Demodocus,) owing to their contempt for wind-instruments, were enabled to play and sing at the same time but neither the lyre, the plectrum, the popμry, the chelys, the testudo, or the barbiton, afford such facilities for the concomitance of voice and music as that wondrous engine of harmony, the Celtic bagpipe, called " corne muse" by the French, as if par excellence" cornu musa." Terry, having exalted his horn, sang thus: Terry Callaghan's Song; Being a full and true account of the storming of Blarney Castle by the united forces of Cromwell, Ireton, and Fairfax, in 1628. AIR-" I'm akin to the Callaghans." O Blarney Castle, my darlint! Sure you're nothing at all but a stone, Since the ould Lord Clancarty is gone. Forgotten by martial renown. O Blarney Castle, &c. Bad luck to that robber, ould Crommill! We'll never forgive him, though some will Saxons! such as George Knapp and his sort. But they tell us the day 'll come, when Dannel Will purge the whole country, and drive All the Sassenachs into the channel, Nor leave a Cromwellian alive. O Blarney Castle, &c. Curse the day clumsy Noll's ugly corpus, And into her mouth, full of treason, So that when the brave boys of Clancarty They saw wicked Oliver's party All a feeding on powder and ball; That's bould Ireton, so famous for slaughter- O Blarney Castle, &c. So they fired off their bullets like thunder, That whizzed through the air like a snake; And they made the ould castle (no wonder!) With all its foundations to shake. While the Irish had nothing to shoot off But their bows and their arras, the sowls! Waypons fit for the wars of old Plutarch, O Blarney Castle, &c. Och! 'twas Crommill then gave the dark token- And though th' eyes of the Irish stood open, O Blarney Castle, &c. Then the gates he burnt down to a cinder, O! the rafters they flamed out like tinder, With the dairy, the cows, and the hay; O Blarney Castle, &c. Such was the song of Terry, in the chorus of which he was aided by the sympathetic baryton of Jack Bellew's voice, never silent when his country's woes are the theme of eloquence or minstrelsy. An incipient somnolency began, however, to manifest. itself in Corbet and Dick Dowden; and I confess I myself can recollect little else of the occurrences of the evening. Wherefore with this epilogue we conclude our account of the repast on Watergrasshill, observing that Sir Walter Scott was highly pleased with the sacerdotal banquet, and expressed himself so to Knapp; to whom, on their return in a post-chaise to Cork, he exclaimed, 162 No. IV. DEAN SWIFT'S MADNESS. A TALE OF A CHURN. From the Prout Papers. "O thou, whatever title please thine ear, POPE. WE are fully cognisant of, and perfectly prepared for, the overwhelming burst of universal felicitation which we shall elicit from a sympathising public, when we announce the glad tidings of the safe arrival in London of the Watergrasshill "chest," fraught with treasures such as no Spanish galleon ever wafted from Manilla or Peru into the waters of the Guadalquiver. From the remote Irish highland where Prout wasted so much of true Athenian suavity on the desert air, unnoticed and unappreciated by the rude tenants of the hamlet, his trunk of posthumous papers has been |