“Erin-Go-Bragh,” the celebrated Irish song of an exiled patriot—Why it was written by a Scotchman, with an interesting account of Campbell the poet, and some account of Gen. A. McC——n, the Irish Patriot. O, sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger: The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not for me. Ah! never again in the green shady bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, And strike the sweet numbers of Erin-go-bragh. _See Campbell’s Poems._ In the year 1810, a native of Philadelphia resided in the city of Altona, and became intimately acquainted with Gen. McC——, who commanded the Irish patriots at the battle of Ballanahench. The general was a real Irish gentleman, with a heart alive to every refined sympathy of human nature, and warmly attached to Americans and the American character. Never can it be forgotten by those who were so happy as to share his confidence, how his fine manly countenance would light up, as he listened to the answers his questions would draw forth, when inquiring into the private characters of any of our revolutionary sages or soldiers. Often would the tears start into his eyes, when, at the social bowl, some unpublished anecdote would be elicited of the daring of Putnam, the Hannibal-like qualities of Greene and Marion, the persevering bravery of Rifle Morgan, or the daring of General Wayne in his battles with the savage foe. His whole soul would appear to flash from his expressive eye, and he would burst forth with the exclamation: “Oh, Erin, oh my beloved country, from which, alas! I am banished, when will heroes such as these arise and burst the bands by which thou art enslaved?—Will a just God never hear thy prayers? Will the groans of enslaved millions, will the agonies of a brave and generous people never reach thy throne, and call down thy vengeance upon her persecutors? Excuse me,” he would say, “excuse the companion of the Emmets, the McNevens, and others, who were confined with me in Fort George, in Scotland, from whence I was transported hither—banished! What a word! banished from the home of my childhood—torn from the land where my forefathers dwelt!” On one occasion of this kind, when the most of the company had retired, in his own hospitable mansion, he invited his Philadelphia friend to remain and hear the sad story of his life.