A YOLA ZONG. Tune-Collin and Phebe

Fade teil thee zo lournagh, co Jone, zo knaggee,
Th' weitheft all curcagh, wafur, an cornee.
Lidge w'ous ana milagh, tis gay an louthee,
Huck nigher, y'art fcudden, fartoo zo hachee.

"

Well, gofp, c'hull be zeid, mot thee fartoo, an fa'de
Ha deight ouz var gabble, tell ee Zin go t'glade
Ch'am a ftouk, an a donel; wou'll leigh out ee dey
Th' valler w'fpeen here, th' lafs i Chourch-hey.

Yerftey w'had a baree, gift ing our hone
Are gentrize ware bibbern, amezill, cou no stone,
Yith Muzlere had ba hole, t'was me Tommeen,
At by mizluck was i pit t'drive in.

Joud an moud, vrem earchee ete, was i Lough
Zitch vaperren, an fhimmereen, fan ee daff i tha'r fcoth
Zitch blakeen, an blayeen, fan ee ball was ee drowe
Chote well 'ar aim was t'yie ouz n'eer a blowe.

Many a bra draught, by Tommeen was ee mate, Th' cowlee-man faufteen; zey well 'twas a nate Yith w'had any lluck our name wou'd b' zung Vreem ee Choure here aloghe up to Cargun.

Th' heiftem o' pley, vell all ing to lug,
An there w' had Treblere an fturdy Cournug.
Th' commanes t'rapple, th' ball ikir an vlee,
Our eein would b' miftern t' dearnt up ee fkee,

Than came ee hullereen i teap an corkite,
Hi kinket an keilt i'vewe ame t'wode fnite;
Zim delien harnothes, w'are nize i reed cley
More trollen, an yalpen an moulten away,

AN

AN OLD SONG.

What ails you fo melancholy, quoth John, fo cross, You feem all fnappifh, uneafy and fretful:

Lie with us on the clover, 'tis fair and fhelter'd;

Come nearer, you're rubbing your back, why fo ill tempered.

Well, goffip, it fhall be told, you ask what ails me, and for what;

You have put us in talk, 'till the fun goes to fet.

I'm a fool and a dunce; we'll idle out the day;
The more we spend here, the lefs in the church-yard.

Yefterday we had a goal juft in our hand,

Their gentry were quaking, themselves could not ftand.
If good for little had been buried, it had been my Tommy,
Who by mifluck, was placed to drive in.

Throngs and crouds from each quarter of the Lough;

[of Ballymacufhin near the commons.]
Buch vapouring and glittering, when ftript in their fhirts.
Such bawling and fhouting, when the ball was thrown;
I faw their intent was to give us ne'er a stroke.

But with all their bravado they were foon taught
That their errand was aiming to bring anguifh upon 'em.
Such driving and struggling 'till then we ne'er faw,
Nor fuch never will, no, nor never may.

Many a brave ftroke by Tommy was made,

The goal-keeper trembling, faid well 'twas intended them.
If we had any luck our name would have been fung
From the Choure here below up to Cargun.

[Two diftant points of the Barony.]

The weight of the play fell into the hollow, And there we had Treblere and sturdy Cournug.

[ Two famous players.]

The ball-clubs they rattled, the ball rose and flew;
Our eyes would be dazzled to look up to the sky.

Then came the fhouldering, toffing and tumblings
They kicked and rolled the few that appeared.
Some digging earth-nuts with their noses in red clay,
More rolling and fpewing and pining away.

Na

Na nowe or neveir w' cry't t' Tommeen,
Fan Cournug yate a rifhp, an Treblere pit w'eeme.
A clugercheen gother, all ing pile an in heep
Wourlok'd anan 'oree, lick lluikes o' fheep.

T' brek up ee bathes, h' had na pouftee,
Tommeen was lous, an zo was ee baree;
Oure hart cam't' our mouth, an zo w'all i green
Th' hap an ee ferde an ee crie was Tommeen.

Up came ee ball, an a dap or a kewe
Wou'd zar, mot all arkagh var ee harnaugh-blowe
W' vengem too hard, he zunk ee commane
An brough et i ftell ing a emothee knaghane.

Th' ball want a cowlee, th' gazb mate all rize
Licke a mope an a mele; he gazt ing a mire,
Than stalket, an gandelt, w'ie o! an gridane
Our joys all ee fmort, ing a emothee knaghane.

Ha-ho! be me cofhes, th'aft ee pait it, co Jone
You're w' thee crookeen, an ye me thee hone.
He it nouth fade t'zey, ilean vetch ee man,
Twith thee an Tommeen, an ee emothee knaghane.

Come w' ous gofp Learry, theczil and Melchere;
Outh o'me hone ch'ull no part wi' Wathere.
Jowane got leigheen, the pleast ame all, fowe-
Sh' ya ame zim to doone, as w' be doone nowe:
Zo bless all oure frends, an God zpeed ee plowe.

"

Soon as communities were formed, it appeared as well in the bleak regions of the North, as in thofe coun

An Hiftorical Effay on the Irish Stage. By Jofeph C. Walker, Esquire, Member of the Royal Irish Academy; Fellow of the Literary and Anti-ties which feel the genial influence quarian Society of Perth, and honorary Member of the Etrufcan Academy of Cortona. From the fame Work.

