gossoons dancing; and sure now there'll be many a nate girl and boy tripping it there, when blind Jerry, the piper, that's on the hill yonder, is to the fore.' We advanced towards the house, over the door of which was a large sign, with a grim figure of Saint Patrick, mitred and clad in his robes, bearing a cross in one hand, and a book in the other; before him were toads and serpents in abundance, creeping out of the way of his curse; while one or two, more courageous than the rest, had ventured to turn round and hiss at the holy man who was thus dispossessing them of their territory. We entered the cabin, and the attention of the company was divided between the strange gentleman, and Jerry, the blind piper, who arrived at the same moment, the squeaking sound of whose music, as he filled the bellows of his pipes, immediately set the party in motion. 'Arrah, Jerry,' said one, what kept you now? and here's Nelly Vaughan's toes cramped wid waiting for you.'-And the stuff you like to taste growing could,' said another. Well, he's here now,' exclaimed several; and girls, if ye have no corns, dance away! and see which'll be tired first, honies, your legs or Jerry's music.' A stranger never requires an introduction, and is always sure of a welcome. A seat was handed to me, and I accepted the invitation. 'Will your honour be pleased to sit down? it's little the likes of us has to give your honour, but the quality likes the mountain-dew, as they call it; and here it is, nate and beautiful, sure enough!' Some whiskey-punch accompanied the recommendation, in a sort of mutilated tumbler, tied round the top, which a large crack made necessary, by a piece of tarred string: 'It isn't the best glass, but it's the largest, sir,' said the man who presented it to me, and added, with a wink and a smile. your honour isn't an officer ?' thus sufficiently intimating that my liquor had paid no duty to the king. I had now leisure to make my remarks on the group around me; they were principally gazing on the four dancers, and, by a well done, Paddy!' or, an illegantly danced, Judy!' applauding the endeavours of the young peasants, who certainly footed it with all their hearts. Among the lookers-on, the old people, of whom there were but few present, only had seats; the rest were either standing, or sitting cross-legged around the ring. The room was crowded, and I never saw an apparently more happy group; for there was not a single countenance among them that bore any traces of care. The evening was like one of those green spots on their barren mountains; and if they did not at times enjoy such, the lot of the Irish peasants would be indeed one of wretchedness and misery. I had scarcely finished my beverage, when a smart young damsel advanced towards me, and dropped her curtesy; though, as I did not wish to shew the non-education of my toes, I pretended not to understand her, when a matron, who sat beside me, undertook the office of interpreter, saying,She wants to dance wid your honour.' In common politeness, as I had been drinking with the men, could not avoid dancing with the women; so I arose, and hopped, and hobbled through an Irish jig. My buxom partner far outshone me in agility; and when she withdrew another came forward, and another, and another, who seemed determined to tire me; but I was determined not to be tired. At length there was an universal cry of 'Fadda! fadda!' (fie for shame!) lave the gentleman sit,' and I was left leaping alone. But to shew that I was not wearied, I made my rustic scrape and bow to a pretty and interesting girl who was seated in a corner; I don't dance, O wisha! I could not; God knows, sir, I could not,' was her reply to my invitation.

I

Och, Mary! hurra!' echoed several of the party, two of whom advanced and forced her from her seat, when I discovered the reason of her bashful tardiness was, that the feet of my chosen one were naked; so, with a natural gallantry, I threw off my own shoes, and we footed it together gaily on the earthen floor.

We were thus engaged, when an old man burst into the room, exclaiming, The old ferry-boat is gone down, and they're all lost! The music instantly ceased, and the whole party hurried towards the shore; where we found that the boat had indeed gone down, but that the passengers were not all lost. On the beach men and women were running, and asking of all they met who were drowned; each fearing to hear of a husband, or brother, among the victims; while the joy of those who clasped their fainting and dripping relatives, was scarcely less agonizing than the fearful anxiety of others who as yet knew not the fate of their own friends. I soon saw my former companion, and his wet clothes witnessed for him that he had not been idle; three times had he plunged into the waves, and as often returned, bearing a fellow-creature from the waters. Others had exerted themselves with equal success; and one only of the hapless party was brought lifeless to the land. A few drops issued from a wound on the young man's forehead, and he must have received a fatal blow when the boat struck. Sadly and slowly the party returned to the house, where, but a few minutes before, they had been gay and happy, following mournfully the body of him who had been thus cut off in the April of his days. It was dark, but I heard deep sobs from the midst of the crowd; and I knew that he was not the only being to be wept for. The corpse was laid on the table in the room where the dance had so lately been; and there were two female figures standing be side it, the mother and sister of the dead youth. The young girl was moaning and weeping bitterly, while the crowd stood sorrowfully by. One of them tried to soothe her with Mary, Mary, dear! 'tis God's will!' She turned towards the man who had spoken, and pointed to the body; and then, with the action of phrenzy, she shook the pale corpse, shrieking, 'Tom! Tom, dear! why won't ye wake? oh! wake! wake!' and she fell senseless on the floor. It was the very barefooted partner with whom, but a little while before, I had been dancing. The noise roused the mother, who had stood beside the corpse, wiping off the chill damp, and the drops of blood that still oozed from the forehead, with a sorrow too deep for tears. 'I tell ye, Mary, he's dead!' she murmured, and will never wake again! and she bent lifelessly over the body, while her hand was laid on his pale brow; and she muttered, as if unconscious of the presence of any one save her dead child, You were a good son, agra! how like his father he is now, when I see him last, before they put him in his could grave:-What'll Mary do when I'm gone? God be with her, and him that's dead, him that's a corpse before me, and I not by with a blessing for him!' Most of the villagers had left the scene of sorrow; and as I saw those who remained were all the young man's relatives and friends, I departed also, with an aching heart, to reflect on the melancholy close of this evening of gaiety and joy; and once more to bear testimony to the truism that pleasure and happiness are, too often, but

"The torrent's smoothness, ere it dash below!"

