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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 poppers, 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 musæ.” 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,
Wrapt in ivy-a nest for all varmint,

Since the ould Lord Clancarty is gone.
Och! 'tis you that was once strong and aincient,

And ye kep all the Sassenachs down,
While fighting them battles that aint yet
Forgotten by martial renown.

O Blarney Castle, &c.

Bad luck to that robber, ould Crommill !

That plundered our beautiful fort;
We'll never forgive him, though some will —

Saxons! such as George Knapp and his sort.

But they tell us the day 'll


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,

Clad in copper, was seen on our plain ; When he rowled over here like a porpoise,

In two or three hookers from Spain !
And bekase that he was a freemason

He mounted a battering-ram,
And into her mouth, full of treason,
Twenty pound of gunpowder he'd cram.

O Blarney Castle, &c.

So that when the brave boys of Clancarty

Looked over their battlement-wall,
They saw wicked Oliver's party

All a feeding on powder and ball;
And that giniral that married his daughter,

Wid a heap of grape-shot in his jaw That's bould Ireton, so famous for slaughterAnd he was his brother-in-law.

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,
And perhaps mighty good for wild fowls.

O Blarney Castle, &c.

Och ! 'twas Crommill then gave the dark token

For in the black art he was deep;
And though th' eyes of the Irish stood open,

They found themselves all fast asleep!
With his jack-boots he stepped on the water,

And he walked clane right over the lake ;
While his sodgers they all followed after,
As dry as a duck or a drake.

O Blarney Castle, &c.

Then the gates he burnt down to a cinder,

And the roof he demolished likewise ;
0! the rafters they flamed out like tinder,

And the buildin' flared up to the skies.
And he gave the estate to the Jeffers,

With the dairy, the cows, and the hay;
And they lived there in clover like heifers,
As their ancestors do to this day.

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,

“ Prorsùs jucundè cænam produximus illam.”


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No. IV.



from the Prout Papers.

“O thou, whatever title please thine ear,

Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver —
Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air,
Or laugh and shake in Rab'lais' easy chair,
Or praise the court, or magnify mankind,
Or thy grieved country's copper chains unbind !"

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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

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