuable contributions from several others, and feeling assured that there is still an immense harvest to be

As regards the words which we have given with this simple but beautiful air, we know not but that we run some risk of being assassinated by certain of our very "excellent friends,” (for whose poetical enthusiasm, nevertheless, we feel the highest respect,) for having dared to alter a single line of Shelley's poetry. Indeed we felt some compunction ourselves at first. But the words were beautiful and admirably suited in their character to the air, and, also, “exceptis excipiendis,” (that is to say, Ladies, “ with a few exceptions,") the metre was just what we required. We have, therefore, been induced by our very admiration for the poet to maim him in some degree, in order that it might be in our power to introduce him (perhaps for the first time) to some of our fair readers, in connection with one of our “sweet old Irish airs.”

With a view to prevent mischief, we beg to inform our “excellent friends” before alluded to, that we have procured a complete suit of chain armour in order to defeat any sudden atten.pt on our person, and that they had better be cautious and not act rashly, not only as we are fully prepared for them in the way of self-defence, but also, (for we think it best to speak out boldly,) inasmuch as we have apprised the civil authorities that “there are certain excellent friends of ours who are unfortunately a little insane on some subjects, and we are apprehensive that they may become mischievous,” in consequence of which intimation a certain number of the police have been furnished with “strait waistcoats,” to be used as occasion may require, and accommodation has been ordered in “ Swift's ” in case of necessity.

SERENADE.
I dreamed, my love, of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,

When winds were breathing low,
And the stars were shining bright.

I rose from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Has led me—who knows how ?
To thy chamber window, sweet.

2.
The moon is hid by clouds,
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;

The wand'ring breezes sigh
O'er the dark and silent stream;

The hopes that led me here
Have died within my heart,

Thy soft sweet voice is mute,
Beloved as thou art.

3.

Oh take my last fond sigh,
I die_I faint-I fail-

The dews of night are chill
On my lips and eyelids pale ;

My cheek is cold and white,
And my heart beats loud and fast.

Oh! press it close to thine
Where it will break at last.

No. XI.

This air Sugraó ann gac uile ait, “Diversion every where,” is one of those contained in the “Farmer and O'Reilly collection,” which has been already so often mentioned; we are aware that it has been before published (without words) in Clinton's Collection of Irish Airs, but the setting of the air was so inferior to that which was in our possession, that we should have considered ourselves bound to give it publicity at least in an instrumental form. It so happened, that while cogitating on

reaped, which may wither away on the land and be for ever lost, if not speedily “stored," we think we have shown sufficient freedom from selfishness in our undertaking, to warrant us now in calling on all the readers of the Citizen-on every one at least whose heart glows with the love of his native country, to assist us, by contributions of any unpublished Irish Airs or Songs which he may possess, in preserving the memory of the glories and misfortunes of our forefathers.

this point, we opened the Second Volume of the Citizen at page 43, to see what “augury” we might draw from the passage which first met our view in connection with that (to us) fortunate num ber, and lo! our eyes became riveted (as by magic) on the “ Arrows of Love” in the opposite page. We know not if the words were written for any other air ; but if such was the case, we doubt whether they could have been better suited to their first spouse than to our No. 11; at all events the first glance solved all our difficulties, and decided the point against our giving it in the Citizen as an instrumental air. We subjoin the words, (which speak for themselves,) and hope to be favoured with many other contributions from the same pen, suited to our national airs, for amongst the poetical contributors to our Journal, no one is a greater favourite than “B.”

“ THE ARROWS OF LOVE."

“ When Love was a child in the gardens on high,

He sported all day with his arrows and bow,
Till one morning he bade a farewell to the sky,

And came, for a change, to our regions below;
But Wisdom, who watched his descent from above,

Made blunt all his arrows as fast as they flew,
And sadly indeed did it grieve little Love,

To find what slight mischief his weapons could do."

As in sorrow he wandered, with tears in his eyes,

He chanced to alight on the quiver of Wit-
With shafts like the diamond-the fortunate prize,

That pierced to the core every object they hit;
As he seized the bright quiver, a tear of delight

From the child's snowy lid on the blazing points fell,
Wisdom gazed on the treasure, all pale with affright,

For she knew 'gainst such arrows she'd ne'er find a spell.”

“With his quiver equipped, the gay urchin took flight ;

But he squanders not shafts with such magic endowed,
No, he keeps for bright spirits those arrows of light,

And weapons less brilliant he darts ʼmid the crowd;
But when forms such as Leila's, all sunnily, flit

Before you, and lips with such witchery move,
Beware, oh! beware of the arrows of Wit,

Whose points have been steeped in the tear-drops of Love."

No. XII.

This air we have called “The Midnight Fifer," having been taken down some twenty years ago as played on the Fife. It was heard by the pale moonlight, and at the very witching hour of night. The listener had been awakened from his sleep by the shrill ear-piercing tones of the approaching player. The sounds passed slowly by, and gradually died away in distance and were never heard again. The desolation was extreme. Viotti could not have been more amazed when he first heard the “Ranz des Vaches” in the Alps. The effect of it was extraordinary, the alternating periods of four and two bars, in each part of the air, producing a peculiar wildness which can only be thoroughly appreciated and enjoyed when the shrill clear tones of either the Fife or Octave Flute are employed to give utterance to this singular specimen of our native music.

No. XIII.

“ The Rocky Road” is, we believe, rather a “Modern Irish Dance.” We have been told that the name is taken from a road so called in the neighbourhood of Clonmel. Be that as it may, however, it is the air which is sung by the nurses for their children in a great portion of the southern parts of Munster, and they frequently put forward, as one of the advantages to be attained by hiring them, that “They can sing and dance the baby to the ‘Rocky Road.'”

« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »