Published 1834









"Fools are my theme; let folly be my song."-BYRON

WHO loves upon the bounding steed to gaze
Hie to that spot of gayest sport-tbe Maze.
There may be seen the rich, the titled great,
And snug-plac'd lordlings, paupers on the state.
The starched-up lackbrain and the wealthy cit ;
The homeless scapegrace, living on his wit:
The new-made heir, puff d up by vain pretence,
As full of cash, as void of common sense.
Game for the hawks who perch in hundreds there,
To catch such woodcocks in the well-laid snare!
It And Beauty shines in proudest force of arms,
Eclipsing sunlight with its magic charms.
Romantic belles and sentimental I blues,'
Who scrawl in albums, libels on the Muse;
From the soft laughing rustic of sixteen,
Whose spirit dances at the bustling scene,

*Above a century ago there was a race-course made by the first Lord Conway, adjoining the village of Lambeg, but it has long fallen into obscurity, and is now a mere car-road. The Maze, about two miles and a half from Lisburn, has finally superseded it, being an excellent race-ground. The Maze is, during the races, most numerously and fashionably attended. Of late a beautiful stand-house has been built, which commands an excellent view of the turf and the adjacent very picturesque country. With the exception of the famous Curragh of Kildare, this turf is attended by a greater number of sportsmen, and the best bred horses of any other race-ground in Ireland.

To the grave dowager, with face demure,
Who sighs when speaking of the houseless poor;
Yet bets her hundred-takes the dappled grey
Against the field-thus reckless throws away
What would make hopeless hearts to sing for joy,
If in the hands of true philanthropy !

But to the subject-we would fain hold forth,
In downright fact, the Curragh of the North;
Where fireside politicians, boring prigs,
That threaten Tories, and denounce the Whigs,
Lay by their arguments, and for one day,
At least, forget the nation's nightmare-GREY;
Revive old recollections, and talk o'er
Feats of their prowess here in days of yore.*

One sports his gig, who lately took ' the Act,'
Our country's curse: now aping the elect,
And newly white-washed, boldly drives along,
Jostling his honest neighbour in that throng ;
Where one dense mass, each eager-looking face
Seems rapt in that sole thought, the Race, the Race!

Here flashmen ride, and dandies tightly cased
In a new suit, display the neatest waist;
With stately strut, half military air,
And pamper'd whiskers, killing to the fair ! !

* Great wrestling matches were very common at this course about fifty years ago; strong factions mustered regularly at each `meeting,' and a pretty fair average of cracked heads was the result of their amusement.

Mart of the North ! Athenia, Erin's boast,
To grace the turf outpours thy goodly host ;
Some bent on fun and frolicsome to shine
As first-rate ` whips' enchantingly divine;
And would-be Nimrods (counterfeits I ween)
Sport jockey frocks of finest Lincoln green.
Which Stultz, * the nabob of his tribe, whose wit
Lay in his thimble-would 'lave sworn " a fit"
And on a borrow'd grey, or dashing roan,
Exhibit buckskins not perhaps their own!

- There is a prodigious turn out of the denizens of our Northern Athens on the third and fourth days of the races. Horse and foot of all denominations, and vehicles of every grade, from the splendid barouchdnd-four, to the collier's cart, neatly fitted up for the occasion, may be seen making their way from that city towards the scene of sport. Men; of bales and hogsheads, who have left the Ledger to sleep quietly on the desk, show off on a spirited courser, decked out with a new bridoon, and one of show best. Hlalf-crown lawyers seated quite Jarvey-like, in a machine somewhat resembling a Gig, flourish the whip most scientifically, to the great annoyance of pedestrians who do well to `have and to hold' safe footing on the `premises' of the side-path. Unfledged Grocers who, for the first time in their existence, are mounted on an animal of the horse species ; youthful Scions of Esculapius who grasp the bridle as if armed with their master's pestle ; and a few fierce-looking anatomizers of broad-cloth throwing fear to the winds, magnanimously get perched on the top of regular bonesetters ; their grotesque countenances broadly evincing the martyrdom they thus undergo in striving to do the thing genteel

Distinction ceases here-it matters not
Your're worth a plum, or scarcely worth a groat ;
Dress and ad-dress none seek for aught beside,
A current passport is the horse you ride.

* poor Stultz, that master spirit of the nimble-fingered fraternity, and monarch of the Knights of the steel-bar-whom his late Majesty idolized--Brummel dignified, by naming him, ` the Immortal Stultz,' and whom the Emperor of Austria created a Baron, as a token of admiration for his garment-shaping talents-has at last fallen under the shears of Death, been measured by the Undertaker, seamed up by the Sexton, and finally pressed off by that insatiable thing-the Grave.

The mounted blackleg, with a face of brass,
Who, in the crowd, finds out a monied ass; -
Talks of his friend the Colonel's racing stud,
His famous two-year olds of highest blood.
How at Newmarket, by an awkward bolt,
He lost a thousand on a favourite colt
Is only known when calm reflection sways
The breast of him who, dreaming of the Maze,
At some time hence suspects the smooth-tongued blade
Had over-reach'd him in the bets he made.

Hark ! sounds the bugle; round the starting-post
Assemble knowing ones-a lynx-eyed host,
Who, as the racing cattle are led forth,
Make shrewd remarks upon each horse's worth.
In what a bustle sporting men appear;
Their Babel voices intermingle here.
In the few minutes which precede the start,
'Tis like a stock-exchange or auction mart.
Some curses, too, are civilly applied
Amid the throng-the man of birth his pride
Stuffs slyly in his saddle skirts, and deigns
To gull the tradesman of his bard-earn'd gains.
"Here's three to one I name the winning horse,"
Exclaims a farmer, holding out his purse.*

*Adepts at illicit appropriation, alias professors of the abstract sciences, pursue their industrious calling with great avidity,' amid the deafening bustle which ensues about the time the horses are starting. Those who are in the way of making bets are too much occupied with that thought alone to pay due regard to their cash; hence many conveyances are effected, and fobs dispossessed with the most scientific adroitness; and so disinterested are these gentry, that they never afterwards either make a charge, or bring in a bill of costs against their clients for such services.

Loud bawls a sporting hero, "four to one:"
A mounted r prime one' quickly cries, "'tis done,-
" Down with the cash, there must be sport to-day.
See! 'tis an unfair start-now they're away."

Yes-they're away, but mark that crowd immense
Their wild anxiety grows more intense,
As in the van despis'd or favorite flies,
Alternate each in fancy grasps the prize ;
Lo! up the sandy plain with rapid bounds
The coursers spring, like puss before the hounds.
They cluster-scatter-and the ' old ones' try
Each other's strength, and watch with cautious eye
Who pulls or drives-thus nicely calculate
Which of the six will carry off the plate.

A mass of heads move round the tower hill,
Within the distance every voice is still ;
E'en Geordie S----t himself half shuts his eyes,
Speaks not a sentence, but looks wondrous wise.
A hundred voices shout at once, ' they come
With thundering speed, bathed in a sheet of foam.'
Blue Jacket foremost, and not far behind,
Our Northern Chiffney drives fleet as the wind ;
See what a cloud of dust he backward flings,
He'll take the lead with such tremendous springs
Now for the struggle-ha ! the favorite falls
"That does for me," a red-fac'd sporter bawls.*

* Nothing can exceed the rush of spectators from the hills at this moment of the race; pedestrians and equestrians dash forward at full speed, the former often rolling over each other in their haste to witness the last efforts of the racers in passing the winning-box; and as that part of the course is thickly interspersed with rabbit holes, many individuals kiss their mother earth, and are most ignominiously trampled over before they can recover themselves. Formerly it was a common practice with those who catered for the inward man, to cut a place into the face of the hill, and kindle a fire, whereon to boil beef, &c. and it is positively stated, that on one occasion, a fellow who was flying down the hill, intent only on the all-absorbing question, ' Who has won?' popped into a large broth-pot, knocked down the temporary crook, and scattered abroad a most miscellaneous jumble of bones, barley, and vegetables, to the no small dismay of the proprietor. L

To what strange scenes this incident gives birth,
The heartless smile, and boisterous shout of mirth ;
The laugh of triumph, or the vacant stare,
Display the different thoughts which spring up there
But a few moments since and every eye
Was lit with hope and reckless jollity ;
Lo ! what a change, like Autumn's fitful gleams,
Comes o'er the spirit of th' adventurer's dreams
A skilful phisiognomist could trace,
With greatest ease, each interested face ;
Who by the god of gambling was betray'd;
Who lost a hundred, or a fortune made

A stately horseman-(faith I must take care
Of this misnomer, as he rode a mare ;
An old one, too, a sorry looking Back ;
Her rusty hide had once perhaps been black.
The antiquated saddle he bestrode*
Was quite in keeping with the beast be rode.)

* Many articles of horse millinery which are put into requisition for this arcana of sport are of the most antique description. A general resurrection of these equestrian appendages appear to have taken place, and saddles of the old school, around which, in all probability, the spiders had for years woven their tiny fabrics unmolested, are taken down from the , lumber loft, and cleaned up for the stirring occasion. These relics of former days appear the mo re ancient from being contrasted with the] splendid style in which the `stars' who' ,illuminate this turf have their dashing steeds caparisoned.

-Like a town-crier, with stentorian voice
And up raised hand, roars out; ' Huzza for Joyce;
My all depended on his speed to-day,
Who rides lile him ?-I say Ma'am, clear the way;
You shou'd beware of strolling in this place,
I cannot curb my charger since the race.'
Then with a kerchief rather worse of wear,
He blew a nose with consequential air;
That like a monarch in the pride of power,
Sat on his face a flaming beacon tower
Of have I seen, with self-importance fraught,
A youthful sporter, not perchance long caught,*

* Not long caught.-A cant phrase sometimes applied to our uninitiated countrymen by the good citizens of Cockaigne. John Bull, however, should be the last to laugh at gullibility in others-few possess a larger share of that useful commodity than himself. In corroboration of this assertion, witness the " Napoleon Match"-the mock French count's challenge to the entire gambling world for an enormous bet. So well was the thing got up, that various " old ones" were fairly duped, besides the large extracts made from the pockets of amateurs. This glaring hoax was even swallowed by the morning papers; those shrewd organs of intelligence setting forth the progress of each night's play with all the gravity imaginable. This one case, together with the golden harvest reaped by the sham Scotch piper and the close-fisted Paganini, in whose scraping miracles j there was a good deal of mere trickery and nothingness,-sufficiently bears out our argument, without adverting, as further proof, that friend John's tact sometimes consists of the mere raw material; to the horde of quacks
by whom he is daily victimized. Certainly we northerns rejoice in the exploits of a few death-defying heroes of box and pill, among whom are the proprietor of a sweeping Cognomen, truly a valorous knight in his own; way, who throws down the gauntlet in the real bravado style, as being the "only gentleman on earth" capable of holding out in a regular stand up" set to" with all diseases, armed with. his never-falling nostrums. And Morrison, disinterested soul ! ! offering his good things for the sumptuous fare of the community-by the bye, we hope these worthies have no understanding with him of the " Friar's Bush" department. These gentlemen, according to their own statements, have done wonders ; but the feats of any one of our neighbour John's artistes-say, for instance, Mr. St. Long, of back-scrubbing notoriety-leaves the above-named personages
far, far in the shade. And now, speaking of these useful members of society, have not a few of the legitimate sons of Esculapius belonging to Belfast, been lately regaling each other with a most respectable quantity of Billingsgate, much to the amusement and edification of the public.
We live in the age of literary chivalry at all events.

Who on the race had bet a pound or more,
Stand near the winning-box to ponder o'er
His chance of gain, with look as grave and wise
As a quack doctor when a patient dies.
And while in thought he flew across the plain,
Like any hero of the bit and rein
Rose in the stirrups, whipt with all his might,
Then turn'd to see how sped he in his flight:
Thus dreaming on till past the racers bound,
When to ! his fabric totters to the ground.
He hears his betting foe exulting cry,
"The cash is mine-I'll see you by and bye."

