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as a small token of their sense of his merits and his sacrifices, while maintaining their interests in India. His despatches were ordered to be printed for distribution in the three Presidencies; and a marble statue erected to his honour in the India House, as public, conspicuous, and permanent mark of the admiration and gratitude of the East India Company.' He died at his residence, Kingston House, Brompton, on the morning of Monday, 26th of September, 1842, in the 82nd year of his age; and according to a desire expressed in his will, his remains were deposited within the precincts of his beloved Eton, the

seminary in which he had received his early education. The following lines were written in 1840; they are in reply to some complimentary verses addressed to him, by the present Provost of Eton, Dr. Hodgson, upon receiving his bust, which has been placed in the college library; and happily express the sentiment with which that ancient seat of learning, which witnessed the triumphs of his youth, continued to be regarded by him in his old age.

"Affulsit mihi suprema meta ultima Famæ :

Tum mihi cum lauro juncta cupressus erit: Mater amata, meam quæ fovit Etona juventam, Ipsa recedentem signat honore senem."

THE WITCH OF KILKENNY,

BEING NO. VIII. OF THE KISHOGE PAPERS.

'Tis night. On Ormonde's castle walls,
Serenely soft, the moonlight falls,
As high above the "stubborn Newre,"
They stand in solid strength secure.
All idly now its turrets rise--
All idly now its strength defies-
No hostile clans with hope elate,
Come thundering to its massive gate,'
No watchful eyes, that dare not sleep,
From battlement and loop-hole peep-
No more the tramp of warder's tread,
Beats time above the chieftain's head.
No more at night the wassail-din
Of men-at-arms is heard within,
Nor morning rudely breaks repose,
With onslaught loud of storming foes-

No more-but could those three old towers *-
Now sentried round with smiling flowers-
Tell of the deeds they've seen and braved,
Since first war's tempests round them raved-
The glory, havoc, smiles, and tears,
Of full six hundred stormy years—
A mightier lesson would they preach,
Than pen or tongue of man can teach.
Silent are they-but still we learn,
That lord, and gallowglass, and kern,

* Three towers of the old castle of Kilkenny, built in Pembroke still remain, and form part of the present edifice. been so renovated to suit the modern parts of the building, external trace of their antiquity is discernible.

1795 by William Lord They have, however, that, unfortunately, no

Whose strife oft made Newre's crystal flood
Grow purple red with human blood,
Have passed at length from earth away,
As passed its wave of yesterday.
And still the smiling earth is green,
And still the arching heaven serene,
And still the river glides along,
And still the wild bird wakes his song,
And still the noon-day sun is bright,
And still the stars shine out at night,
All things to bless and brighten life,
Still lavished by the hand of God,
As if the curse of human strife

Had never marred the lovely sod.
All things proclaiming man has still
The means' if he but have the will,
To make himself a godlike fate-
This lesson sure is not too late.

Is in fact beyond price,

Were it not 'tis my own, I'd say of the best quality.
But though I began

As a rational man,

And meant to be serious throughout all the rest of it-
I'll be hanged if I can-so you must make the best of it.

To begin, then once more:

On the banks of the Nore

Is the castle of Ormonde, I spoke of before

(I then called Nore "Newre," and 'tis so called by Spenser,
'Tis right to explain-I'll begin now again, sir-

I beg pardon-I should have said, Madam or Miss,
For my readers are chiefly the ladies I wis)—
A very old castle-and lest you may doubt it,
I shall tell you a little en passant about it—
It was Richard de Clare

Built the first castle there,

(Mostly mentioned as Strongbow, his old nom de guerre,)
In one thousand one hundred and seventy-two,
(And of course in that year the old castle was new),
I should think 'twas Kilkenny black marble unpolished,
But Donald O'Brien the fabric demolished,

So we can't in fact say

What 'twas built of, to-day;

For Donald left of it no stone, brick, or rafter-
It was re-built, however, some twenty years after,
By William lord Pembroke, (and likewise lord Marshal,
To historic detail I'm exceedingly partial),

Whose heirs it appears,

Held it two hundred years,

(Giving plentiful work to the family cutlers),

When 'twas purchased by James, then the head of the Butlers, From Thomas le Spencer, whose grandfather Hugh

By marriage got that, and an earldom too,

Since which time the Ormondes have held it as masters,
Right bravely through various mishaps and disasters;
And even old Noll found it no easy matter

The garrison into surrender to batter.

