Disturbare greges, nec mage tuta seges.
Audio singultus, rixas, miserosque tumultus,
Et pietas luget, sobrietasque fugit.

Namque furore brevi liquidâque ardentis aquæ vi
Antiquus Nicholas perdidit agricolas.
Jam patre defuncto, meliores flumine cuncto

Lætantur pisces obtinuisse vices.

Exultans almo, lætare sub æquore salmo!
Carpe, o carpe dies, nam tibi parta quies!
Gaudent anguilla, quia tandem est mortuus ille,
Presbyter Andreas, qui capiebat eas.

Petro piscator placuit pius artis amator,
Cui, propter mores, pandit utrosque fores.
Cur lachrymâ funus justi comitabitur unus ?
Flendum est non tali, sed bene morte mali:
Munera nunc Flora spargo. Sic flebile rore
Virescat gramen.
Pace quiescat. Amen.

Sweet upland! where, like hermit old, in peace sojourn'd
This priest devout;

Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep inurn'd
The bones of Prout!

Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering column
His place of rest,

Whose soul, above earth's homage, meek yet solemn,
Sits mid the blest.

Much was he prized, much loved; his stern rebuke
O'erawed sheep-stealers;

And rogues fear'd more the good man's single look
Than forty Peelers.

He's gone; and discord soon I ween will visit
The land with quarrels ;

And the foul demon vex with stills illicit

The village morals.

No fatal chance could happen more to cross
The public wishes;

And all the neighbourhood deplore his loss,
Except the fishes;

For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herring
Preferred to gammon.

Grim Death has broke his angling-rod; his berring
Delights the salmon.

No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout,
For fasting pittance,-

Arts which Saint Peter loved, whose gate to Prout
Gave prompt admittance.

Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep
His sainted dust;

The bad man's death it well becomes to weep,-
Not so the just.

47

No. II.

A PLEA FOR PILGRIMAGES; SIR WALTER SCOTT'S VISIT TO THE BLARNEY STONE.

"Beware, beware

Of the black friar,

Who sitteth by Norman stone;

For he mutters his prayer

In the midnight air,

And his mass of the days that are gone."

BYRON.

SINCE the publication of this worthy man's "Apology for Lent," which, with some account of his lamented death and well-attended funeral, appeared in our last Number, we have written to his executors-(one of whom, we learn, is Father Mat. Horrogan, P. P. of the neighbouring village of Blarney; and the other, our elegiac poet, Father Magrath)-in the hope of being able to negotiate for the valuable posthumous essays and fugitive pieces which we doubted not had been left behind in great abundance by the deceased. These two disinterested divines-fit associates and bosom-companions of Prout during his lifetime, and

whom, from their joint letters, we should think eminently qualified to pick up the fallen mantle of the departed prophet-have, in the most handsome manner, promised us all the literary and philosophic treatises bequeathed to them by the late incumbent of Watergrasshill; expressing, in the very complimentary note which they have transmitted us (and which our modesty prevents us from inserting), their thanks, and those of the whole parish, for our sympathy and condolence on this melancholy bereavement, and intimating at the same time their regret at its not being in their power to send us also, for our private perusal, the collection of the good father's parochial sermons; the whole of which (a most valuable MS.) had been taken off for his own use by the bishop, whom he had made his residuary legatee. These "sermons" must be doubtless good things in their way-a theological μeya lavua-well adapted to swell the episcopal library; but as we confessedly are, and suspect our readers likewise to be, a very improper multitude amongst whom to scatter such pearls, we shall console ourselves for that sacrifice by plunging head and ears into the abundant sources

of intellectual refreshment to which we shall soon have access, and from which Frank Cresswell, lucky dog! has drawn such a draught of inspiration.

"Sacros ausus recludere fontes !"

for assuredly we may defy any one that has perused Prout's vindication of fish-diet (and who, we ask, has not read it con amore, conning it over with secret glee, and forthwith calling out for a red-herring ?), not to prefer its simple unsophisticated eloquence to the oration of Tully pro Domo suâ, or Barclay's " Apology for Quakers." After all, it may have been but a sprat to catch a whale, and the whole affair may turn out to be a popish contrivance; but if so, we have taken the bait ourselves: we have been, like Festus, "almost persuaded," and Prout has wrought in us a sort of culinary conversion. Why should we be ashamed to avow that we have been edified by the good man's blunt and straightforward logic, and drawn from his theories on fish a higher and more moral impression than from the dreamy visions of an "English Opiumeater," or any other "Confessions" of sensualism and gastronomy? If this "black friar" has got smuggled