alike the cultivated intellect and the untutored heart. The street-ballads may be divided into five classes: patriotic, love-songs, lamentations, eulogies, and chronicles. The patriotic songs are disappointing. There are few to stir the heart like the war-notes of Scotland. The reason is obvious. The triumphs were few and fleeting, and the song of the vanquished was only of hope or despair. They must sing in secret and be silent in the presence of the victors. In most of the political songs allegory is largely used. Ireland is typified under the form of a lonely female in distress, or a venerable old lady, or some other figure is used to disguise the meaning. Of course the street ballad-singers dare not sing anything seditious, and even the whistling of the "Wearing of the Green" will call down the rebuke of the "peeler." The ballads that express the hatred of the people to their rulers are sung in stealth and are often unprinted. They are not usually the production of the hackneyed professional ballad-singers, and are consequently of a much higher order. The following is a good specimen, It is entitled {34} The Irishman's Farewell To His Country. Oh! farewell, Ireland: I am going across the stormy main, Where cruel strife will end my life, to see you never again. 'Twill break my heart from you to part; _acushla astore machree_. But I must go, full of grief and woe, to the shores of America. "On Irish soil my fathers dwelt since the days of Brian Borue. They paid their rent and lived content convenient to Carricmore. But the landlord sent on the move my poor father and me. We must leave our home far away to roam in the fields of America. "No more at the churchyard, _astore machree_, at my mother's grave I'll kneel. The tyrants know but little of the woe the poor man has to feel. When I look on the spot of ground that is so dear to me, I could curse the laws that have given me cause to depart to America. "Oh! where are the neighbors, kind and true, that were once my country's pride? No more will they be seen on the face of the green, nor dance on the green hillside. It is the stranger's cow that is grazing now, where the people we used to see. With notice they were served to be turned out or starved, or banished to America. "O! Erin machree, must our children be exiled all over the earth? Will they evermore think of you, _astore_, as the land that gave them birth? Must the Irish yield to the beasts of the field? Oh! no--_acushla astore machree_. They are crossing back in ships, with vengeance on their lips, from the shores of America."