"My last ten pounds are gone," exclaims a wight--
"What must I do ?-I can't go home to-night.
Curse on that stumbling horse; I might have known,
Ere the last heat, to 'hedge' and hold my own."
*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *
*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *
The sport is o'er, the last heat has been run,
And now the scene of revelry's begun ;
'Tis five o'clock-and numbers of the throng
The different roads have thickly lined along,
All homeward bound-some plod with gravest air,
And pockets light,* no jingling sound is there.
Here reels a Tartar-looking fellow, that,
With chin interr'd in bolster-like cravat,
Shows, science-fraught, the art of self-defence--
Had he a foe how soon he'd send him hence.
Oh how such braggarts their contempt of fear
Display and swagger, when no danger's near.

* The prescribed limits of this little publication prevent me from noticing particularly the various gambling machinery with which the Maze is crowded during the races. Of the evil effects which arises from these `hells,' on a small scale, much might be said, suffice it to remark, that they engender more profligacy, trickery, and dishonesty, and are a greater share to morality than a casual observer could have the most distant idea of. Gambling has ever been the bane of society, but it is much more formidable when holding out its allurements to youth and inexperience ; the dreadful career of thousands can be traced to this source of pollution.



Ballymacash-Allusion to the Rev. Phil. Johnson-Killultagh Hunt.

ARISE my Muse, nor let the sacred spot
Where Philip Johnson flourish'd be forgot;
Rever'd, respected, and beloved by all
The man of worth, who at his country's call,
Fear'd not to brave the rude insurgent's hate,
Whose savage vengeance would have seal'd his fate.
When, coward-like, the dark assassin stood,*
And took his aim with tiger thirst for blood;
The whizzing ball disdain'd to take the life
For whom 'twas meant-oh ! dire effect of strife
And civil war, source of unnumber'd woes,
What dreadful scenes thy spirit can disclose !

Black was his heart, and merciless his hand,
Unfit to wield aught but a murderer's brand ;
Whose spirit thus could in an evil hour,
With fiend-like treachery, display its power.
But Johnson lived to see the sun of peace
Arise in brightness-bid contention cease;
Fame o'er his head her laurels to extend,
Of all around the firm and valued friend.

*Vide Nose at the end of this Canto.

Long may his son the sword of Justice bear,
And gain a name as glorious and as fair ;
Walk in the path which erst his father trod,
And scorn to shrink, tho' tempests howl abroad.

Instruction's Temple* rais'd at his command,
Shall flourish proudly 'neatlh his fostering hand ;
When sickness rages-by its various woes,
The toil-worn peasant's life begins to close,
To pour the oil and wine, is to secure
Earth's best reward-the blessing of the Poor !
*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *
*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *
*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *
In floods of glory now breaks forth the rosy morn,
Already do I hear the huntsman's cheering horn,
See fam' d Killultagh's harriers-oh ! what a noble throng
Now bursts Upon my view-Come Muse, let's give a Song.

* Edward Johnson, Esq. J. P. has recently erected an excellent schoolhouse for the poor children of his neighbourhood. The lively interest he uniformly takes in the cause of humanity and philanthropy, has gained him universal esteem.



ARISE jolly sportsmen !-the sun is abroad,
And he calls you away to the beath-cover'd sod;
The fox from his sides shakes the last spark of dew,
He is up from his lair, and is waiting for you---
Arise jolly sportsmen! who often have led
The blood-stirring chase in your doublets of red!


To the field, to the field-there is health in the gale,
Leave the student his couch, with his forehead so pale;
The courser's loud neighing is heard from the stall,_
His voice speaks of pleasure, attend to his call.
Wo, wo to the coward who hindmost would ride,
Or stop at the fence, be it ever so wide!


Hark away! . they are off, and like spirits of air,
They will fly o'er the fields, boldest actions to dare.
The Boyds of the' Island,' those stars of the north,
And Whitla, with others of spirit and worth.
The gay Captain Gregg on his charger of might,
While the clogs' jovial tongues fill each soul with delight !

List how the hills on every side resound
The swelling chorus of the deep-mouthed hound.
With eager clamor to arouse the prey,
And in her train exulting burst away,
Swift as the mountain roe thro' brake and glen,
While rings the welkin back their tones again.
The chase is up ! she stretches o'er the plain

Off fly the horsemen-every nerve they strain.
A noble field ! they drive with hearty cheer,
The foaming torrent or barr'd gate they clear.
Puss keeps her course; when, far up Collin's side,
She stops and gazes o'er the prospect wide;

Then backward wheels instinctive to the mound
From which she started, with redoubled bound.
Her little arts she tries with puzzling skill,
Descends with headlong speed the stone-topp'd hill,
Where often she, beneath the pale moon's light,
Had frolic'd wildly all the harvest night.
But 'tis in vain-her foes their speed renew,
Unbaffled all-close in the track pursue,
When weary grown, she makes her latest springs
The beagle's echoing voice her requiem sings!


" Where Philip Johnson flourished."

That distinguished patriot-the late Rev. Philip Johnson, of Ballymacash, who has left a name of such high eminence on the page of Irish history, was vicar of the parish of Derriaghy for the space of sixty years. He always resided among his hearers, and performed in person his ministerial duties for fifty years without the aid of a curate. He was for nearly the same period a justice of the peace for the counties of Antrim and Down; the arduous duties of which he discharged in a manner that gained him the approbation of the government, and the respect and affection of all lovers of peace and harmony. In 1796, this worthy gentleman's life was attempted in the town of Lisburn, but happily without effect. Such was the universal feeling of the county, that a reward of one thousand pounds was immediately offered for the discovery of the assassin, besides three hundred pounds offered by the Lord Lieutenant.


Brookhill, the seat of James Watson, Esq., J. P.-Surrounding Scenery - Reflections on 'Dublin, the Home of the Author's heart.-The conclusion'' of this Canto is inscribed to my much esteemed friend and brother, Mr. John Bayly, Dublin.`

I now pursue my way to famed Brookhill,
A spot where writers of Romance could fill
Three quarto volumes with those fairy things
Which Fancy in her bright imaginings
Could e'er conceive-for here the total's seen
Of all that's grand, or lovely, wild, serene.
Behold what boundless beauty meets the eyes,
From yonder dew-drop up to where the skies
With Mourne's majestic mounts seem to embrace;
The vast expanse is Canaan ground at ev'ry pace!

