IRISH POPULAR SONGS.
THE object of Mr. Walsh in making this selection from the songs of the Irish people, as still sung by them in their native language, is to furnish the world with a genuine example of the national genius. His specimens have been taken from the popular poets—the Burnes of Ireland. Day- labourers, hedge-schoolmasters, bards who lived by their wits, with a priest or a student for the priesthood, are the authors who furnish forth the collection. In point of time, they nearly all belong to the last or pre- vious centuries; and Mr. Walsh thinks that they may be considered the "lineal descendants of the bards" of ancient times. His principle of choice has been to admit nothing that might give offence in a moral or political point of view : his plan of translation is to present the reader with as exact a counterpart of the originals as is possible. Each stanza is in the same number of lines ; in many of the songs Mr. Walsh has "preserved the =aural and demi-mesural rhymes, the use of which pro- duces such harmonious effects in Irish verse " ; and he "suits the measure of the translation to the exact song-tune of the original." The Irish words and the translated version are printed on opposite pages. The little collection is curious, and not without interest; but we can- not subscribe to Mr. Walsh's praise of the poetry, or see in it the strong patriotic and national feelings that are visible to him. Qualities, indeed, may escape in a translation, whose presence would modify a judgment; but we doubt whether there is a loss of anything in these poems, save the harmony of language, and the character of freshness and indivi- duality that distinguishes every original. The sentiments and imagery are evidently preserved : we think the style—not the mere diction, but the mental mode in which the author conveys his ideas—has also been caught ; and that, in fact, we have every means of judging, short of the pleasure which arises from association of ideas and lingual sound. Some of the songs are so far original that their authors draw upon experience and observation ; their images are taken from Irish nature or Irish life; they seem to have felt what they profess to describi, and Irish notions have modified their feelings. Others do not attain this unity, though they are still Irish enough in a sort of display of learning out of place. One bard brings together Hector, Fingal, Pan, Venus, " the Phrygian boy," and other scraps of reading, without a particle of propriety in the use of the names, or the slightest apprehension of the spirit of the authors whence they came. Some songs have little or no pedantry, and their ideas are tolerably natural; but it is a na- ture which we can only express by the term Irish nature. There is a weakness of parts, an incompleteness or stopping short of purpose, like the hitch which is said to occur in every Irish plan of action. In the main matter of poetical spirit they all fall short. We do not mean that they are absolutely prosaic, or devoid of a certain kind of animation that passes for poetry in the markets of the day ; but they would not take rank as a national literature, or be valued by a people which had really produced a poet. Their rank is about the grade of that class of poets who "provide" songs for parties and playhouses, and their real merit about on a par with that of the song-writers of the last century, whose style seems to some extent imitated. And this is not surprising. Much worse company than the "Irish bards" was received at the tables of the old Irish gentry, and the minstrel would sometimes hear the fashionable ditties of the day. To compare these poets or any one of them with Burns, seems almost ludicrous. Owen Roe O'Sullivan might be as profligate and licentious as Burns, and like him rouse the anger of eccle- siastics ; but the resemblance was confined to their life. In a piece which Sullivan wrote after he had been excommunicated by the priest and re- fused admission into the Protestant church by the parson, he had a capital subject for satire, humour, and deep feeling ; but he makes little of it. The ludicrous may be more telling in Irish; but as it stands, the treatment is poor, and the topics are certainly scanty, as if the O'Sullivan wanted range of? mind to invent. The best song is one on whisky; proving that knowledge and liking are the truest inspirers. It is unequal; the dialogue and impersonation of whisky is a piece of artifice of which little use is made, and the weakness or insufficiency we have already alluded to is not unfelt ; bat it has animation, and the true spirit of the Irish toper's recklessness.
WHISKY, SOUL OF REVELRY.
THE POET.
" Whisky, soul of revelry I Low in the mud you seat me;
Possess'd with all your devilry,
I challenge foes, to beat me. Behold, my coat to shreds is done, My neckcloth down the wind has run; But I'll forgive the deeds you've done,
If you tomorrow meet me!"
WHISKY.
" When after hearing Sunday mass, And your good psalm reciting, Meet me at the wonted place, 'Mid tavern joys delighting;
Where polisli'd quarts are shining o'er The well-cockd barrels on the floor;
And bring sweet rhymes, a goodly store, To grace my smiles inviting !"
BARD.
My store, my wealth, my cousin bland, My sister, and my brother; My court, my house, my farm of land, My stacks—I crave none other; My labour, horses, and my plough, My white-fleeced sheep, my cattle thou; And far beyond all these I vow To love you as a mother !
" Mid, beautiful, beloved one, Prized o'er all maids and misses, 0, quit me not, or I'm undone; My father loved your kisses. My haunting sprite is rum, I trove; My blood relations draughts that glow; My gossip is the punch-bowl—O! I'll haste to share their blisses!
" What quarrels dire we both have had This year of sorrow sable I But 0, my bounding heart is glad To see you crown the table. Dear fondling of the nuptial nest, My father kind, my mother bless'd, My upper coat, my inner vest, I'll hold you while I'm able!"
Previous page
