* “Failte augus cead ro ag duine nasal.” The term gentleman, however, is a very inadequate version of the Irish nasal, which is an epitthet of superiority that indicates more than mere gentility of birth can bestow, although that requisite is also included. In a curious dialogue between Ossian and St. Patrick, in an old Irish poem, in which the former relates the combat between Oscar and Ilian, St, Patrick solicits him to the detail, addressing him as “Ossian uasal, a mhic Fionne”, “Ossian the Noble--the son of Fingal.” So you see I hold my letter patent of nobility in my countenance, for I had not yet divested myself of Murtoch’s costume--while in the act, the best stool was wiped for me, the best seat at the fire forced on me, and on being admitted into the social circle, I found its central point was a round oaken stool heaped with smoking potatoes thrown promiscuously over it. To partake of this national diet I was strongly and courteously solicited, while as an incentive to an appetite that needed none, the old dame produced what she called a _madder_ of sweet milk, in contradistinction to the sour milk of which the rest partook; while the cow that sup plied the luxury slumbered most amicably with a large pig at no great distance from where I sat, and Murtoch glancing an eye at _both_, and then looking at me, seemed to say, “You see into what snug quarters we have got.” While I (as I sat with my damp clothes smoking by the turf fire, my madder of milk in one hand, and hot potatoe in the other) assured him by a responsible glance, that I was fully sensible of the comforts of our situation. As soon as supper was finished the old man said grace, the family piously blessed themselves, and the stool being removed, the hearth swept, and the fire replenished from the bog, Murtoch threw himself on his back along a bench, * and unasked began a song, the wild and plaintive melody of which went at once to the soul. When he had concluded, I was told it was the lamentation of the poor Irish for the loss of their _glibbs_ or long tresses, of which they were deprived by the arbitrary will of Henry VIII.--The song (composed in his reign) is called the _Coulin_ ** which I am told is literally, the fair ringlet. * This curious vocal position is of very ancient origin in Connaught, though by no means prevalent. Formerly the songster not only lay on his back, but had a weight pressed on his chest. The author’s father recollects having seen a man in the county of Mayo, of the name of O’Melvill, who sung for him in this position some years back. ** The Cualin is one of the most popular and beautiful Irish airs estant.