of his life he could read a little English, but could not be prevailed on even to attempt to speak it. He was descended of a good family, but, to use his own expression, he first saw the light through the chinks of a ruined house, that once flourished in peace and plenty.

The following passage is taken from the introduction to one of his poems, called "The Spring and Summer of Life."

"The sixteenth Lent had scarce passed over my head, when the best of mothers was called to receive the reward that is promised to the pious. Death did not long separate those whom early love had united my father soon followed, and they now sleep in one grave together, which is a great consolation to me. I was glad to hire myself out to a farmer in the neighbourhood, in whom I found an indulgent father. In this situation the Muse used to visit me, as it were, by stealth, for I was ashamed and afraid to acknowledge, that a ploughman should dare to approach the fountain of Aganippe; but it was love that first led me to it."

I could collect little more of his life than what I have just transcribed. Bridget Brady, it seems, was the object of his fruitless passion; she was the daughter of a purse-proud miller; almost all the young women could repeat a number of the verses that he poured forth in praise of this inexorable beauty. I have attempted the translation of a few, in which I have endeavoured to preserve the local comparisons.

BRIDGET BRADY.

She's as straight as a pine on the mountains of Kilmannan,

She's as fair as the lilies on the banks of the Shannon;

Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms of Drumcallan,

And her breast gently swells like the waves of lake Allan.

To these I shall beg leave to add the following:

THE LIFE A LOVER LEADS.
Pleasing hopes and chilling fears,
Words embalm'd in true-love tears;
Sighs more precious far than gold,
Neither to be bought nor sold;
Lips and cheeks of vernal hues,
Nods, and smiles, and soft adieus;
Dreams as light as summer air,
Valentines when linnets pair.

Now she's coy and now she's kind,
Then as fickle as the wind;
Talks of nunneries and beads-
What a life a lover leads!

CONNAUGHT.

Connaught, long fam'd for pedigrees Of man and beast of all degrees; With many a Mac, and many an 0, The darling pride of high and low; And if united in one race,

Make way, and give O Mac that place. What do ye think, ye sons of earth, Who place no price, alas! on birth, Whose souls are all absorb'd in gains, If you should visit these dear plains,

You'd be despis'd; and so you should; For I myself can boast some blood. Say, Connaught, fam'd for woods and

waters,

Can I forget thy lovely daughters?
As straight as any solar beam,
As pure as any limpid stream;
With snowy neck and coal-black hair,
And breasts as soft as yielding air;
There Cupid should reside alone,
There Venus should erect her throne;
There Mars would find a body guard,
And ev'ry glorious deed a bard;
There hospitality resides,
There plenty flows in copious tides;
There Bacchus shews his honest face,
And there chaste Dian wings the chase.
Where'er I chance to roam by day,
In Connaught let me pass the night;
There let me modulate the lay,
There let the Muse take her last
flight.

If Thaddeus Ruddy could not paint his passion in all the glow of Petrarch, it was at least as warm and as pure; and if Bridget was not so beautiful as Laura, she was at least as cruel. Poets, in truth, are seldom successful in love; the haughty fair seldom yield to the " cord of sweet sounds;" and our bard may be added to the number of those who have sung, but sung in vain; for Bridget gave her hand to a young man, that found a powerful advocate in a large herd of swine, and a flock of sheep.

Songs.

con

Tales.

THE WATER LADY;

A LEGEND.

There is a mystery in these sombre shades, A secret horror in this dark, deep flood: "T seems as if beings of another race Here lurk invisible, except what time Eve's dusky hour, and night's congenial gloom,

Permit them show themselves in human guise.

Men say that fays, and elves, and water spirits,

Affect such haunts-and this is surely one. ON the banks of one of the streams falling into the Inn, are the remains of an old castle, not far from a narrow defile or glen, where the waters, being hemmed in, rush with impetuosity through fragments of rock impeding their course. Of these, the following legend is related. The last possessor of the castle, which

had not been inhabited for several cen

turies, was Count Albert, a youthful nobleman, descended from an illustrious ancestry; daring, enthusiastic, and addicted to study; but his studies were of such a nature, that they incurred for him, among his credulous dependants, the imputation of holding unhallowed intercourse with supernatural beings. Independently, however, of the censures

his conduct occasioned in this respect, he was admired by all for possessing, in an eminent degree, personal courage and prowess,qualities so necessary, and therefore so highly prized, in those ages. Yet even those who were most forward to commend his undauntedness, could not forbear blaming the indiscretions of his curiosity, which led him to venture into scenes that would, by the fancied horror attached to them, have appalled the bravest of his followers. During the most stormy weather, when the spirits of the air were supposed to be wreaking their fury on the elements-in the depth of night, at what hour the departed were supposed to re-visit the earth, and forms obscure and terrific to appear to the unfortunate traveller who should be bewildered on his way,---even at such seasons would Albert venture into the recesses of the woods, enjoy the conflict of nature on the blasted heath, and explore the wildest solitudes around his domain.

