ounds which he elicits from the calumniated
mouth of the pretended Irish poet. Slaves are "sleeves," places are
"pleeces," Lord John is "Lard Jahn," fatal is "fetal," danger is
"deenger," and native is "neetive." All these are unintended slanders.
Tea, Hibernice, is "tay," please is "plaise," sea is "say," and ease is
"aise." The softer sound of e is broadened out by the natural
Irishman,--not, to my ear, without a certain euphony;--but no one in
Ireland says or hears the reverse. The Irishman who in London might talk
of his "neetive" race, would be mincing his words to please the ear of
the cockney.

_The Chronicle of the Drum_ would be a true ballad all through, were it
not that there is tacked on to it a long moral in an altered metre. I do
not much value the moral, but the ballad is excellent, not only in much
of its versification and in the turns of its language, but in the quaint
and true picture it gives of the French nation. The drummer, either by
himself or by some of his family, has drummed through a century of
French battling, caring much for his country and its glory, but
understanding nothing of the causes for which he is enthusiastic.
Whether for King, Republic, or Emperor, whether fighting and conquering
or fighting and conquered, he is happy as long as he can beat his drum
on a field of glory. But throughout his adventures there is a touch of
chivalry about our drummer. In all the episodes of his country's career
he feels much of patriotism and something of tenderness. It is thus he
sings during the days of the Revolution:

We had taken the head of King Capet,
We called for the blood of his wife;
Undaunted she came to the scaffold,
And bared her fair neck to the knife.
As she felt the foul fingers that touched her,
She shrank, but she deigned not to speak;
She looked with a royal disdain,
And died with a blush on her cheek!

'Twas thus that our country was saved!
So told us the Safety Committee!
But, psha, I've the heart of a soldier,--
All gentleness, mercy, and pity.
I loathed to assist at such deeds,
And my drum beat its loudest of tunes,
As we offered to justice offended,
The blood of the bloody tribunes.

Away with such foul recollections!
No more of the axe and the block.
I saw the last fight of the sections,
As they fell 'neath our guns at St. Rock.
Young Bonapart