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

Now boys!' sed the Juke, an' he tuk off his cocked-hat, an' the feathers flyin' mighty grand, there's the Frinch forninst ye; an' if ye don't bate thim, why, be gorra, they'll bate ye, an' that's all! I tell ye what's more, above that same, they'll pinithrate into yer counthry, an' there'll be no ind to what they'll be afther doin' to every livin' sowl ov yer people, men, women, and babbies !'

Oh, my dear, 'tis the Juke sed enuf to put 'em on their mettle ; an' whin down the cannins begin to rattle, the ould boy himself could'nt stand 'em, they war so mad to be at the Frinch! An', to bate it all, the band begin to shtrike up Garryowen' an' Patrick's Day in the Morning,' so fine, to keep up their sperrets!"

"Oh, thin glory to you, Misther O'Callaghan, 'tis yerself is the fine warrant for a story!" was the cry.

Returning the compliment by a broader smile than the former one, the elated Murty continued:

"Well, thin the battle begin'd in rael airnest, the music playin', the horses chargin', the cannons a'rattlin', and the sodgers huzzaing, whin they war puckin' aich other wid the swoords, an' proddin' aich other wid the bagnets! There they war dhrivin', and pushin', an' skelpin', an' they shtandin' up to their ancles in blood, all the same as af it war a pool ov wather."

"The Lord be good to us, an' save us from all harm!" ejaculated the group, with a strong expression of horror.

Oh," said Murty, " 't'would take me a week to tell ye the killin', an' murtherin', an' batin' they had; an' they no sooner stoppin' for a mouthful of fresh air, than they'd begin as if they'd never get enuf ov the wars! There was wan young Frinch chap, an' the divil a wan ov him, but he killed a hundred-an'-forty min wid a long gun he had! He'd fire an' shoot his man; thin, whin he'd see the balls comin' towards him, faix he'd, cute enuf, go down on his face and hands, an' lave thim to go over his own showlder, an' kill anybody they'd plase! He was risin' his hundred-an'-forty, whin Paddy Magrath, a corporal in the Connaught rangers, see what the purty boy was at, an' he sez, 'Be the powers of pewter! my bouchal, but I'll take the coal off ov yer pipe in a hurry. Naboclish!' sez Paddy. Wid that he watched, an' he pretinded to take aim at the young Frinch sodger; an'

agin, to lave the shot go over him. Faix, Paddy did'nt fire till the boy was down, an' thin he tuk him clane an' nate in the small of the back, an' the dickens a wan ov the Frinch gladhiator ever riz off ov the airth agin!”

Paddy, had he now been present, would have heard a loud shout of admiration at the mention of his achievement.

"Well," continued Murty, "afther scrimmages here an' there an' everywhere, Boney seen the day a'goin' agin him; an' he called a sargint ov Frinch Dhragoons, an' he tould him to run down, as fast as his horse would carry him, an' to tell his father-inlaw, the king of Jarminee, that the battle was a'goin' agin him, an' for him to be afther sindin' up help immaydbitly.

"The sargint wint, sure enuf, an' he soon cum to where all the tints of the king of Jarminee war on the green sod. He seen a gineral, an' he axed him where was the king, an' that hisself was carryin' a message from Boney to him. The gineral, civil, an' dacent, tould him that he'd see him a walkin' before his own tint, wid his dhressin' gown on, an' red shlippers on his two feet, an' he readin' a book. So the sargint cum up to where the king was apposite a large tint, with a beutyful colour a'flyin' out on the top ov it; and he wint down on his knees, as be coorse he should, to a rael king, an' he sed he cum from Boney.

"How's the battle a goin', ye bliggard ?' sez the king, mighty proud.

"'Tis a goin' agin Boney ;' sez the poor sargint, an' I was ordhered to cum to yer majesty for help.'

"Do ye tell me 'tis goin' agin my sonin-law?' sez the king agin.

“The divil a word ov a lie I'm tellin', but the blessed thruth, as I hope to be saved, amin,' sez the sargint, an' he crossin' hisself mighty piess, for he was a rael Roman.

"Well thin, my man, ye may go to the seventeen divils, for all I care about the likes ov you or him; for since I gave him my beutiful daughther, he's keepin' ov me in bilin' wather, an' risin' inimies, like musharoons, up before me. give the vagabone no help, but to bate him; Go away; I'll an' go tell him so from me. Don't say a word, or I'll cut yer head off yer showlders,' sez the king to the onfortinate sargint.

"Wid that, he called the gineral, an' he tould him to get a hundred tousand horse

THE NATIVE MUSIC OF IRELAND.

No. X.

THE simplicity and purity of the structure of the air, named Goiptin Opnaỏ, 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 sequestered 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 have 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 attempt 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 thec
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 Sugpao ann gaċ 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 number, 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 'mid 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.

We have been told that the Be that as it may, however,

"The Rocky Road" is, we believe, rather a "Modern Irish Dance." name is taken from a road so called in the neighbourhood of Clonmel. 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.'"