Such practices occasioned much conjecture and rumour-and many prophesied, that some terrible visitation would

overtake the man, who, if not actually leagued with the powers of darkness, delighted in all that was terrific and appalling; nor did the less scrupulous or the more imaginative hesitate to relate, with particular circumstance and detail, the dreadful mysteries he was reported at such times to have witnessed.

In the defile, which, as has been stated, was in the immediate vicinity of the castle, it was said that a fairy or spirit, named the water lady, had been heard by night, singing within a cave hollowed in the rock, just above the most dangerous part of the current.

Albert was determined to ascertain the truth, and, if possible, obtain an interview with the supernatural inhabitant of the Black Water vault. Such a daring project excited the horror of all who heard it; since many were the tales respecting persons having been enticed to listen to the strains of the spirit, and afterwards perishing in the foaming waters: for she was said to delight in attracting the unwary and curious. But though the design of the young Count appeared so fraught with danger, and obstinate temerity, nothing could induce him to abandon the enterprise; neither the entreaties of his friends, nor those of Bertha, his betrothed bride, whom he was shortly to conduct to the altar; it rather seemed as if all obstacles and dissuasives did but irritate his unhallowed curiosity. One evening, the third of the new moon, the Count, attended by two companions, whom he had prevailed upon to assist him in rowing his boat, and steering it among the eddies of the torrent, departed for the scene of research. They proceeded in silence, for Albert was buried in thought; the others were mute from apprehension. No sooner did they approach the narrow pass where the foaming and congregated waters dash furiously through the contracted channel, than was heard the voice of one within the cavern.

The music was so strangely sweet and fascinating, that, although struck with awe at the supernatural sounds, they were induced to advance. A form was soon dimly descried; it was that of a female arrayed in floating drapery, but her features they might not discern, as she wore a thick veil. They continued to approach the spot so as to be able to catch distinctly the following words, which were chaunted in a tone of solemn adjuration.

By the treasures of my cave,
More than avarice could crave,
More than fortune yet e'er gave,
I charge thee, youth, appear.
Here I wait thy will and hest,
Here with me thoul't safely rest,
Thou art he, my chosen guest ;-
Then enter thou, nor fear.
Mortal, now, in dead of night,
Magic spell of friendly sprite,
To favour thee, hath bound aright
Aught that would thee harm.
Hither, hasten, youthful rower:
In my secret, inmost bower,
Thou shalt find a worthy dower ;-
Defy not, then, my charm.

By this time they had arrived opposite to the cave: Albert motioned to his companions to stay the bark, and scarcely had they obeyed, when having leapt into the flood, he was soon descried by them climbing up the jutting crags below the cavern-he entered beneath its lowbrowed opening, and disappeared. Gazing upon each other with looks of dread, and fearing to speak, lest there should be horror in the tones of their own voices, they retired to some distance, waiting in the hope that the adventurer might reappear: at length, they returned to the castle, in the same silence of terror as they had hitherto observed. "Where was their companion, the Count---had he perished?---How had they lost him? ---what had they beheld?" These and similar questions were put to them by the terrified inmates: their replies were brief, vague, incoherent, but all of dreadful import; and no doubt remained as to the youth's having become the victim of his own temerity.

