The Purcell Papers

he Legacy of the late Francis

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, bomba

ion, such as 'The Groves of Blarney,' and 'The Wedding of Ballyporeen,' 'Ally Croker,' etc., et

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 recoll

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 th

ht falls on w

every circ

ard, onw

hawthorns wi

fume to

moon in hea

mists and mo

e river, smo

h quie

there in

the chiming

that fret

eddying stre

a nigh

horn its brea

tide HER ey

voice HER voi

long

I walk by t

awthorns di

thy wat

ds sigh from

ed and ho

n their light

waters heedl

e are gladne

m a

ears, their sw

es down thy cu

for aye,

e wintry soi

s flowers

o wandered

enchantment o

e still my fri

he is

veral 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

we have f

Shanavan

turkeys an

eat it v

we'll tak

Shanavan

urnish 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

tors sould him and

red gold and re

le and thrembled like th

pe iv Ireland in the

irst, with the sunsh

pened with the gr

Irish boys that d

d by them till deat

gentleman, an' the b

er thrembled for da

flowin' in each st

night au' day, an

curse on the head,

an' worked the fall of

e Irishman that sou

ust the hand that hel

hich, 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 wakeful fears lest some literary pirate should transfer his oral poetry to paper - fears which were not altogether without warrant, inasmuch as the

what, that you want a sur

to rest satisfied with such snatches and fragments of his poetry as my memory could bear away - a fact which must

ight. I well remember his answer to me when, among other arguments, I urged the advisability of some care for the permanence of his

fall, I often seen a man tremblin' and crassin' himself as if a sperit was before him, at the sight iv a small thorn bush, that he'd leap over with ase if the d

pered by the tactics which he pursued, for his reputation, so far from

ions. It celebrates one of the many daring exploits of the once famous Phaudhrig Crohoore (in prosaic English, Patrick Connor). I have witnessed powerful effects produced upon large assemblies by Finley's recitation of this poem whic

hrig C

rohoore was the

ood six f

as round as anot

udhrig w

as black as the

he scars left b

the thunder, was dee

the lightnin' fro

liked him, for he

e chose it, for

a girl from thi

crass, but he cou

et girls that smil

his heart, an' h

sun, as the ro

the heart of Pha

one smile from hi

his hatred, was s

'Hanlon loved

ore - an' that sa

HIM, for they were

Hanlons, an' Mur

nt together an'

he batin' he ga

de up to O'Brie

daughter, if you'

made up, an' when

simbled three

O'Hanlons, an' M

s an' girls av al

av coorse, gathe

an' fiddlers we

an' jumpin', an' ji

lessin', an' kiss

laughin'- why n

me inside of Ph

d an' laughed the

nkin' all whil

' fiddlin' an' roa

hink fairly was s

ed out, "Silence, y

s prayer-book, ju

ir tongues from their

notice the small

just beg'nin' to

he wall, and in

rohoore was the

ood six f

as round as anot

udhrig w

ly up, watched by

oves on through th

o stop him, for Ph

ll alone, just

nd Kathleen, his

o illigant out

ne look that her

O'Brien, her fa

the thunder, was dee

like lightnin' fro

ere like a tame,

ke a man in my

the road, Phaudhr

an' God knows h

ise, for three

e girl I'll ne

turned, and his voi

the days when he c

like lightnin' fr

rted girl, repro

hleen bawn, is it

our free choice, wi

word, an' I'll

once only by woma

love made the

to spake, but the

s voice, as he stoo

heart as the nig

er blue eyes stood

cheek as the mo

uld Phaudhrig swelle

one look in that

an' foemen their pled

was his, and hi

voice, like the

"She's mine still, i

O'Hanlon, an' a

ould Phaudhrig as

y the hokey! be

rohoore, you,must

de answer: "I'll

he stretched bould

k Kathleen, an' st

his horse, and

so bother'd, tha

g hoofs on the pa

started, like b

at shout, like the

nd they ran, and t

d Phaudhrig the

are gone by, an

s is growin' o'er

't be aisy or

ave boy, he reso

d pike - for Phau

d he died in the

rohoore in the gre

retched, and a sthron

throughout a strong resemblance to Sir Walter Scott's 'Lochinvar,' was neverthele