Seat of an honor'd sportsman ! let me roam
O'er the fair grounds which circle Watson's home,
And gaze with rapture on thy charms, Brookhill,
Where art and nature have display'd their skill ;
And hospitality with lavish hand,
(In ancient days the boast of Erin's land)
Flings her life-giving bounties with a smile,
And "mille falta" to the man of toil.
Who has not heard of Watson's sporting deeds,
His famous dogs, and swiftly bounding steeds ?
Bold son of Nimrod, long may he go forth
The first of hunters-glory of the North,
And guide with fearless hand the courser's rein,
Amid the plaudits of the peopled plain.

Now Morn's majestic god from Ocean bright,
Walks Heaven's vault in golden floods of light.
He o'er the mountain, plain, his radiance flings,
And gilds the scene in countless colorings ;
Unveils the charms Night's mantle did disguise,
And opes a thousand beauties to our eyes
A thousand prospects to survey invites,
'Mid all the luxury of rural sights.
Here lofty mounts, and smiling meadows there,
Religion's steeples towering into air ;
The boundless plain, begemmed with towers and floods,
Aspiring domes, embosom'd 'mid green woods;
Lawns and lakes, pyramid and pinnacle,
The rainbow'd waterfall-the torrent's swell
The forest's giant oaks that wed the breeze,
While flows the music of those Ilex trees,
That join the tempest's song in symphonies.
The solemn pine-the precipice so gray-
The cascade's roar-the lashing of the spray-
The groves so green, with all their fragrant breath,
That strings the harps of Naiads underneath ;
The fairy shades of trees where riv'lets free,
With men, and beasts, and birds in harmony,
Join Nature's endless song to Liberty!

Fair landscapes teeming with a countless show
Of all th' various beauties here below;
And gilded with that magic alchymy,
Which, like Medea's, gives a majesty;
A brilliant light and loveliness o'er all,
Which even Winter's power cannot pall.

When Summer spreads her wings of glossy green
And Nature all is rapt in joy serene;
When Beauty's empress roves along the plain,
And minstrels tend her shining virgin train ;
O gay and glorious look these fertile fields,
Here Ceres lavishly her bounty yields.

Sweet are the breathings of these trembling trees,
The Lake's blue breast berippled by the breeze;
Sweet are those flute-like notes the warblers sing,
When joyfully they hail the smiling Spring;
Or when on wing elastic swift they fly,
To serenade their mates in melody.
When glist'ning diamonds deck the trembling thorn,
And Zephyrs frolic with the yellow corn;
When soft Aurora from her golden bowers,
Exhales the fragrance of the honied flowers ;
When Phbus purply streaks the cloud-capt mounts,
And kisses with his beams the crystal founts;
As harvests full excite Aloa strains,
And frisking flocks molestless crop the plains ;
How sweet to breathe the breath of balmy morn,
When light and life in May's white bosom's born.

Oh ! sweet the blushings of the fragrant Rose,
When from her eyes the dew of honey flows,,
Sweet is the incense wafted from the flowers,
And sweet the green baptiz'd by April's showers;
But not the gay and glorious fertile fields,
As Ceres lavishly her bounty yields;
Not sweet to me the whispers of the trees,
The lake's blue breast berippled by the breeze ;
Nor songs which feather'd minstrels sweetly sing,
With glad cerealia hailing cheerful spring ;
Or when on wing elastic swift they fly,
To serenade their loves in melody.
Not sweet to me the odours of the flowers,
That waft a world of incense thro' the bowers
The garden's blushing Queen, nor fragrant Rose,
When from her eyes the dew of heaven flows.

Boots it to me, that on these happy plains
Eternal Summer in luxuriance reigns ?
Tho' all this Paradise can well afford
To deck some Eastern Prince's palace-board-
Ali! can my Summer's joy be e'er restor'd?

To those who happy live in calm retreat,
Far from the woes Misfortune's children meet ;
The current of whose peaceful lives can glide
Calm as a gentle brook's unruffled tide ;
O'er whose food hopes no blasting tempests rise;
Whose prospects Disappointment ne'er belies,
But clear and cloudless be as blue Italia's skies.

Those, those may feel a joy, a heavenly bliss,
When viewing all the landscape's loveliness,
May, with their hearts light as their footsteps, rove
By waving meadow, or by towering grove; M
And with the birds their morning anthems sing
The nectar sip of Life's Elysian Spring.
But he whose heart exists alike the tomb,
Whose darken'd soul no friendly rays illume;
Who stands alone like some surviving tree,
Left by Death's woodman little longer free,
To weep her kindred brethren's Elegy.

Can gilded scenes shed sunshine o'er his soul,
Or warm his feeling's soil-his cares control ?
Can all the verdure which those plains impart
Convey a greenness o'er his barren heart ?
Like some deep-wounded deer who writhes with pain,
The beauteous ground he treads but brings disdain.

Alas! the living glories of the Earth,
That poetry of God which gave them birth,
The mountains, lakes, the valleys and the streams,
Those eyes of landscape loveliness, whose beams
Reflect Joy's halo over all-whose light
Dispels the mists of others' Sorrow's Night,
No more to me bring peace. In vain I gaze
Upon the leaf and flower; they cannot raise
The shadow of a shade's tranquillity
Within a breast that knows no sympathy.

The gay and glorious universe of things,
An antepast of all that Heaven brings.
Yon circle now which spreads before my view,
That realizes Fancy's brightest hue;
The book which Deity himself did chuse,
When Nature wrote as his appointed Muse,
All-are to my dark mind's imaginings
A dream of mutable and treacherous things.

Oh ! there is music in the murmuring breeze
A sweetness in the song of rustling trees.
But sad to me the melody serene ;
For thoughts of happier days-of what I've been-
Bring that dark heartlessness which did beseem
The Hebrews when they wept by Babel's stream.
And as in freedom roll'd the mocking billow,
They hung their unstrung harps upon the willow.

What recks it to the Exile wandering here,
From friends afar and all that Life holds dear,
That be beholds those scenes on every side
Where laugbing seasons lavish all their pride ?

