"The songs of the people are always worth attention; and it appears extraordinary that the most positive treason should, for many years past, have been published in Ireland, apparently without notice. Of about four hundred popular ballads, in English, (chiefly printed at Limerick,) purchased without selection, in 1821, more than one-third were of a rebellious tendency, particularly a song entitled "Cathaleen Thrail," (Catherine the Slave,) so is Ireland allegorically styled. The first, second, and third verses describe the meeting of the author with Cathaleen Thrail, the genius of the country; the fourth, sixth, and part of the last verse are here copied, on account of the prophetic strain which runs through them :—

"You, Sons of poor Erin, therefore dont fail

From Cork to Kinsale, and off to Cape Clear,
Come excite your parties, it's no time to bewail
Tho' bad alterations we've plenty this year;
Now the year 21 is drawing in by degrees,
In the year 22 the Locusts will weep;
But in the year 23 we'll begin to reap
And divorce the Black-weed from Cathaleen Thrail.

I conversed with many in my circuit most pleasing Until I came to my native land, sweet Donoughmore,

Tracing old tradition, down from the creation,
And how the Milesians were conquer'd of yore!
How laws were enacted to slacken their force-
How they were wrongfully oppress'd and opposed,
And how they were trodden and toss'd by the Toads
Who made an encroachment on Cathaleen Thrail.

Good people, take courage, don't perish in fright,
For Notes will be nothing in the year 25.
As I am O'Healy, we then will contrive

To daily drink beer by laws of Cathaleen Thrail!"

"The following lines are from another song, which was so extensively sung amongst the lower orders in Dublin, that it must still be distinctly remembered by many. The subject was, the Banishment of Napoleon Bonaparte to St. Helena.

"Now he is confined, and no hope of releasement,

Before the year twenty-five he'll surprise them in earnest. This truth we are told, and that by Pastorini,

That the sword it will fall, and perhaps from St. Helena.

Now you that belong to a certain great kingdom,

I would have you beware lest your fate be impending," &c.

"Verses, however, more polished than the foregoing, have been employed in the dissemi

nation of the same sentiments. One specimen will suffice to prove this assertion.

"Despair not, sweet Erin, thy sun is not set

In the dark shades of discord-but still there remains
A hope that 'twill rise in mild splendour as yet,
A hope that my country may shake off her chains!
The spirit of Freedom still hovers above

To foster thy children, and dares to inspire
Their bosoms with valour-with glory-with love-
The patriot's soul—and the patriot's fire!"

It is but justice to state, that the foregoing is selected from Mr. Crofton Croker's volume of "Researches in the South of Ireland;" a work replete with valuable information, not only as far as regards the literature of the Irish, but of the manners, customs, and superstitions of that people, in this and former ages.

BERNARD BARTON.

THIS sweet and unassuming Quaker Poet, on being applied to for his autograph, complied with the request in the following truly courteous and truly poetic manner :

"An autograph and name like mine

Have little to commend them;

But if worth asking, they are thine,

And willingly I send them.

BERNARD BARTON."

SUMS RECEIVED BY LORD BYRON FOR HIS POEMS.

MURRAY, in a pamphlet published by himself to refute Captain Medwin, states his having paid, at various times, for the copy-right of his Lordship's Poems, sums amounting to upwards of £15,000, viz.

Childe Harold, Parts I. II.

£600

DR. YOUNG, AND THE RIVAL BOOKSELLERS. "TONSON and Lintot were both candidates for printing some work of Dr. Young's. He answered both their letters the same morning, and, in his hurry, misdirected them. When Lintot opened that which came to him, he found it begin,That Bernard Lintot is so great a Scoundrel, that,' &c. It must have been very amusing to have seen him in his rage; he was a great sputtering fellow."

SPENCE.

ROBERT BURNS.

ONE day when Burns dined with a party of friends at Glasgow, among the company was a Mr. Barton, a dandy of that day, both in dress and language, his constant expressions being,"D-n my eyes! d-n my blood!" Burns had frequently been requested to write an epitaph for him, but declined the task, till Barton one day adding his own entreaty, Burns drew forth his pencil, and wrote the following:

"Here cursing, swearing, Barton lies

A beau, a buck, or d-n my eyes!

Who in his life did little good,

;

And his last words were, 'd-n my blood.'"