The Protestant Cathedral is a fine, modern building with a lofty central tower and four smaller towers of the same design surrounding it. It was finished only a few years ago and cost half a million dollars, most of the money being derived from legacies. It stands on the site of an ancient church built by St. Fin-Barre. The grounds are large and beautifully shaded, with here and there a tomb of some distinguished man. The service and the singing are quite impressive, and we heard the best choir we have found in Ireland. But the church where everybody goes, which every tourist must visit, is St. Anne's, on the other side of the river, on Shandon Street, which was built in 1722, and is remarkable for an extraordinary-looking tower one hundred and twenty feet high, faced on two sides with red stone and on the other sides with white stone. It is exceedingly ugly, but the people of Cork are very much attached to it, and particularly to the chime of eight bells which hang in the tower and have been immortalized in a simple little poem by "Father Prout," who was the Rev. Francis Mahoney, and is buried in the churchyard in the tomb of his ancestors. "Father Prout" was the _nom de plume_ of this witty and sentimental clergyman, who was most prolific with his productions. He wrote odes to almost everything in Ireland--plain, simple, homely lines, but full of sentiment and the true poetic spirit. The common people admire them above all other literary works except the ballads of Tom Moore, and indeed Father Prout's verses rank with Moore's melodies in popularity. He also published a great deal of prose, stories and satires and anecdotes illustrating the thoughts and the habits of his fellow countrymen, and occasionally a political satire which involved him in a controversy with his bishop or some political leader. Father Prout in his famous lyric described the peculiar appearance of the spire of his church: "Parti-colored like the people, Red and white, stands Shandon's steeple." "With deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would In the days of childhood Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. Their magic spells. "On this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee, With thy bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of The River Lee."