The darkest spot on Being's bleakful chart
Is the lone Exile's heavy bursting heart,
As mourns he all the joys God ever gave,
Lie wreck'd beneath Misfortune's treacherous wave!
Like Noah's bird sent from the sheltering ark,
The world he ranges, desolate and dark;
No kindred soul to calm his burning breast,
Or spot whereon his wearied foot can rest!
Launch'd on the sea of Life without an oar,
In vain he seeks some hospitable shore!
Tho' to the stranger's eye his smile beseems
As if he knew and felt kind Fortune's beams.
Ah ! could his sad sear'd soul be ken'd within,
That very smile would be Despair's own grin!
If scorn'd the 'Man of Sorrows' was-unknown,
And when be came, received not by his own.
If caves the foxes had, the birds their nest,
Whilst He knew not whereon his bead to rest.
From the cold world, oh ! can the Exile dare
Expect a foreign soil with him would share
A soothing balm, to mitigate that strife
Which gnaws his heart away in Spring of Life ?

Dublin! the cradle of my youth, my home,
With thee what joyful retrospections come! [change,
'Mongst friends, 'mongst foes, and all Life's chance and
Nought shall from thee this witber'd heart estrange.
Dublin, my home'. inspire the Poet's dream,
My verse ennoble, and forgive the theme.

Sweet Home! bow often hath thy memory stole,
In hallow'd greenness, o'er this sadden'd soul;
Ah ! well can I conceive the galling sting,
Which thoughts of better days to exiles bring.
Home ! sad remembrance, yet for ever dear,
' Still breathed in sighs-still usber'd with a tear ;'
If e'er I thee or Chine forget-be then
My heart's cold blood the ink that fills my pen!
If e'er on foreign soil I sing a song,
And thee remember not, my tongue be dumb ;
Whene'er my soul shall not for thee expand,
My Lyre be broken-wither'd be my hand

Friends of my Home! when 'mong the festive crowd
'Mid Music's syrens-when the laugh is loud;
When on some favorite's natal day the Ball
Is kept, and Beauty walks thy ancient hall-
When pleasure reigns, and mirth's on every tongue-
Oh! think on him, thy exiled child of Song !
Him, o'er whose Harp, in wither'dness of heart,
Oft waken feelings which lost joys impart:
Who, 'mid the stranger's sneers, thy name still breathes
That name pronounc'd, the sword of sorrow sheathes !
Drys up the tear, and breaks the bursting sigh,
Which started at the scowl and cold reply'.

When on some happy Christmas holy-day,
The banquet is enjoy'd, and all is gay;
When ev'ry heart is fill'd with joy and gladness,
And Bacchus gives a bowl that drowns your sadness;
When Fancy o'er each mind her spells has flung,
And feeling pours its soul from every tongue
Oh! you by fortune favor'd, rich in health,
And wanting nought possest by worldly wealth,
By friendship honor'd, and by love carest
Forget not him by Sympathy unblest !
But 'mid the blaze of Beauty's brilliant throng,
In sportive dance-the jest-the jovial song,
Remember him whose life-path teems with woe,
And sing the songs which Misery's minstrels know'.

When Music's witchery each soul awakes,
And Memory of the past a survey takes
Brings back the visions of those happy years,
Ere blasted bliss to solitude and tears
Consign'd those hearts, who on Life's sunny stream
Believ'd the gilding rays would always beam
And when you tell the tale * * * what did retard
Those joys-Remember then the friendless Bard!






Dublin !-a thousand recollections rise
With thy dear name-'mid foreign seas and skies;
Still should my heart for thee a spot contain,
Oh ! let thy beauties now inspire my strain.


WHERE Howth, the hill-monarch, uprears his huge form,
Unconquered by time, and unscathed by the storm ;
Clangorey resided like prince of the state,
A true Irish squire ; his possessions were great.
The lands of Belldoyle, where gush'd the lone rill,
Where bare-bell and brake-flower arose on the hill,
Acknowledged him lord, and the door of his hall
Was open as day to the traveller's call.
His pride was his daughter-as gentle as fair;
The prop of his years, and the theme of his prayer.
In Simplicity's garb she was ever arrayed,
Her cheek the rich bloom of Health's spirit displayed;
And she was as wild and as delicate too,
As the breeze that across her own heath mountains blew.


The care of a mother she never had known;
That being's pure spirit to heaven had flown
Few weeks had elapsed from her fair daughter's birth,
Ere she bade an adieu to the sorrows of earth ;
And the last words she breathed, as her sun of life set,
Were those that when beard, one can never forget.
As at her death-couch the most fond husband knelt,
(Oh ! who could pourtray all the anguish he felt;)
When feebly that voice once so soothing to hear,
Fell solemn and still like a knell on his ear:
" Be kind to my daughter-my own Isabel,
My spirit uprises-dear husband farewell."


As hues of the lily in beauties expand
Beneath the soft care of some fostering hand ;
So rose in the pride of affection and grace,
From the heart of her parent all sorrows to chase
The child of Clangorey ; each feminine charm
Bewitchingly flung o'er her delicate form;
In life-breathing brightness she moved upon earth,
As the light rolling clouds to which summer gives birth.


'Mid the crag-covered wilds which encircled her home,'
Gainst which the blue deep dashed its broad sheets of foam;
Delighted she wandered as some tiny queen,
Or spirit of beauty entranced with the scene.
Her only companion a bold. dark-eyed Youth,
Whose manly brow beamed with affection and truth;
Possessed of a spirit that brooked not control,
The music of nature enraptured his soul ;
And oft has he sat in the morn of his days,
Like freedom's own child, on the wild cliff to gaze;
Where sea-birds flapped loud their strong wings on the gale,
And round the lone rock spread the feathery sail
The far-sweeping echo of ocean's hoarse roar
Was sweet to the ear of young Edward O'More.


An orphan was he of high lineage, but born
'Neath a dark star of fate in adversity's morn.
'Twas rumored his father led on an affray,
When Bigotry reigned with invincible sway ;
Repulsed by the foe and the last of his band,
He was forc'd to escape to a far foreign land,
Ere his child saw the light--and long years had roll'd on,
But none ever heard where the chieftain was gone.
And she whom be worshipp'd, the joy of his youth,
Surviv'd not his absence      *     *     *     *    *
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*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *


From Dublin's tall mountains a warrior had gone
To the hills of the west, where rebellion begun;
To raise the wild war-whoop across Erin's land,
And strew with her victims the desolate strand;
The loud joyous laughter to quench, and the hearth,
Once happy and peaceful, deprive of its mirth.
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The battle was fierce, the insurgents were strong,
And routed the loyalists-swept them along
As tempest-sprites drive tbro' the treacherous wave
A storm-shattered bark-overwhelming the brave;
In midst of the fight was the warrior chief seen,
Unconscious of danger, majestic his mien ;
As be cheer'd on his heroes, exulting how well
They returned to the charge-he was wounded and fell.


