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’Yearsafteryears，theirswiftwaykeeping，Likesereleavesdownthycurrentsweeping，Arelostforaye，andsped——
AndDeaththewintrysoilisheapingAsfastasflowersareshed。
Andshewhowanderedbymyside，Andbreathedenchantmento’erthytide，Thatmakestheestillmyfriendandguide——
Andsheisdead。’
TheselinesIhavetranscribedinordertoproveapointwhichIhavehearddenied，namely，thatanIrishpeasant——
fortheirauthorwasnomore——maywriteatleastcorrectlyinthematterofmeasure，language，andrhyme；andIshalladdseveralextractsinfurtherillustrationofthesamefact，afactwhoseassertion，itmustbeallowed，mayappearsomewhatparadoxicaleventothosewhoareacquainted，thoughsuperficially，withHiberniancomposition。Therhymesare，itmustbegranted，inthegeneralityofsuchproductions，verylatitudinarianindeed，andasaveteranvotaryofthemuseonceassuredme，dependwhollyuponthewowls(vowels)，asmaybeseeninthefollowingstanzaofthefamous’ShanavanVoicth。’
’“What’llwehaveforsupper？“
SaysmyShanavanVoicth；
“We’llhaveturkeysandroastBEEF，Andwe’lleatitverySWEET，Andthenwe’lltakeaSLEEP，“
SaysmyShanavanVoicth。’
ButIamdesirousofshowingyouthat，althoughbarbarismsmayanddoexistinournativeballads，therearestilltobefoundexceptionswhichfurnishexamplesofstrictcorrectnessinrhymeandmetre。
WhethertheybeonewhitthebetterforthisIhavemydoubts。Inordertoestablishmyposition，IsubjoinaportionofaballadbyoneMichaelFinley，ofwhommoreanon。TheGENTLEMANspokenofinthesongisLordEdwardFitzgerald。
’Thedaythattraitorssouldhimandinimiesboughthim，Thedaythattheredgoldandredbloodwaspaid——
ThenthegreenturnedpaleandthrembledlikethedeadleavesinAutumn，Andtheheartan’hopeivIrelandinthecouldgravewaslaid。
’ThedayIsawyoufirst，withthesunshinefallin’roundye，Myheartfairlyopenedwiththegrandeuroftheview：
FortenthousandIrishboysthatdaydidsurroundye，An’Isworetostandbythemtilldeath，an’fightforyou。
’Yeworthebravestgentleman，an’thebestthateverstood，Andyoureyelidneverthrembledfordangernorfordread，An’noblenesswasflowin’ineachstreamofyourblood——
Mybleasingonyounightau’day，an’Glorybeyourbed。
’Myblackan’bittercurseonthehead，an’heart，an’hand，Thatplotted，wished，an’workedthefallofthisIrishherobold；
God’scurseupontheIrishmanthatsouldhisnativeland，An’hellconsumetodustthehandthatheldthethraitor’sgold。’
SuchwerethepoliticsandpoetryofMichaelFinley，inhisday，perhaps，themostnotedsong-makerofhiscountry；butasgeniusisneverwithoutitseccentricities，Finleyhadhispeculiarities，andamongthese，perhapsthemostamusingwashisrootedaversiontopen，ink，andpaper，inperfectindependenceofwhich，allhiscompositionswerecompleted。Itisimpossibletodescribethejealousywithwhichheregardedthepresenceofwritingmaterialsofanykind，andhiseverwakefulfearslestsomeliterarypirateshouldtransferhisoralpoetrytopaper——fearswhichwerenotaltogetherwithoutwarrant，inasmuchastherecitationandsingingoftheseoriginalpiecesweretohimasourceofwealthandimportance。IrecollectupononeoccasionhisdetectingmeintheveryactoffollowinghisrecitationwithmypencilandIshallnotsoonforgethisindignantscowl，asstoppingabruptlyinthemidstofaline，hesharplyexclaimed：
’Ismypomeapigsty，orwhat，thatyouwantasurveyor’sground-planofit？’
Owingtothisabsurdscruple，Ihavebeenobliged，withoneexception，thatoftheballadof’PhaudhrigCrohoore，’torestsatisfiedwithsuchsnatchesandfragmentsofhispoetryasmymemorycouldbearaway——afact
