d find no language to speak withal, but that of mummery and jest.
No, her language is imperfect, but there is strength in its rudeness,
and beauty in its wildness; and, above all, strong feeling flows through
it, like fresh fountains in rugged caverns.

And yet I will not say that the language of genuine indigenous Irish
composition is always vulgar and uncouth: on the contrary, I am in
possession of some specimens, though by no means of the highest order as
to poetic merit, which do not possess throughout a single peculiarity
of diction. The lines which I now proceed to lay before you, by way
of illustration, are from the pen of an unfortunate young man, of very
humble birth, whose early hopes were crossed by the untimely death of
her whom he loved. He was a self-educated man, and in after-life rose
to high distinctions in the Church to which he devoted himself--an
act which proves the sincerity of spirit with which these verses were
written.

'When moonlight falls on wave and wimple,
And silvers every circling dimple,
That onward, onward sails:
When fragrant hawthorns wild and simple
Lend perfume to the gales,
And the pale moon in heaven abiding,
O'er midnight mists and mountains riding,
Shines on the river, smoothly gliding
Through quiet dales,

'I wander there in solitude,
Charmed by the chiming music rude
Of streams that fret and flow.
For by that eddying stream SHE stood,
On such a night I trow:
For HER the thorn its breath was lending,
On this same tide HER eye was bending,
And with its voice HER voice was blending
Long, long ago.

Wild stream! I walk by thee once more,
I see thy hawthorns dim and hoar,
I hear thy waters moan,
And night-winds sigh from shore to shore,
With hushed and hollow tone;
But breezes on their light way winging,
And all thy waters heedless singing,
No more to me are gladness bringing--
I am alone.

'Years after years, their swift way keeping,
Like sere leaves down thy current sweeping,
Are lost for aye, and sped--
And Death the wintry soil is heaping
As fast as flowers are shed.
And she who wandered by my side,
And breathed enchantment o'er thy tide,
That makes thee still my friend and guide--
And she is dead.'

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