And was going to march off" as mad as a hatter,"
When the base corporation,

In dire consternation,

Walked out with the gates of their town on a platter,
And the valiant defence of the gallant Sir Walter
Was marred by the fears of some funky drysalter.*

Now the different facts that here I have told,
I've but stated to show that the castle is old,
At least three towers which still survive
Since eleven hundred and ninety-five,

And might have witnessed some devilish tricks
In thirteen hundred and twenty-six,

At which time the date of my tale I fix.
In fact there can't be the slightest doubt,
If those turrets grey
Could only say

What wonderful things they've seen in their day
That they'd bear the truth of my story out.

And now, hey presto! five centuries back-
Fly we as fleet as the lightning's track;
And sit we alone at the midnight hour
Under the shade of the eastern tower !

Hey! to the shade of the battlement strong,
Close by the city which boasts in its song,
Fire without smoke-air without fog-
• Water without mud, and land without bog.'

Silent the sleeping city lies

Under the veil of the shadowy skies;
Slumber has sealed the citizens' eyes-
But with many, the nose

Takes no sort of repose;

But its trumpet all night most melodiously blows.-
By the way 'tis exceedingly queer, on my word it is,

That folk, when asleep, do all sorts of absurdities,

Kick, snore, whistle, grin, throw their pillows and clothes about,
While the freaks they commit not a soul of 'em knows about.
And often at night when I'm vagabondising,

(I use the word here in its literal sense

Of wandering about), where the houses are dense,

I think over and over, 'tis very surprising,

That around me lie folk of all ranks and conditions,

Boxed up by the thousand in comic positions,

Some in slumber profound-some in vigilant dozes,
And nothing at all to be seen but their noses.

*The castle of Ormonde was held so resolutely by the garrison, commanded by Sir Walter Butler, against the assaults of Cromwell, that the latter was on the point of raising the siege, when the keys of the English town (the portion of Kilkennny adjoining the castle) were surrendered to him, through the fears of the citizens; whereupon Sir Walter, finding his position commanded, was forced to abandon his defence of the castle.

But a truce to philosophy-excellent muse-
The cits of Kilkenny are taking their snooze,
And all except noses and spirits of ill,

'Neath the shadows of midnight are tranquil and still.

But some there are who taste not sleep,

But a wicked midnight vigil keep,

A wicked vigil, for spirits of ill

And they who commune with them keep it still.
Alone, alone,

By her grey hearth-stone,

Haggard and grim sits a queer old crone,
There by her hearth-stone with never a fender,
Grimly she sits like the old witch of Endor.
(One of the sex that we speak of as "tender,"
But all little boys have learned in all schools,
There are always exceptions to general rules,
And if they forget this they're like to be fools,
For to say this old lady was tender, were stuff,
As in fact and in truth she is fearfully tough.)
There she sits at the midnight time,

Mumbling over a devilish rhyme.

And thrice she had mumbled it through and through,
And thrice the cock for midnight crew.
But just as the cock the third time crows,
Up she rises and over she goes,

And slowly unlocks

A large wooden box,

And out of it takes she nine red cocks,
Then she locks it once more,

And unbolts her door,

And forth she goes into the principal street,
Bad companions, I ween, to meet.

For I greatly doubt Dame Alice Kettle,
That it's any good business you've to settle.

To the market cross she hies her forth,

And she turns her south and she turns her north,
And she turns her east and she turns her west,
And each time she speaketh words unblest,
And whether from earth or whether from air,
Two hag companions stand by her there,

Each of the red cocks taketh three,

Each of them kneels on bended knee,
Each of them swears three fearful oaths,

Each of them cuts three red cocks' throats,
And when the blood has entirely flowed,
Backward they go to the hag's abode.
In they go,
Muttering low,

Fearful prayers to the powers below,
And near to the fire each takes a seat,
And nine cabalistic words they repeat;
And at every word

One throws in a bird,

And they look very hideous, though somewhat absurd ;
And when this is finished the three of them rise,

And each from a pouch takes six peacocks' eyes,
And they fling them over the burning coals,
And thus they call on the killer of souls :-