This little song is of so ancient a date, that Glorvina assures me, neither the name of the composer (for the melody is exquisitely beautiful) nor the poet, have escaped the oblivion of time. But if we may judge of the rank of the poet by that of his mistress, it must have been of a very humble degree; for it is evident that the fair Cathbein, whose form is compared, in splendour, to that of the Saxon monarch, is represented as cutting wood for the fire.
The following songs, however, are by the most celebrated of the modern Irish bards, Turloch Carolan, * and the airs to which he has composed them, possess the arioso elegance of Italian music, united to the heartfelt pathos of Irish melody.
* He was born in the village of Nobber, county of Westmeath,
in 1670, and died in 1739. He never regretted the loss of
sight, but used gaily to say, “my eyes are only transplanted
into my ears.” Of his poetry, the reader may form some
judgment from these examples. Of his music, it has been said
by O’Connor, the celebrated historian, who knew him
intimately, “so happy, so elevated was he in some of his
compositions, that he excited the wonder, and obtained the
approbation of a great master who never saw him, I mean
Geminiani.” His execution on the harp was rapid and
expressive—far beyond that of all the professional
competitors of the age in which he lived. The charms of
women, the pleasures of conviviality, and the power of poesy
and music, were at once his theme and inspiration; and his
life was an illustration of his theory, for until his last
ardour was chilled by death, he loved, drank and sung. He
was a welcome guest to every house, from the peasant to the
prince; but in the true wandering spirit of his profession,
he never staid to exhaust that welcome.
I.
“I must sing of the youthful plant of gentlest mien—Fanny, the beautiful and warm soul’d—the maid of the amber twisted ringlets; the air lifted and light footed virgin—the elegant pearl and heart’s treasure of Eriu; then waste not the fleeting hour—let us enjoy it in drinking to the health of Fanny, the daughter of David.”
II.
“It is the maid of the magic lock I sing, the fair swan of the shore—for whose love a multitude expires: Fanny, the beautiful, whose tresses are like the evening sun beam; whose voice is like the blackbird’s morning song: O, may I never leave the world until dancing in the air (this expression in the Irish is beyond the power of translation) at her wedding, I shall send away the hours in drinking to Fanny, the daughter of David.” *
* She was daughter to David Power, Esq., of the county
Galway, and mother to the late Lord Cloncarty. The epithet
bestowed on her of “Swan of the shore,” arose from her
father’s mansion being situated on the edge of Lough Leah,
or the grey lake, of which many curious legends are told.