Tom had a good flexible voice, and used to sing the old Irish songs of our country with singular pathos and effect. He sang Peggy Slevin, the Red-haired Man’s Wife, and Shula Na Guira, with a feeling that early impressed itself upon my heart. Indeed we think that his sweet but artless voice still rings in our ears; and whilst we remember the tears which the enthusiasm of sorrow brought down his cheeks, and the quivering pause in the fine old melody which marked what he felt, we cannot help acknowledging that the memory of these things is mournful, and that the hearts of many, in spite of new systems of education and incarcerating poor-houses, will yearn after the homely but touching traits which marked the harmless Shanahus, and the times in which he lived. Many a tear has he beguiled us of in our youth when we knew not why we shed them. One of these sacred old airs, especially, we could never resist, “the Trougha,” or “the Green Woods of _Trough_;” and to this day we remember with a true and melancholy recollection that whenever Tom happened to be asked for it, we used to slink over to his side and whisper, “Tom, don’t sing _that_; it makes me sorrowful;” and Tom, who had great goodness of heart, had consideration for the feelings of the boy, and sang some other. But now all these innocent fireside enjoyments are gone, and we will never more have our hearts made glad by the sprightly mirth and rich good humour of the Shanahus, nor ever again pay the artless tribute of our tears to his old pathetic songs of sorrow, nor feel our hearts softened at the ideal miseries of tale or legend as they proceeded in mournful recitative from his lips. Alas! alas! knowledge may be power, but it is _not_ happiness.