These lines I have transcribed in order to prove a point which I have heard denied, namely, that an Irish peasant--for their author was no more--may write at least correctly in the matter of measure, language, and rhyme; and I shall add several extracts in further illustration of the same fact, a fact whose assertion, it must be allowed, may appear somewhat paradoxical even to those who are acquainted, though superficially, with Hibernian composition. The rhymes are, it must be granted, in the generality of such productions, very latitudinarian indeed, and as a veteran votary of the muse once assured me, depend wholly upon the wowls (vowels), as may be seen in the following stanza of the famous 'Shanavan Voicth.' '"What'll we have for supper?" Says my Shanavan Voicth; "We'll have turkeys and roast BEEF, And we'll eat it very SWEET, And then we'll take a SLEEP," Says my Shanavan Voicth.' But I am desirous of showing you that, although barbarisms may and do exist in our native ballads, there are still to be found exceptions which furnish examples of strict correctness in rhyme and metre. Whether they be one whit the better for this I have my doubts. In order to establish my position, I subjoin a portion of a ballad by one Michael Finley, of whom more anon. The GENTLEMAN spoken of in the song is Lord Edward Fitzgerald. 'The day that traitors sould him and inimies bought him, The day that the red gold and red blood was paid-- Then the green turned pale and thrembled like the dead leaves in Autumn, And the heart an' hope iv Ireland in the could grave was laid. 'The day I saw you first, with the sunshine fallin' round ye, My heart fairly opened with the grandeur of the view: For ten thousand Irish boys that day did surround ye, An' I swore to stand by them till death, an' fight for you. 'Ye wor the bravest gentleman, an' the best that ever stood, And your eyelid never thrembled for danger nor for dread, An' nobleness was flowin' in each stream of your blood-- My bleasing on you night au' day, an' Glory be your bed. 'My black an' bitter curse on the head, an' heart, an' hand, That plotted, wished, an' worked the fall of this Irish hero bold; God's curse upon the Irishman that sould his native land, An' hell consume to dust the hand that held the thraitor's gold.'