--

'N tracing the progrefs of foci

amongst the first amufements of man.

of the fun. Even hiftory, when the first ventured to raise her voice, invoked the aid of the dramatic muse. It is therefore very extraordinary that we cannot difcover any veftiges of the drama amongst the remains

amusements of the vulgar Irish of

Nay, now or never we cry'd to Tommy,

When Cournug gave a ftroke, and Treblere put with him; [helped

A crowd gathered up, all in pile and in heap,

Tumbled on one another like flocks of theep.

To break up the goal they had not power,

Tommy was open, and fo was the goal.

Our hearts came to our mouth, and fo did all in the green,
The chance and the fear and the cry was Tommeen.

Up came the ball, and a tap or a shove
Would ferve; but all eager for the barnagh stroke
With venom too hard, he funk his bat-club or bat,
And broke the handle, in an emmot [pifmire] hill.

The ball o'erfhot the goal, the duft rose all about,
Like a fool in a mill, he looked in amazement;
Then ftalked and wondered, with oh! and with grief
Our joys are all fmothered in a pifmire hill.

Hey-ho! by my confcience, you have paid it, quoth John,
Give o'er your crofinefs, and give me your hand.
He that knows what to say, mifchief fetch the man,
Betwixt you and Tommy and the pismire hill.

Come with us, goffip Larry, yourself and Miles;
Out of my hand I'll not part with Walter.
Joan fet them a laughing, the pleased them all, how-
She gave them fome to do, as we are doing now:
So blefs all our friends, and God speed the plough.

[drinking

poems were recited at the convivial feafts of the chiefs, and in the public conventions by feveral bards, each bard affuming and fupporting a character in the piece; but no production in a regular dramatic form

It muft, however, be obferved, that the vulgar Irish of the prefent day exhibit, in many parts of the kingdom, feveral awkward attempts at comedy at their weddings and wakes; but thefe attempts cannot be confidered as veftiges of an ancient regular drama. Thefe pieces are called, The Cottoning of Frize; The Marriage Aft; The Serwants ferving their Lord at Table; The fulling or thickening of Cloth, and Sir Sop or Sir

Sup no

*

form is extant in the Irish language,* nor even alluded to by any of our ancient writers. So that if the ftage ever existed in Ireland previous to the middle ages, like the "Bafelefs "fabric of a vision," it has melted into air, leaving not a trace behind. Yet in the dances of the vulgar Irish we may difcover the features of a rude ballet, performed in honour of fome pagan deity, and accompanied, it may be prefumed, by hymnick verfes; and in an an

Sopin, the Knight of Straw. The defign of the laft is evidently to hold up to ridicule the English character, and cannot therefore be a production of high antiquity. I will here give a short analyfis of this piece. The principal characters, are an Irish chieftain, who always takes his title from the Irish family of most consequence in the neighbourhood of the place where the play is exhibited; and an English chieftain, denominated Sir Sop or Sir Sopin. Sir Sop is dressed in straw, with a dogad or helmet of the fame materials on his head; but the Irish chieftain, who is the favourite hero, is clad in the beft clothes that the wardrobes of his ruftic audience can afford. When thote characters appear on the stage, they are feparately attended by interior officers and fervants, who, like the ancient Greek chorus, ftand at a respectful distance, while the chieftains converse. Sometimes the chief officers are allowed to take a part in the dialogue. With the drift of the plot I am not perfectly acquainted, but know that the caftrophe is Brought about by an altercation which aufes between our two heroes, and terminates in fingle combat. In this combat Sir Sopin wounds his adverfary, who falls, and a furgeon appears to examine the wound Regaining his ftrength, the Irish chieftain retires, followed by Sir Sopin. Soon after they enter again, and renewing the combat, Sir Sopin receives a mortai wound, and is borne off the stage. The Irish chieftain having thus gained the field, brandifhes his fword, and ftrides exultingly across the stage. Then paufing a while, he addreffes himself to heaven, offering thanks for his victory. This done, the curtain falls. The dialogue is extremely humourous, and interspersed with foliloquies, fongs, and dances.

Mr. Macpherson has indeed given, as a translation fro à our Ofin, a little dramatic poem called Comala, of which the Abbate CESSAROTTI, his elegant Italian translator, thus fpeaks: "La fua picciolezza non pregiudica alla regolarità. Si ravvifano in etia tutti i lineamenti a le proporzioni della tragedia. C'è il fuo picciolo viluppe, i fuoi colpi di teatro, e la fua catastrofe inaspettata: gran varietà d'affetti, ftile femplice e paonato: in fomma quefta poefia ha quelle virtù che fi ammirano tanto nei Greci." Pocfie di Offian, tom. i. page 181. But as the original of this poem has never been pro duced to the public, we cannot fafely number it with the productions of our immortal bard.

+ Collect. de Reb. Hib. vol. iii. page 531.

Perhaps I should have commenced the hiftory of the Irish stage with the rife of the mummers in Ireland. "The Lummers (fays DoDSLEY) as bad as they were, "feem to be the true original comedians of England." Colle&t. of Old Plays, vol. i. pref. But the stage rather sprang from, than commenced with the mummers. Here I will take leave to obferve, that, at this day, the dialogue of the Irish mummiers in general (for I have collected it in different parts of the kingdom) bears a ftrict re

fembrance,