A peasant who traversed the scene of the fray,
Beheld the old warrior and bore him away
To his mountain-side cottage, and tenderest care
Was sbewn to that guest while a resident there.
Dalradin recovered-a sweet-looking boy,
Who bad watched at his bed, seemed enraptured with joy ;
The child's fond attention took hold of his heart;
On the peasant he called, when about to depart,
And rewarded him nobly-he gazed on the child,
Then said, with a countenance grateful and mild
' You told me this boy was an orphan-no heir
Have I for my lands, and a father's fond care
He shall always receive-if entrusted to me,
No cloud shall o'ershadow his light-hearted glee.'


Dalradin arrived at his seat in the glen,
And trod the loved scenes of his boyhood again
His neighbor the squire was the same being still,
And joyfully welcomed him back to the " Hill."
His much-loved adoption-tbe son of O'More,
Grew up as the eagle that sweeps by Dunmore.
Robust as the wild mountain pine was his form,
And grateful his heart as his feelings were warm ;
His soul was enwrapt by the fair Isabel,
With whom he oft wandered thro' fairy-like dell;
He was her companion and guide if she roamed
By the cliff's rocky side, or where cataracts foamed.


High titled the suitors were, who at the shrine
Of the heiress appeared, with their equipage fine;
But none of them all to the maid could impart
That reciprocal flame which can vanquish the heart.
The hoard of affection her bosom had nurst
Still clung to the hope, that her best love-her first
Would yet be her pole-star thro' life's devious way;
Her eye was not dazzled by glittering array ;
To the altar of Hymen she would not be led,
'Till Cupid around it his laurels would spread.


'Twas twilight-she wandered, and Silence around
Had wrapped with his mantle her favourite mound.
The Moon in her beauty walked forth in her vest
Of purple-dyed clouds-all the world seemed at rest.
A voice caught the ear of the love-dreaming one,
Of which her soul drank every magical tone.
Its echoings rose, and vibratingly rung
On Eve's stilly bosom-tbe minstrel thus sung:



O give me but the mountain rock-
A cottage in the dell;
And one to share affection there-
My own loved Isabel.


My fairest one, and art thou doomed
Another's bride to be ;
And is a stranger's cherished love
So valueless to thee ?


Oh no! I could not, dare not dream
Of aught so wild as this;-
The star that o'er my visions played,
Yet points to days of bliss.



The song's last re-echo had melted away,
As softly as sunlight at closing of day ;
Next moment O'More stood beside Isabel,
Like night-dew of summer their hallowed tones fell:-
'My father's decree has gone forth-nevermore
Shall we ramble together, our joy days are o'er ;'
The maiden low murmured-her love-speaking eye,
Was dim'd with a tear, and her bosom heaved high.


'My own Isabel-in my promise confide,
I have vowed by our love thou shalt yet be my bride;
How oft in the glen have I joyously strayed,
And basked in the beam that around you has played!
How happy these hours, nought but love was our theme,
Now all such illusions are fled like a dream;
Dalradin, my far more than parent, is gone
To his rest in the grave-I'm a being alone;
Your father so proud, in his hanghty disdain,
Has sworn we must part, perhaps never meet again;
But oh! my fond hope I could never resign,
Thine image must still round my spirit entwine.'


'Affection of woman! most hallowed, most blest,
'Mid the ocean of time, thou'rt an island of rest;
A spot where our hearts leave their sorrows behind,
And man's base ingratitude fling to the wind;
Thou'rt the magical charm that delight can beguile,
And rivet the soul with the bright-flashing smile.'
Thus spoke the O'More, and he eagerly prest
The star of his youth to his wild beating breast;
'We shall meet once again; ere to-morrow's last ray
Has fled o'er the hill-top, I'll bear you away;
Yon skiff shall outspread her white canvass, and sweep
With rich and fair freight o'er the silver-topped deep ;
And a much valued friend on the opposite shore,
Will joyfully hail you-the bride of O'More.'


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*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *


The red sun of evening emblazoned the wold,
And tinged the soft landscape with streamlets of gold ;
The sea-gull uprose, and the eagle's loud cry
Was heard, as he swung to his eyrie on high;
The wind was at rest, he had thrown by his lyre
When a chariot rolled up to the door of the squire ;
And forth stepped a suitor, his air seemed to say,
I'll soon from all rivals the prize bear away.
A Nabob was he, just return'd from abroad,
Who Fortune's bright paths had most luckily trod ;
His wealth was immense, but, tho' yet in his prime,
The fire of his eye was diminished by time.
Our squire was enraptured-he heard with delight
The stranger's wild legends of foray and fight ;
And grasping his hand he exultingly cried
My daughter is thine, bear her off as thy bride.


Weak, weak is his sophistry, short-lived his dream,
Who'd guide woman's heart, 'tis a wild rushing stream;
Clangorey was human, and love's maddening sway,
Had long o'er his heart ceased its power to display ;
The oft-cherished hope that the child of his pride
To some wealthy baronet would be allied,
Arose in its strength like the first star of night,
As bright in its gleaming, as sweet in its light. N
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She stood in his presence than rainbow more fair,
To wed the rich Nabob he bade her prepare ;
He talks of large settlements, half his estate,
He bestows on the woman whose hope-beaming fate
Is to share his proud title.-You're rich and high born,
Reject this O'More with a dignified scorn;
The bride of Sir Phelim my daughter must be,
And never again that wild youth shalt thou see ;
My word is imperative-if there contains
One drop of Clangorey pure blood in thy veins;
Arise in thy pride, all this weakness give o'er,
Prepare for the bridal, nor think of O'More.'


She could not reply, she was struck with surprize,
Nor towards her father dare raise her blue eyes ;
At length while her cheeks were with blushes o'erspread,
'My heart is another's, dear father' she said ;
`This night, oh ! I could not, I would not appear
Before this Sir Phelim, your visitor here;
The trappings of wealth, and a high-sounding name,
For me have no charms-I would ever disclaim
The sordid alliance, that sexton of peace
With a compact of hands shall my happiness cease.'


