When the deep glen rung, And the war shout sprung, Unbroken from height to height. Each Suliote knew the sound That summon'd his ready brand, And they rush'd along With their rough war-song, Like waves to a stormy strand. The Arnaut host had reach'd A pass of the guarded glen, When the loud steel clash'd, And the hot blood plash'd, In the trample of mighty men. 'Thro' th' Albanese reeling ranks The conquering men rush'd down, As wild winds sweep Thro' the forests deep, When the Autumn leaves are brown. There were blood-fill'd turbans there, And many a bleeding brand Was scatter'd around The reeking ground, Fast clench'd in the lifeless hand. And the countless crescents that shone Thro' billows of boiling blood, Seem'd so broken and bright, Like reflected light, On the eve-empurpled flood. Then shout for the Suliote men, Besprent with that gory rain, As lions appear When the slaughter'd deer Lie strew'd on the smoking plain. They stood like their own wild hills, While the lightnings flash And the thunders crash Around their mighty sides." JOSEPH O'LEARY. This wooer of the Poetic Muse, who is, at present, employed in a translation of "Tibullus," from his earliest years has been a lover of poesy. He, at one time, designed to make the Stage his profession; but the little encouragement which theatricals generally receive in Ireland, and the advice of his friends, induced him to put off the buskin, and grasp the quill instead of the truncheon. He has repeatedly essayed his strength in short pieces, in the public papers of Cork, in which sweetness of manner, easy, flowing, and musical versification, with great polish and felicity of language, and abundance of imagery, are the characteristic traits, bringing with him a warm attachment to his country, a close knowledge of its history, manners, traditions, and general antiquities. He has successfully waked the lyre to lays of love, to freedom, and to Bacchic strains; and in all he has exhibited talent, feeling, and spright-liness. The following song, adapted to the lively national air of "Bob and Joan," has been sung in every convivial circle in Cork.. SONG. "Whiskey, drink divine, Why should drivellers bore us With the praise of wine, While we've thee before us? Were it not a shame, While we gaily fling thee To our lips of flame, If we could not sing thee? Whiskey, drink divine, &c. Had Anacreon, who Was the grape's best poet, Drank our mountain-dew, All the world would know it. Being the best then known, He to wine was civil, But for Innishone, He'd pitch it to the devil. Whiskey, &c. Greek and Roman sung Scian and Falernian Shall no harp be rung To thy praise, Hibernian? Tell the world at once, They owe it all to whiskey. Whiskey, &c. Could my feeble lays Half thy virtues number, A whole grove of bays Should my brows encumber. Who summ'd up thy merits, In one little word, When he call'd thee Spirits. Whiskey, &c. Bright as beauty's eye, When no sorrow veils it; Sweet as beauty's sigh, When young Love inhales it. In no place on the face of the habitable globe are the merits of "Whiskey" so fully appreciated, or so ably discussed, as in "the beautiful city called Cork." Between jestmaking and punch-making, life rubs on pleasantly enough. While a resident in that city, the Editor of these volumes ventured on the following verses on the nectar so greatly lauded by Mr. O'Leary, and all his countrymen of taste. WHISKEY-PUNCH. "Come, hand me down the whiskey, the lemons quickly pass, And fling some lumps of sugar white into the deepest glass. |