Instead of summing his offences,
Began to reckon his expenses,

For mixture, bolus, draught, and pill,
A long apothecary's bill;

And guineas gone in paying doctors,
With fees t' attorneys, and to proctors;
The sexton's and the parson's due,
The undertaker's reck'ning too ;-
Alas! quoth Tom, with his last sigh,
'Tis a most fearful thing to die."

THE PRESENT RACE OF CORK POETS.

To whatever cause the improvement of the literary taste of Cork may be owing we know not; it is certain, that, contrasted with what it was seventy years ago, when Smith published his catalogue of writers born in this county and city, an extraordinary and rapid increase has taken place in the number of eminent names in the various departments of science and literature, and more especially in that of poetry.

Cork, at this moment, holds within it (natives) a most respectable number of the sons of song; at the head of whom decidedly is

JEREMIAH JOSEPH CALLANAN ;

a name which it is not too much to say will, at

no very remote period, when his various spirited and delightful productions will meet the public eye, rank amongst the most distinguished of Ireland's bards, living or gone.

He is now preparing a volume of his poetry for publication, and the literati will perceive, from the specimens of it here given, what its character and claims on their patronage will

be.

Callanan was originally intended for the Catholic priesthood, and studied, for some years, at the College of Maynooth. Changing his determination, he entered Trinity College as a pensioner, directing his studies to the law, which he intended to make his future profession. While in Trinity, he distinguished himself twice amongst the poetic candidates for prizes, being each time declared the victor. The conduct of his judges, on one of these occasions, in the distribution of the reward, disgusted Mr. C., and he quitted the College in consequence. He has since been a resident in Cork. Some of his minor poems have, from time to time, appeared in the "Cork Mercantile Chronicle," and been from thence copied into several English papers. He has, also, published some very

beautiful and vigorous translations from the Irish, in "Blackwood's Magazine." (February, 1823.)

The following piece of poetry, written under circumstances the most unfavourable to poetic genius, we doubt not, our readers will deem deserving of the highest eulogy.

THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK.

"The Evening Star rose beauteous above the fading day, As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came to pray; And hill and wave shone brightly, in the moonlight's mellow fall,

But the Bank of green where Mary knelt, was the brightest of them all.

Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appear'd, And her joyous crew look'd from the deck, as to the land

she near❜d;

To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like a swan, And her wings of snow, o'er the waves below, in pride and beauty shone.

The Master saw "Our Lady," as he stood upon the

prow,

And mark'd the whiteness of her robe, and the radiance

of her brow;

Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stainless

breast,

And her eyes look'd up among the stars to Him her soul lov'd best.

He shew'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her with a cheer,

And on the kneeling Virgin they gaz'd with laugh and jeer; And madly swore, a form so fair they never saw before, And they curs'd the faint and lagging breeze that kept them from the shore.

The Ocean from its bosom shook off the moonlight

sheen,

And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their Queen; And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness o'er

the land,

And the scoffing crew beheld no more "The Lady" on the strand.

Out burst the growling thunder, and the lightning leapt

about,

And rushing with it's wat'ry war, the tempest gave a

shout;

And that vessel from a mountain wave came down with

thund'ring shock,

And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on Inchidony's rock.

Then loud from all that guilty crew, one shriek rose

wild and high,

But the angry surge swept over them, and hush'd their gurgling cry;

And with a hoarse exulting tone, the tempest pass'd away, And down, still chafing from their strife, the indignant

waters lay.

When the calm and purple morning shone-out on high

Dunmore,

Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchidony's

shore;

And to this day the fisherman shews where the scoffers

sank,

And still he calls that hillock green "The Virgin Mary's Bank."

JOHN AUGUSTINE O'SHEA.

This bard has not yet reached his twentyfourth year; but, perhaps, has written more in the short space since his poetical talents have developed themselves than any of his contemporaries in the same period. The circumstances of Greece, and the glorious struggle which that too-long oppressed and degraded country has made to acquire her freedom, have been objects of particular attention to Mr. O'Shea, and his Muse has been principally employed in celebrating the modern triumphs of that regenerated country. The annexed specimen evinces considerable nerve, and true poetic feeling.

SULIOTE SONG OF VICTORY.

"'Twas morn, and the mountain peaks
Were visor'd with purple light,