The following morning when the family were assembled, and preparing to commence their matin repast, Lord Albert advanced into the hall, and took his wonted station at the table, with the usual salutations. All started as if a spectre had stood before them---yet, strange to say, no one dared to address him as to his absence, or his mysterious return --for he had apparently but just quitted, his chamber, clad in his wonted morning apparel; every one was as spell-bound, since no sooner did any attempt to question the count, than he felt the words die away upon his lips. There sat a wondrous paleness on his brow, yet was it not sad; there was, too, a more than common fire in the expression of his eyes; he was thoughtful,— at times abstracted, but instantly roused

himself, and essayed to animate the conversation. If the silence of the others was singular, that of Albert himself was equally so, for he took no notice whatever of the occurrences of the preceding evening. No sooner had he quitted the hall than every one began to enquire of his neighbour, if he knew when, or how the Count had returned-to wonder at their own silence on this topic, and impute it to some magic charm. Day after day did they continue to express to each other their astonishment, their surmises, their apprehensions; but even his most familiar friends did not venture ever to speak a syllable to him on the subject of their curiosity: among other circumstances, which were whispered about, it had been remarked, that instead of the ring the Count used to wear, which was of great value and family antiquity, he now had one, of which the circlet itself, and not the ornament, was apparently cut out of a single piece of emerald, and, as some averred, who had taken the opportunity of examining it, unperceived by its wearer, inscribed with mystic

characters.

In time, however, these circumstances ceased to be the theme of conversation, and even appeared forgotten during the preparations for the approaching nuptials between the Count and the Lady Bertha; and were never mentioned during the gaieties attendant upon their solemnization. On the evening after the bridal day, while the Count was conversing apart with one of his guests, in the recess of an oriel window, the faint beam of the new moon fell upon his face---he looked up aghast, as if struck by some sudden, dreadful recollection, and, dashing his hand against his forehead, rushed wildly out of the apartment. Consternation seized all who witnessed this dreadful burst of dismay, of which none could tell the cause.

Retired from his guests, the Count was hastily pacing to and fro, in a long gallery leading to his private apartments, when Bertha broke in upon him. She did not notice his extreme disorder, being herself hardly less agitated; but informed him, that on the preceding night, a figure veiled in long flowing drapery, had been standing at their chamber door, and the next morning a ring picked up by her attendants on the very spot where this mysterious appearance had been ob

worn.

served. She then gave the ring to her lord---it was that which he had formerly "Fatal, fatal night! Listen Bertha!" exclaimed he, in a tone of anguish. "Impelled by curiosity, I visited the Water Lady;' it was on the third of the moon. She compelled me to an interchange of rings: from her it was that I received this fatal one, which you observe on my finger, and which I am bound by a solemn vow never to lay aside. I vowed also"---he shuddered as he spoke--" to consent to receive a visit from her on the third of the moon. This I was obliged to do, or incur all the consequences of her wrath, while yet in her power: from that fatal period, I have been obliged to submit to these intercourses with a strange being

the consequence of my unhallowed cnriosity. Last night was due to her!" Bertha listened in horror---the Count looked on his finger, the circlet of emerald was gone; how he knew not, but he hoped that he was now released from his terrible vow, yet felt a strange presentiment of impending misfortune. Bertha, notwithstanding her own distress, endeavoured to cheer him, but became alarmed at the ashy paleness of his countenance he tried to persuade her he was not so disturbed as she imagined, and turned to a mirror, for the purpose of seeing whether his features wore the deadly aspect she fancied---but a cry of horror issued from his lips; the mirror had reflected his dress, but neither his hands nor his face. He felt that he was under the bann of that mysterious being, with whom his fate was so strangelylinked. A deadly chill darted through his heart; he rushed to his chamber, but no sooner had he laid his fingers upon the bolt of the door than he felt them grasped by a cold icy hand. "Albert," cried a voice, "thou hast broken the compact so solemnly ratified between us. Last night was the third of the moon: know that spirits may not be trifled with." Bertha had followed her bridegroom: she had heard the awful voice-she felt that some strange visitation was at hand, yet was not therefore deterred from entering the apartment.

The next day, no traces of either Albert or Bertha could be discovered, they were never seen again; and all agreed that they had perished by the revenge of the "Water Lady." The castle was de

serted-became a ruin; and the peasantry used ever afterwards to point out with dismay the fatal cavern of the Black Water Vault, and to relate to the traveller the legend of the Water Lady.

A SCHOOL FOR POLITENESS;
OR, THE CAT-o'-NINE-TAILS.

Once on a time, as I've heard say-
(I neither knew the year, nor day)
The rain distill'd from many a cloud;
The night was dark, the wind blew loud;
A Country Squire, without a guide,
Where roads were bad, and heath was wide,
Attended by his servant Jerry,

Was travelling tow'rds the town of Bury.
The Squire had ne'er been bred in courts;
But yet was held, as Fame reports,
Tho' he to wit made no pretence,
A Squire of more than common sense.
Jerry, who courage could not boast,
Thought every sheep he saw a ghost;
And most devoutly pray'd, he might
Escape the terrors of the night!