WOULD I HAD WIST.

A DITTY.

BY MRS. HOWITT.

"Beware of would I had wist!"

ANATOMIE OF MELANCHOLY

All ye that list to learned clerks be warned by what I say,
And take a look before you leap, for 'tis the wisest way;
And, for your better teaching, these stories I narrate,

To shew you, when a deed is done, repentance comes too late.

I saw two youthful gallants go forth one May-day morn,

With hound in leash, and hawk on hand, and gold-tipped bugle-horn;
But, ere the setting of the sun, they met in mortal fray,
And one lay cold upon the ground, the other fled away;
He hasted to another land to shun the kinsmen's ire,

And sadly wandered up and down, a knight without a squire ;
No hound had he beside him, and no hawk sate on his wrist,
But, ever and anon, he cried, Alack! had I but wist!'

There was a merchant of the main had thirty ships and three.
And all came sailing into port well laden as could be;

And he had silks, perfumes, and pearls, and wealth a golden store,
Beyond the wealth of merchantmen, and yet he wanted more ;

He sent his vessels out again, his thirty ships and three,

But some were ta'en, and some were wrecked, and some sunk in the sea:

He lost his wealth, he lost his wits, and he sung evermore,

And aye his song was, night and day, 'would I had wist before!'

My father knew a gentleman, with lands and golden fee,
Who freely gave unto the poor, and kept brave company;
He gave to all, he lent to all, but ere long time was gone,
His lands were sold, his gold was spent, and friends he had not one :
He asked from those who asked from him-it was his only hope-
They jeered him, and a penny gave, and bade him buy a rope;
He flung the penny back again, and turning from the door,
'I've learnt a lesson here,' he cried, would I had wist before!'

There was a lovely lady sate within a sweet bower's shade,
To catch the welcome tones of her young knight's serenade;
He came not to her father's hall with a hundred 'squires in train,
He only brought a faithful heart, and a name without a stain;
For though he came of noble race his fortune had decayed,
So he wooed her by his gallant deeds and evening serenade :
But ill chance happed, one luckless eve, from idle words grew strife,
And hopes that never failed before, were therefrom marred for life;
Just then an old lord riding by, looked on the wrathful pair,
And saw how bright the lady's eye, how rich her golden hair,-
Ere long he wooed her for his bride, that old and churlish lord,
But not with evening lays of love, nor by a gallant sword.

His lands, his wealth, his noble halls, and liveried serving train,
Had charm beyond a young heart's love that ne'er had known a wane.
But soon, and as she silent sate within her halls of pride,

Loathing the pomp, and splendid train that thronged on every side,
There knelt to her a weeping page, and these few words he spoke,
'Lady, come see my dying lord, for his heart is well nigh broke.'
She went to an old decaying hall, and entering there she found,
A dead knight on a sable bier, with mourners standing round;
She gazed on his pale cheek and wept, and his clay-cold lips she kissed,
Saying, 'How true his worthy heart, ah me! had I but wist!'

PROVINCIAL POETS.

NO. I. ROBERT FRANKLIN.

Ne sutor ultra crepidam, is now the almost unanimous apostrophe of the public, on the appearance of any new book whose principal recommendations to its patronage are founded on the disadvantages under which it has been produced. There is so much admirable writing, in prose and verse, in these prolific days, that readers will no longer allow the untoward circumstances under which a volume may have been composed, to propitiate their favour for the author. It must possess intrinsic merits or it will stand but little chance of success: for the times are past when circumstances purely adventitious might have been the means of ushering it into notice. A few years ago, the case was widely different; and a rhyming tinker or cobler, was regarded as a prodigy; and flattered, caressed and pampered to a most extravagant degree. We would not be understood to allude, for one moment, to poor Bloomfield, whose claim to public patronage was founded on real genius, and who, as far as we are aware, never received more encouragement that he was fairly entitled to as an author; but the remark will be found to apply to many others who preceded, or were contemporary with him; although to enumerate them, as they have at length returned to their original obscurity, would be a task at once unkind and invidious. Modern readers will not consent to hazard the loss of their time in perusing a book merely because they are told (what is reasonable enough), that it is a very extraordinary production, considering the limited education and habits of life of the author. If its merits are below a certain standard, no palliative that may be urged in its favour, will avail it in securing for it the indulgence it may require. The age of learned pigs is well-nigh over; and if a new volume of poems now makes its appearance, the question is not did the author compose it over his anvil or his lapstone; but does it contain any thing calculated to repay the idler for the trouble of its perusal ?

The success of Clare (many of whose conceptions would do honour to a poet of any sphere in society), has lately led many persons in humble life to prefer their claims to the popularity which he appears to have attained with so much ease; and hence a series of poems, by weavers, croppers, coblers, tinkers, soldiers, ploughmen, and even washerwomen, with all, and more than all the assumption, and not one tithe of the talent of their rustic prototype. Among the works which have successively presented themselves to our notice during the last two or three years, there are, however, a few, (we say nothing of Balfour's admirable sketches, nor the poetry of J. F. Pennie, because, although persons in humble life, their evident superiority of education and taste, raise them far above other writers of the same grade in society), to whom our remarks are not intended to apply without very considerable qualifications; nay to the one whom we are now about to introduce to the acquaintance of our readers, we are by no means sure that they will be found to apply at all.

Robert Frankin, the author of the 'Miller's Muse'* was, as we gain from the preface to his interesting little volume, a few years ago, a journeyman

The Miller's Muse, Rural Poems. By ROBERT FRANKLIN, Hull, J. Wilson, 1825.