'Twas morning, the soft glowing monarch of Day
Drank deep of the dew-drops from rose-bud and spray;
Clangorey arose from his couch full of joy,
Bright dreams of ambition his thoughts did employ;
He looked on his lands from the brown mountain's crest
To the low sweeping vales which his father possessed;
And tbought of Sir Phelim-unconscious that ali
Our most favorite structures may totter and fall.
He heard, and his eye glistened wild at the sound
His daughter was gone-she was not to be found;
O'More had been seen, by the dawning of day,
In a swift-sailing bark dashing off from the bay;
For Hymen's own palace-oh! never to part
Again with that loved one, the home of his heart.


Some years had elapsed-when Clangorey was seen
By the side of a youth, on the elm-studded green
Which surounded his mansion--and joyous delight,
Such as mariners know when their home is in sight,
O'er a countenance beamed-quite divested of care,
Tho' Age had imprinted bis characters there
And not far apart was a female whose bloom
Might vie with the lily's most delicate plume,
As she bent her fair form-an additional charm
Stole over her features-one leaned on her arm ;
'Twas our old friend Sir Phelim, his grey twinkling eye
Alternately gazed with a father's fond joy
On the lofty-souled Edward, his hope and his pride,
And the beautiful being who stood by his side;
Love dwelt with the group, all their sorrows were o'er,
Sir Phelim, the Nabob, was chieftain O'More !


ALL hands to the anchor-the last beam of day,
Beneath the dark sea cliff, has faded away;
The Moon's on her Throne, and a host of bright stars
Have mounted in triumph their glittering cars.
Heave away ! heave away ! the hoarse voice of the sea
Calls forth my fleet shallop, she bounds to be free ;
A breeze from the landward comes sweeping along,
And mixes its voice with the mermaiden's song.

Oh ! this is the hour when the land-lubber sleeps,
And Night in her beauty a carnival keeps !
To dash like a war-steed o'er mountains of foam,
Hurra for the deep-'tis my birthright and home.



WILD warriors of the pathless deep,
My own-my gallant crew,
Up '. clear the decks-a sail appears,
Far o'er the waters blue ;
Her banner flies, it speaks a foe,
Hark! peals the signal gun,
Arm ! boarders arm! a prize is ours,
Ere gleams the setting sun !

High waves upon our mizen top,
Like sea-bird in the blast,
The ensign of the brave-once more
We'll nail it to the mast;
Then let it on the wide expanse'
Its rainbow plumage spread ;
Oh ! who would see its brightness stain'd,
Its magic glory fled !

Ye who have braved old Ocean's wrath
In all its wildest form,
And reckless view'd the rock-bound strand
Amid the thunder storm
Ye who have at the war-drum's call
Stood forth in freedom's right ;
Sheathe not a blade till Triumph's song
Be ours-Up to the fight!


You deem no pain because I smile,
Yet say, can smiles true tell
The heart? for know that all the while
My bosom feels a hell!

Altho' I join in dance and mirth,
And list to Music's spell;
Yet-If there be a hell on Earth,
I feel for one that hell!

You think me wondrous happy-glad,
Because I join the laugh;
But say should I 'mong friends seem sad,
Not rather cheer and quaff?

But when all gone-Oh! that's the time
I weep and break my heart;
I do not deem it then a crime,
As none else feel the smart.

They say that wine will drown despair,
When all of Hope is fled ; N2
Ay-ay ! but know that pale-faced Care
May sleep-but not be dead.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *    

Then cease to think me happy-glad,
Whene'er I smile or glee;
For know, my brain is burning mad,
Whatever thine's to thee !

And cease to speak of ME as one
Of Fortune's favorites here;
For oh ! there's not a wreck but's gone,
Of all I once held dear !



The seat of Mr. HENRY DAVIS.-A Fragment.

As o'er the plain my ramblings I pursue,
An ancient spot bursts forth upon my view;
Neat handsome plantings on each side arise,
Here blooms the pride of modern Nurseries.
What wondrous taste! it seems the bower of love
Oh ! let me breathe the air of Ogle's grove,
Where culture smiles, and art triumphant sees,
In graceful rows, the young and beauteous trees.
These tender twigs with how much toil and care,
Have they been all uprear'd-the luscious pear,
The apple, peach, the plum, and cherry red,
Shall soon the shooting branches overspread ;
And on their boughs in graceful clusters bend
The dearest boon that Autumn's seasons send.
A thousand various shrubs and plants display
Their beauties here, and fling their scents away ;
Till all around partakes of soft perfume,
And Nature revels in her richest plume !

The garden gem'd with flowers of every dye,
in summer's sunny day here meet the eye;
'Twere endless to describe the various hues
Of beauty's vesture, which entrance the muse;
Whatever can inspire the fancy's flight,
And all the senses charm with soft delight,
Is seen in wild luxuriance-all around
Improvement's wand has made Elysium ground!

Who has not felt in such a scene as this
The thrilling joy of summer evening's kiss ?
His spirit dancing, while the hum of bees
Rose on the pinions of the scarce-felt breeze.

Here comes the Spring with more invigoring life
Of all the landscape-and in bliss more rife
The feathered quiristers seem here to sing
With bolder joy-they fly on swifter wing.
And Autumn comes with more refulgent beams,
Her ruby lips first kiss those crystal streams;
With laughing face holds here his choicest feast,
His dainties vying with the luscious East;
E'en Winter pays obeisance to this spot
His reign's so mild, his tyranny's forgot.
For Hospitality old Erin long
Has justly been immortalized in song;
And tho' methinks 'twas somewhat on the wane,
Yet here the North has hail'd its sun again.
Ne'er did the wearied traveller depart
From thy halls, Davis, with a sadden'd heart;
Thy company and converse brush the tear
From of the poet's cheek-dispel his fear;
Make trampled merit cease awhile to scan
The cold neglect and treachery of man ;
Thy sympathizing breast, thy gen'rous soul
Can all the rankling darts of Care control ;
Oft at thy festive board the sparkling wine
Has called to life the days of  'auld tang syne ;'
When dreams of happier years prey'd on my brain,
Thou brought'st the light of former times again ;
Thy feelings warm, thy manners mild and gay,
Drive dark Reflection to his den away;
From thy philanthropy those rivers flow,
Which rise and ebb at others' joy and woe;
Fulfilling well God's systematic plan,
That "Man should be and live the friend of Man !"

