X. D. THE JACOBITE RELICS OF IRELAND.--No. I. The Jacobite relics of England, and to a still greater extent those of Scotland, have been given to the world, and are well deserving of such preservation; for they reflect no small light on the character and temperament of the English and Scottish people during the last century. But until the appearance of Mr Hardiman’s Irish Minstrelsy it was hardly known that in their political enthusiasm for the fate of a decaying family the Irish people participated with so large a portion of those of the sister islands, and that it gave birth to an equal number of poetical effusions in our own country--but with this difference, that their sentiments are usually veiled under an allegorical form, and always in the Irish language. To Mr Hardiman we are indebted for the preservation of the originals of many of those productions, and also for translations of them. These translations are however too free to enable the English reader to form any very accurate idea of the Irish originals, and we are therefore tempted to present a series of these relics to our readers, with translations of a more literal and faithful description; not limiting ourselves to those which have already appeared in Mr Hardiman’s work--as in the specimen which we have selected to commence with, which is still popularly sung in Ireland to the old melody called “Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan.” We may observe, that the name of the author of this song, if ever known, is no longer remembered; but there seems to be no doubt that the song itself is of Munster origin. KATHALEEN NY-HOULAHAN. Long they pine in weary woe, the nobles of our land, Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas! and banned; Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exile’s brand, But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan! Think her not a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen, Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen; Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned a queen, Were the king’s son at home here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan! Sweet and mild would look her face, O none so sweet and mild, Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled; Woollen plaids would grace herself and robes of silk her child, If the king’s son were living here with Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan! Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of thrones, Vassal to a _Saxoneen_ of cold and sapless bones! Bitter anguish wrings our souls--with heavy sighs and groans We wait the Young Deliverer of Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan! Let us pray to Him who holds Life’s issues in His hands-- Him who formed the mighty globe, with all its thousand lands; Girdling them with seas and mountains, rivers deep, and strands, To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan!