Being an Eighth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P. P. of Drumcoolagh.

I have observed, my dear friend, among other grievous misconceptions current among men otherwise well-informed, and which tend to degrade the pretensions of my native land, an impression that there exists no such thing as indigenous modern Irish composition deserving the name of poetry — a belief which has been thoughtlessly sustained and confirmed by the unconscionable literary perverseness of Irishmen themselves, who have preferred the easy task of concocting humorous extravaganzas, which caricature with merciless exaggeration the pedantry, bombast, and blunders incident to the lowest order of Hibernian ballads, to the more pleasurable and patriotic duty of collecting together the many, many specimens of genuine poetic feeling, which have grown up, like its wild flowers, from the warm though neglected soil of Ireland.

In fact, the productions which have long been regarded as pure samples of Irish poetic composition, such as ‘The Groves of Blarney,’ and ‘The Wedding of Ballyporeen,’ ‘Ally Croker,’ etc., etc., are altogether spurious, and as much like the thing they call themselves ‘as I to Hercules.’

There are to be sure in Ireland, as in all countries, poems which deserve to be laughed at. The native productions of which I speak, frequently abound in absurdities — absurdities which are often, too, provokingly mixed up with what is beautiful; but I strongly and absolutely deny that the prevailing or even the usual character of Irish poetry is that of comicality. No country, no time, is devoid of real poetry, or something approaching to it; and surely it were a strange thing if Ireland, abounding as she does from shore to shore with all that is beautiful, and grand, and savage in scenery, and filled with wild recollections, vivid passions, warm affections, and keen sorrow, could find no language to speak withal, but that of mummery and jest. No, her language is imperfect, but there is strength in its rudeness, and beauty in its wildness; and, above all, strong feeling flows through it, like fresh fountains in rugged caverns.

And yet I will not say that the language of genuine indigenous Irish composition is always vulgar and uncouth: on the contrary, I am in possession of some specimens, though by no means of the highest order as to poetic merit, which do not possess throughout a single peculiarity of diction. The lines which I now proceed to lay before you, by way of illustration, are from the pen of an unfortunate young man, of very humble birth, whose early hopes were crossed by the untimely death of her whom he loved. He was a self-educated man, and in after-life rose to high distinctions in the Church to which he devoted himself — an act which proves the sincerity of spirit with which these verses were written.

‘When moonlight falls on wave and wimple,

And silvers every circling dimple,

That onward, onward sails:

When fragrant hawthorns wild and simple

Lend perfume to the gales,

And the pale moon in heaven abiding,

O’er midnight mists and mountains riding,

Shines on the river, smoothly gliding

Through quiet dales,

‘I wander there in solitude,

Charmed by the chiming music rude

Of streams that fret and flow.

For by that eddying stream SHE stood,

On such a night I trow:

For HER the thorn its breath was lending,

On this same tide HER eye was bending,

And with its voice HER voice was blending

Long, long ago.

Wild stream! I walk by thee once more,

I see thy hawthorns dim and hoar,

I hear thy waters moan,

And night-winds sigh from shore to shore,

With hushed and hollow tone;

But breezes on their light way winging,

And all thy waters heedless singing,

No more to me are gladness bringing —

I am alone.

‘Years after years, their swift way keeping,

Like sere leaves down thy current sweeping,

Are lost for aye, and sped —

And Death the wintry soil is heaping

As fast as flowers are shed.

And she who wandered by my side,

And breathed enchantment o’er thy tide,

That makes thee still my friend and guide —

And she is dead.’

These lines I have transcribed in order to prove a point which I have heard denied, namely, that an Irish peasant — for their author was no more — may write at least correctly in the matter of measure, language, and rhyme; and I shall add several extracts in further illustration of the same fact, a fact whose assertion, it must be allowed, may appear somewhat paradoxical even to those who are acquainted, though superficially, with Hibernian composition. The rhymes are, it must be granted, in the generality of such productions, very latitudinarian indeed, and as a veteran votary of the muse once assured me, depend wholly upon the wowls (vowels), as may be seen in the following stanza of the famous ‘Shanavan Voicth.’

‘ “What’ll we have for supper?”

Says my Shanavan Voicth;

“We’ll have turkeys and roast BEEF,

And we’ll eat it very SWEET,

And then we’ll take a SLEEP,”

Says my Shanavan Voicth.’

But I am desirous of showing you that, although barbarisms may and do exist in our native ballads, there are still to be found exceptions which furnish examples of strict correctness in rhyme and metre. Whether they be one whit the better for this I have my doubts. In order to establish my position, I subjoin a portion of a ballad by one Michael Finley, of whom more anon. The GENTLEMAN spoken of in the song is Lord Edward Fitzgerald.

‘The day that traitors sould him and inimies bought him,

The day that the red gold and red blood was paid —

Then the green turned pale and thrembled like the dead leaves in Autumn,

And the heart an’ hope iv Ireland in the could grave was laid.

‘The day I saw you first, with the sunshine fallin’ round ye,

My heart fairly opened with the grandeur of the view:

For ten thousand Irish boys that day did surround ye,

An’ I swore to stand by them till death, an’ fight for you.

‘Ye wor the bravest gentleman, an’ the best that ever stood,

And your eyelid never thrembled for danger nor for dread,

An’ nobleness was flowin’ in each stream of your blood —

My bleasing on you night au’ day, an’ Glory be your bed.

‘My black an’ bitter curse on the head, an’ heart, an’ hand,

That plotted, wished, an’ worked the fall of this Irish hero bold;

God’s curse upon the Irishman that sould his native land,

An’ hell consume to dust the hand that held the thraitor’s gold.’

Such were the politics and poetry of Michael Finley, in his day, perhaps, the most noted song-maker of his country; but as genius is never without its eccentricities, Finley had his peculiarities, and among these, perhaps the most amusing was his rooted aversion to pen, ink, and paper, in perfect independence of which, all his compositions were completed. It is impossible to describe the jealousy with which he regarded the presence of writing materials of any kind, and his ever wakeful fears lest some literary pirate should transfer his oral poetry to paper — fears which were not altogether without warrant, inasmuch as the recitation and singing of these original pieces were to him a source of wealth and importance. I recollect upon one occasion his detecting me in the very act of following his recitation with my pencil and I shall not soon forget his indignant scowl, as stopping abruptly in the midst of a line, he sharply exclaimed:

‘Is my pome a pigsty, or what, that you want a surveyor’s ground-plan of it?’

Owing to this absurd scruple, I have been obliged, with one exception, that of the ballad of ‘Phaudhrig Crohoore,’ to rest satisfied with such snatches and fragments of his poetry as my memory could bear away — a fact which must account for the mutilated state in which I have been obliged to present the foregoing specimen of his composition.

It was in vain for me to reason with this man of metres upon the unreasonableness of this despotic and exclusive assertion of copyright. I well remember his answer to me when, among other arguments, I urged the advisability of some care for the permanence of his reputation, as a motive to induce him to consent to have his poems written down, and thus reduced to a palpable and enduring form.

‘I often noticed,’ said he, ‘when a mist id be spreadin’, a little brier to look as big, you’d think, as an oak tree; an’ same way, in the dimmness iv the nightf............