Adieu! romantic spot, still sacred be
To friendship, holy hospitality;
Oh may no envious blast, no withering storm
(As o'er my hopes have come) thy groves deform'
Should Fate me drive o'er far Atlantic main,
This bosom would for thee a spot contain ;
For worthy friends as ever Home endear'd
Have here with Irish heart of hearts appear'd.


OH 'whose eyes weep, not, whose heart cannot bleed,.
When of Shakspeare, (fray, Savage, or Johnson we read
Those spirits of Genius, in Britain's full land,
Oft one scanty dinner they could not command!
Tho' delighting the world,-tho' lauded by app,
No. relief they obtained, when in Poverty's thrall.
Of an Otway, a Goldsmith, a Thompson to tell
How the Nine they did woo in a garret or cell;
The time it would fail to number or name
Those thousands who now have posthumous fame;
But when living were let to pine out their day
In ironous wo without one cheering ray
Of Merit's just meed their dark fates to beguile ;
Strangers to even a Patron's kind smile ;*
Oh! for tragedies, far, they need not have gone;
For indeed almost each of their lives was one !

* When that great Lexicographer, Doctor Johnson, first undertook the Herculean task of his celebrated Dictionary of the English Language, the original plan addressed to the Earl of Chesterfield did not meet that countenance and support which so splendid an undertaking merited and deserved ; however, when Johnson, after many years of the most incredible toil and trouble, (and in great poverty,) had completed, and was about to give the world (who so much wanted and so eagerly called for) that great production ; his Lordship published two Essays to prepare the Public for so important a work, noticing it in terms of the highest praise. This was understood at the time to be a courtly way of soliciting a dedication of the Dictionary to himself, but Johnson treated this civility with disdain. He said to Garrick and others : " have sailed a long and painful voyage round the world of the English Language; and does he now send out two cock-boats to tow me into harbour?" He had said in the last number of the Rambler, " that having labored to maintain the dignity of virtue, I will not now degrade it by the meanness of dedication." Such a man when he had finished his Dictionary, " not," as he says himself, "in the soft obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of Academic bowers, but amidst inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sorrow, and without the patronage of the great," was not likely to be caught by the lure thrown out by Lord Chesterfield. He had in vain sought the patron. age of that nobleman,-and his pride, exasperated by disappointment, drew from him that celebrated letter, of which the following is an extract.-" Seven years, my Lord, have now passed since I waited in your outward room, or was repulsed from your door; during which_ time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favor. The shepherd in Virgil grew acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the rocks. Is not a patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and when be has reached ground, encumbers him with help ? The notice you have been pleased to take of my labors, had it been early, had been kind ; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it ; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received ; or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence has enabled me to do for myself-" * * *

While other men's eyes in slumber were bound,
They then were ploughing the deep classic ground;
Ceaseless in mines of the Mind did they toil;
Gave the price of their meat to buy midnight oil!
'Mid Misfortune's fierce frown, and Poverty's blight,
'Mid scowl of I the Great,' they fought Literature's fight!

Yet say, did e'en a beam from Power's sphere
One mist dispel of sad Misfortune's tear;
Pierce the abode of Learning's lurid haunt,
Or cheer the languid brow of drooping want ?
Did justice join her rites at Pity's shrine,
No !-in Poverty they were left to pine.

Oh Bristol! cold thy people were as ice,
When they would not eight paltry pounds suffice;
To snatch poor Savage from a loathsome jail,
Ere Death, more kind, did ring the Poet's knell!
The foulest blot the King's reign did afford,
Was George's royal pledge-his BROKEN WORD!*

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

When the Sceptic did sneer and scoff at the Book
Which Christians revere, they thundering shook
The pile to its base-e'en its chief corner stone,
The Deistical monster hurl'd down from his throne;
Crush'd th' Alps so volcanic by the Voltaires uprear'd,
And with their own lava the Enemy scared
The Infidel Foe fled back from the shock,
Like waves as they bound from the adamant rock;
They undaunted display'd Religion's bright crest,
Like Sol as he travels in strength from the East.
In Liberty's cause they a Tyrant withstood,
For Freedom did wade thro' an ocean of blood;
Forth stood they as champions of th' rights of Mankind,
They were suns to the systems, and globes of the Mind !
When Intolerance rul'd with an iron rod,
They were Martyrs for Truth-they died for their God!
And for what! for what thus did they withstand
The vengeance and force of the comet-like brand;

* King George III, publicly promised to confer on Savage, for his eminent talents, the Poet Laureatship-but the then Prime Minister, notwithstanding his Sovereign's wishes, and the Queen's express desire, worried the King to break his promise and give the office to another.

In the hardship of Hell-in the foe's foreign land,
In the anguish of Want-the Inquisitor's hand ?
That cold apathy and disdain might shake
Those spirits which no earthly power could break;
That Honor's deathless wreathes might spurn to glow,
For Genius struggling 'mid unpitied woe ;
That calm, unflinching, dauntless tho' alone,
They might live in pain-die unthank'd, unknown '


" Immediately after the Battle of --------- there was discovered among the slain one of the most daring of our ensigns with his own colors and those of the enemy wrapped around him.,,

SLEEP Warrior ! peaceful be thy rest'
No more the battle-cry
Shall rouse thy spirit for the fray
Dark is that eagle eye
Where proud defiance sat enthron'd ;
And nerveless is the hand
That wielded with a giant might
The ire-avenging brand.

Sleep ! triumph seal'd thy day of fame
A hero's death was thine;
Could treasures of the chainless deep,
Or wealth of eastern mine,
Impart the exulting wild delight
A Warrior only knows ;
When, 'mid the clash of arms, he grasps
The banner of his foes !

Sleep ! Havoc's voice is hush'd-'tis still,
And Glory waves her plume ;
The trophies thou hast gain'd shall shed
A halo round thy tomb.
Bright as the earliest ray that beams
Across the mountain's crest ;
Tho' far, far from thy fathers' land
Thou and thine honors rest.

Mairs, Printer, Belfast.