Edward Lysight, Esq., barrister-at-law—His peculiar talents—A song of his contrasted with one of Moore’s on the same subject—Ounagh and Mary—Pastoral poetry—“The Devil in the Lantern”—A love story—“We’re a’ noddin”—Sketch of Mr. Solomon Salmon and his daughter—Mr. Lysight’s nuptials with the latter—Sociality at Somers’ Town—A morning call—All is not gold that glitters—Death of the counsellor and his lady.
Among the eccentric characters formerly abounding at the Irish bar, was one whose species of talent is nearly extinct, but whose singularities are still recollected by such of his professional contemporaries as have had the good fortune to survive him.
Edward Lysight, a gentleman by birth, was left, as to fortune, little else than his brains and his pedigree. The latter, however, was of no sort of use to him, and he seldom employed the former to any lucrative purpose. He considered law as his trade, and conviviality (to the cultivation whereof no man could apply more sedulously) as his profession. Full of point and repartee, every humourist and bon vivant was his patron. He had a full proportion of animal courage; and even the fire-eaters of Tipperary never courted his animosity. Songs, epigrams, and lampoons, which from other pens would have terminated in mortal combat, being considered inherent in his nature, were universally tolerated.
Some of Lysight’s sonnets had great merit, and many of his national stanzas were singularly characteristic. His “Sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green” is admirably and truly descriptive of the low Irish character, and never was that class so well depicted in so few words: but, to my taste, his sketch of a May morning is not to be exceeded in that cheerful colouring and natural simplicity which constitute the very essence and spirit of genuine pastoral. The beginning of the copy of verses called “Ounagh” offers an illustration of this; and it is much to be lamented that, with strange inconsistency, the man did not write another line of it adapted for publication. The first verse is, however, in my mind, worthy of being recorded, and I give it as a sample either of my bad or good taste. All I am sure of is, that I admire it.
’Twas on a fine May morning,
When violets were springing O,
Dew-drops the fields adorning,
The birds melodious singing O:
The green trees
Each soft breeze