As they approach'd the common's side,
A peasant's cottage they espied;
There, riding up, our weary Squire,
Held it most prudent to enquire,
Being nothing less than wet to skin,
Where he might find a welcome inn?
"No inns there are," replied the clown,

Twixt this and yonder market-town,
Seven miles, Nor-west, across the heath;
And wind and rain are in your teeth!
But, if so be, Sir, you will go
To yon old Hall upon the brow,
You'll find free entertainment there-
Down beds; and rare old English fare,
Of beef and mutton, fowl and fish;
As good as any man need wish-
Warm stabling, too; and corn and hay :
Yet not a penny have to pay!

"Tis true, Sir, I have heard it said,"And here he grinn'd, and scratch'd his head--"The Gentleman that keeps the house, Tho' ev'ry freedom he allows, And is, o'er night, so woundy civil, You'd swear he never dreamt of evil; Orders, next morn, his servant John, With Cat-o'-nine-tails to lay on Full twenty strokes, most duly counted, On man and master, ere they're mounted!""With Cat-o'-nine-tails!-Oh!" cried Jerry, "That I were safe at Edmund's Bury!"

Our Squire spurr'd on, as clown directed, This offer might not be rejected: Poor Jerry's prayers could not dissuade ! The Squire, more curious than afraid, Arrives, and rings. The footman runs: The Master, with his Wife, and Sons, Descend the hall, and bid liim enter; Give him dry cloaths; and beg, he'll venture To take a glass of Coniac brandy! And he, who hated words to bandy, In idle compliment'ry speeches, The brandy took, and eke the breeches.

The liquor drank, the garments chang'd;
The Family round the fire arrang'd;
The Mistress begg'd to know, if he
Chose coffee, chocolate, or tea?
The Squire replied, sans hesitation,
Or teazing, trite, expostulation-
"A dish of coffee, and a toast!"

The Mistress smil'd: th' enraptur'd Host,
Cried-"Sir, I like your frankness much!
This house is yours; pray, think it such,
While here you stay, 'tis my request,
And you shall be a welcome guest!
Sans ceremony I would live;
And, what I have, I freely give!"

Tea ended; once again, our Host
Demanded-"Sir, of boil'd or roast,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, do you prefer
For supper;"-"Why, indeed good Sir,
Roast duck I love."-" With good green
peas?"

"Yes, dearest Madam, if you please!"
"Well said!-Now, while it's getting
ready,

We two, my eldest Son, and Lady,
Will take a hand at Whist?"-" Agreed!"
And soon they cut for deal and lead.

But, now, to crimp my lengthen'd tale-
Whether the Squire drank wine, or ale;
Or how he slept; or what he said;
Or how much gave to man or maid;
Or what, the while, became of Jerry,
'Mong footmen blithe, and maidens merry;
Description here we can't admit-
For, "Brevity's the soul of Wit."
Suffice to say-the morn arriv'd,
Jerry, of senses half depriv'd,
Horses from stable saw led out;
Trembled and skulk'd, and peer'd about;
And felt, already, every thwack
Of Cat-o'-nine-tails on his back!
Each word, each action, was a blunder.
But, O how great his joy and wonder!
The stirrups held, the horses cross'd;
When, forth the Hostess, and the Host,
With smiles, instead of lashing smarting,
Came out, to take a cup at parting:
Bestowing a thousand welcomes on 'em!
Of thanks, what language could afford;
Gf Cat-o'-nine-tails, not one word!
Mutual civilities repaid,

The Squire had turn'd his horse's head,
To gallop off; yet his desire
Grew, ev'ry moment, high'r and high'r,
While bidding thus his last adieu,
To ask, if what he'd heard was true!-
For, not alone the clown had said
The reckoning must in stripes be paid:
But, one o' the footmen-whom he, slily,
O'er night, interrogated-drily

Confirm'd th' aforesaid peasant's tale;
And said, his master would not fail,
Next morn, to bid, in furious passion,
Strong John lay twenty times the lash on;
Determin'd, then, to case his doubt,
E'en tho' it bred a flogging bout-
Of that, howe'er, to be sincere,
He was not very much in fear-
Once more, he turn'd his horse's head;
And, to his Host, thus, smiling; said-
"Last night a peasant told me, here,
As I have found, was noble cheer!