Scraps of Hibernian Ballads

"Scraps of Hibernian Ballads" is a collection of folk ballads and poems by Joseph Thomas Sheridan Le Fanu, an influential Irish writer known for his ghost stories and supernatural fiction. The work captures the essence of Irish culture and tradition through lyrical storytelling, showcasing the rich tapestry of Irish life, romance, and folklore. With an emphasis on regional dialects and themes, Le Fanu's ballads reflect both the beauty and melancholy of the Irish experience, inviting readers to immerse themselves in the haunting melodies and poignant narratives of the Emerald Isle.

• Fiction

								
     Being an Eighth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis
     Purcell, P. P. of Drumcoolagh.

I have observed, my dear friend, among other grievous misconceptions
current among men otherwise well-informed, and which tend to degrade the
pretensions of my native land, an impression that there exists no such
thing as indigenous modern Irish composition deserving the name of
poetry--a belief which has been thoughtlessly sustained and confirmed
by the unconscionable literary perverseness of Irishmen themselves, who
have preferred the easy task of concocting humorous extravaganzas,
which caricature with merciless exaggeration the pedantry, bombast, and
blunders incident to the lowest order of Hibernian ballads, to the more
pleasurable and patriotic duty of collecting together the many, many
specimens of genuine poetic feeling, which have grown up, like its wild
flowers, from the warm though neglected soil of Ireland.

In fact, the productions which have long been regarded as pure samples
of Irish poetic composition, such as 'The Groves of Blarney,' and 'The
Wedding of Ballyporeen,' 'Ally Croker,' etc., etc., are altogether
spurious, and as much like the thing they call themselves 'as I to
Hercules.'

There are to be sure in Ireland, as in all countries, poems which
deserve to be laughed at. The native productions of which I speak,
frequently abound in absurdities--absurdities which are often, too,
provokingly mixed up with what is beautiful; but I strongly and
absolutely deny that the prevailing or even the usual character of Irish
poetry is that of comicality. No country, no time, is devoid of real
poetry, or something approaching to it; and surely it were a strange
thing if Ireland, abounding as she does from shore to shore with all
that is beautiful, and grand, and savage in scenery, and filled with
wild recollections, vivid passions, warm affections, and keen sorrow,
could find no language to speak withal, but that of mummery and jest.
No, her language is imperfect, but there is strength in its rudeness,
and beauty in its wildness; and, above all, strong feeling flows through
it, like fresh fountains in rugged caverns.

And yet I will not say that the language of genuine indigenous Irish
composition is always vulgar and uncouth: on the contrary, I am in
possession of some specimens, though by no means of the highest order as
to poetic merit, which do not possess throughout a single peculiarity
of diction. The lines which I now proceed to lay before you, by way
of illustration, are from the pen of an unfortunate young man, of very
humble birth, whose early hopes were crossed by the untimely death of
her whom he loved. He was a self-educated man, and in after-life rose
to high distinctions in the Church to which he devoted himself--an
act which proves the sincerity of spirit with which these verses were
written.

 'When moonlight falls on wave and wimple,
 And silvers every circling dimple,
     That onward, onward sails:
 When fragrant hawthorns wild and simple
     Lend perfume to the gales,
 And the pale moon in heaven abiding,
 O'er midnight mists and mountains riding,
 Shines on the river, smoothly gliding
     Through quiet dales,

 'I wander there in solitude,
 Charmed by the chiming music rude
     Of streams that fret and flow.
 For by that eddying stream SHE stood,
     On such a night I trow:
 For HER the thorn its breath was lending,
 On this same tide HER eye was bending,
 And with its voice HER voice was blending
     Long, long ago.

 Wild stream! I walk by thee once more,
 I see thy hawthorns dim and hoar,
     I hear thy waters moan,
 And night-winds sigh from shore to shore,
     With hushed and hollow tone;
 But breezes on their light way winging,
 And all thy waters heedless singing,
 No more to me are gladness bringing--
     I am alone.

 'Years after years, their swift way keeping,
 Like sere leaves down thy current sweeping,
     Are lost for aye, and sped--
 And Death the wintry soil is heaping
     As fast as flowers are shed.
 And she who wandered by my side,
 And breathed enchantment o'er thy tide,
 That makes thee still my friend and guide--
     And she is dead.'

These lines I have transcribed in order to prove a point which I have
heard denied, namely, that an Irish peasant--for their author was no
more--may write at least correctly in the matter of measure, language,
and rhyme; and I shall add several extracts in further illustration of
the same fact, a fact whose assertion, it must be allowed, may
appear somewhat paradoxical even to those who are acquainted, though
superficially, with Hibernian composition. The rhymes are, it must be
granted, in the generality of such productions, very latitudinarian
indeed, and as a veteran votary of the muse once assured me, depend
wholly upon the wowls (vowels), as may be seen in the following stanza
of the famous 'Shanavan Voicth.'

 '"What'll we have for supper?"
     Says my Shanavan Voicth;
 "We'll have turkeys and roast BEEF,
 And we'll eat it very SWEET,
 And then we'll take a SLEEP,"
     Says my Shanavan Voicth.'

But I am desirous of showing you that, although barbarisms may and do
exist in our native ballads, there are still to be found exceptions
which furnish examples of strict correctness in rhyme and metre. Whether
they be one whit the better for this I have my doubts. In order to
establish my position, I subjoin a portion of a ballad by one Michael
Finley, of whom more anon. The GENTLEMAN spoken of in the song is Lord
Edward Fitzgerald.

 'The day that traitors sould him and inimies bought him,
     The day that the red gold and red blood was paid--
 Then the green turned pale and thrembled like the dead leaves in
Autumn,     And the heart an' hope iv Ireland in the could grave was
laid.

 'The day I saw you first, with the sunshine fallin' round ye,
     My heart fairly opened with the grandeur of the view:
 For ten thousand Irish boys that day did surround ye,
     An' I swore to stand by them till death, an' fight for you.

 'Ye wor the bravest gentleman, an' the best that ever stood,
     And your eyelid never thrembled for danger nor for dread,
 An' nobleness was flowin' in each stream of your blood--
     My bleasing on you night au' day, an' Glory be your bed.

 'My black an' bitter curse on the head, an' heart, an' hand,
     That plotted, wished, an' worked the fall of this Irish hero
bold;     God's curse upon the Irishman that sould his native land,
 An' hell consume to dust the hand that held the thraitor's
gold.'

Such were the politics and poetry of Michael Finley, in his day,
perhaps, the most noted song-maker of his country; but as genius is
never without its eccentricities, Finley had his peculiarities, and
among these, perhaps the most amusing was his rooted aversion to pen,
ink, and paper, in perfect independence of which, all his compositions
were completed. It is impossible to describe the jealousy with which
he regarded the presence of writing materials of any kind, and his ever

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