gradations, tended greatly to establish and uphold it; whilst the love of fun and frolic transmitted from the last generation, furnished food and appetite.

Though a disreputable publication enough; it certainly, like adversity, had its uses, and not unfrequently bore a precious jewel in its head. It is a shrewd doubt whether the circumstances of the times did not call for and warrant its existence. assuredly did punish and check much scoundrelism; and in an eminent degree fulfilled the boast of its motto,

"Yes; I am proud, I must be proud to see
"Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me."

It

The times in which it first started were decidedly not very literary. Some pretenders to taste, not knowing that the motto was a quotation, attributed the couplet to Boyle himself, and affected to discover in it downright blasphemy. What, after all, was the great fault of the Freeholder? It was no more than Persius, Juvenal, or Horace, save that it sometimes substituted names for numbers. It undoubtedly did much good, in its way; but, as Denis Brulgruddery says of the Bailiff, "The law is a good thing, now and again, in its way. Something like physic. We all know that it is sometimes wholesome to bleed, but nobody falls in love with the leech." Let us be favorable to the departed Freeholder. Though it had its faults they were overbalanced by its usefulness. It checked presumption, chid vanity, and cherished virtue it chastened

insolence, scouted vice, tempered authority, lashed bigotry, and ridiculed folly. It was no respecter of persons. The peasant and the peer were alike amenable to its strictures, and power in the culprit only heightened the severity of the flagellation. It called forth and fostered much of our local talent, and not unfrequently kept the more pretending portion of the press in order. Amongst the many clever contributions it received, some of the humourous poems were very first-rate. Those especially, of the witty writer of "De piece o'plate," "Major Massy O," "The Distillers' dinner." In this last particularly, the stanza with the line

"His shins wid' de wind for a breeches."

is of surpassing humour, both for expression and conception. The notion is exquisitely ludicrous.

Poor Boyle! He died just when he ought. The world was leaving him, not he the world. Had he lived but six years longer it would have been somewhere beyond his reach, even out of his vision. He might have been physically existent amongst us, but society would have been morally lost to him. He died of finding this out. Had he remained in Cork the discovery would not have been made so soon or so abruptly. He might have lingered here for a little time, and gone off from the bustle gradually: but in Limerick he had no air. He was there in vacuo, and died for want of an atmosphere. He expired by prematurely discovering that JOHN BOYLE WAS NO MORE!! Poor fellow-what he might have been !

Well did M'Geoghegan fulfil
The charge committed to his skill:
Wildly, and bloodily, the strife

Was waged by conquest against life :
Bold were the forces of Carew,

The Castle's guard were stern and true
And still the siege went on :

And battery and battlement,

From each to each red ruin sent;
The outer-wall in twain is rent,
The Northern tower is won.

Yet still M'Geoghegan supplied

In energy, what strength denied :
Yet undismay'd, his lessening power
Entrench'd them in the Southern tower.

Dunboy has yet defenders high,
Resolved to save it or to die :

The hail-shot still rained redly down
Upon the fierce assailant's crown-

But-hark! What sudden cry?
Coleman has fallen, that gunner bold,
Whose deadly skill so truly told;

Slingsby the Southern tower has gained;

But many a heart's blood must be drained
Ere yet 'tis victory.

For a detailed account of this interesting portion of Irish historywhich the nature of these lines allows the writer to give only in pieceameal and by allusion-see M'Gregor's "Stories from the History of Ireland," second series page 392.

Before, behind, above, below,
Hemm'd in by the surrounding foe,
Conquered, but unsubdued, a band
Desperate but daring, made a stand
At where a narrow space gave scope
For battle still, though none for hope.

And one was there, whom nought could tame;
Conquering, or conquered, still the same :
Resolve was in his steady eye,
That gazed on death, or victory,
As if to each his stedfast mind
An equal value had assign'd.

With courage vain, and desperate skill,
His little band he marshall'd still;
Resolved to make that pass-way be
Bloody as old Thermopyle.

Oh! for ten thousand, such as thee,
M'Geoghegan! and if the strife

Were for all mankind's liberty,

And that the earth with slaves were rife

As summer trees with summer leaves,
Or dew-drops upon summer eves,

And bent to do the tyrant's will

To bind, to grind, ride down and kill-
With these ten thousand-urged, as one,

By love of liberty alone

How soon the night of Despots sway

In freedom's light would melt away.
But what can patriot virtue do
Assail'd by numbers, back'd by few?—
Fight, to the last, for victory,

Or fall, M'Geoghegan! like thee !

A remnant of that little band

Still made a last and desperate stand;

Though sadly thinn'd, by death and flight,
Still resolution gave them might:
See, mid the war-stores, Taylor stand→
A lighted torch is in his hand :---

Dunboy! thy hour is come!
'Tis but one touch, and, high in air,
Blown to a thousand fragments there,
All, now who in the battle share,

Must share one common doom!
But craven spirits will not dare
This last resource of brave despair,
And Taylor's stern intent is stay'd
By coward souls, of death afraid.

M'Geoghegan.some life retain'd,
Some feeble strength as yet remain'd ;
He to the powder rushed :—

But now the pass the Saxons gained,
And, in their circling arms constrain'd,
His heart's last life-stream gushed.

And what is he, whose aching sight
Looks on the horrors of the night,

*

From steep Meesecuish's mountain height?
Who is that lone, and woe-worn man ?
Bearhaven's Lord:-O'Sullivan !

It was not for his house's heir,

It was not for his lady fair,

That Dhonal Khoum sat sorrowing there;

In deep Glengariff's lonely wild,
Safely bestowed, his wife and child

Enjoy M'Sweeny's fost'ring care,
Who scales for them the eagle's lair,
Robbing the eaglets of their fare,

The prey with his high guests to share.*

* For this Romantic tradition see M'Gregor's volume, before referred to page 400,