No more is heard the clashing sound of war, Yet in their place unnumber'd wolves appear, Dark is the night, and clouds obscure the sky, Whilst death-like silence spreads its arms around; Save now and then, the wretched soldier's cry, When suffering torments from the painful wound : From yonder hill and dreary forest nigh Attentive echo oft returns the sound; Like as the wind, when winter rules the year, In ev'ry part along the embattled ground; The dead and dying in confusion lie, Midst scenes of woe and objects of despair; Slain with an arrow, ere the fight was won. Or here another, from his lowly bed Rising with strength, but face of deadly white, Sends forth loud groans, and eyes the hapless dead, The slaughter'd remnants of the savage fight, When looking tow'rds the mountain's misty head, The hill, the dale, dread scenes of awful night: His soul escapes, and bursting with a sigh, The horse and rider on one turf-bed sleep, Shields, spears, and helmets glitter all around, Like stars reflected on the waveless deep: Now here and there, like some huge earthly mound, The dead are seen in many a dismal heap; Thrown up in haste the martial ranks to hide, When Mars tremendous ev'ry force defied. Then death appears and ev'ry pang is known, That words can speak, or minstrel's tongue relate: No more is seen the battle's solemn frown, Though awful death, the warrior tribe await. All-all beneath their mighty woes sink down, And pour forth curses on relentless fate : Whilst others, tortur'd, groaning in despair, Look up to heaven, and leave a world of care. Elland. JOHANNES S. SONG. WHEN Time has stamp'd upon the brow When eyes that glisten brightly now, All lustreless appear, And when the glories of our youth, Its beauty, strength, are fled, And tears of sorrow shed? The red-breast chaunts as sweet a lay As when the summer, bright and gay, E'en so, when age's winter low'rs,- The smiles we gave life's summer flow'rs, K. SCENES IN AN IRISH FAIR. IF you have ever been in the little town of Ballyscorn on the first of August, you must have seen an Irish fair; if you have not, it is worth your while to pay it a visit. It is now some dozen years since, chance directed,' I found myself on the road to this Leipsig of Munster. The morning, as all mornings in autumn are, was delightful. There was a yellow tint about the fields and the sky which harmonized admirably with the gainful prospects of people on a fair day; and though I had nothing to do but look on, I felt the full charms of an August morning. The road, as we approached the scene of barter, was crowded with peasants; they were all in their holiday suits, and their cattle seemed likewise made up' for the occasionthey looked sleek and purchasable. There was a fearful bellowing among the kine; one matronly quadruped lamented her absent offspring, and another proclaimed her anguish on being separated from the social herd. The lambs, too, sent forth their feeble notes of distress, and the shrill cries of the young pigs were drowned in the still more inharmonious sounds which were emitted from matured swine. Then there was a rushing of oxen, the galloping of horses, and the shouts of drivers; and the near and distant din of busy life became more distinct as we approached the fair green. The movements of the peasantry now became more circumspect; they kept their straggling herds or flocks more together; the women adjusted their cloaks, and the men wiped their rough faces on the tails of their greatAs the fair burst upon their sight there was a reverential pause; they solemnly removed their hats from their heads, and after having smoothed the hair down their foreheads, piously made coats. that sign, By some deemed impious, by others thought divine,' and then hurried on, secure alike against the temptation of the devil and the designs of the pick pocket. An Irish fair is always an animated scene, but in Munster it has the additional advantage of being picturesque. The tents or booths have a military air. They form a circle around the place of commerce, and each proprietor apprises his friends of his locality, by suspending from a tall pole before the entrance to his temporary tavern some well-known emblem. . The Harrow and The Plough' stand alongside The Sheaf of Wheat' and 'The Olive Branch; and from behind ascends the grateful curling smoke, which gives note of jovial preparation. The remainder of the green is disposed of advantageously. The stalls of petty chapmen form a street, through which the rustic beaux and belles pass, and at a short distance you may inspect the home-bleached linen of the farmer's daughter, rosy with health, and timid from sensibility and inexperience. The noggin-maker has taken his stand near her, and the wheelwright exhibits the productions of his mechanism not far from the fabricator of wooden bowls. The cooper is, of course, in their immediate neighbourhood. The interior of the fair green is the place, however, which demands our attention; here it is that Irish character is to be seen to the greatest advantage. Mark that tall careless-looking fellow in the long blue coat, corduroy breeches, green stockings, and felt hat; he is a Waterford pig-drover. See with what a decided air he looks about him; he is evidently a man of some importance; for the peasants evince much anxiety, in his presence, to make their cattle' put themselves in the most becoming position. They will not permit their pigs to grovel any longer on the ground; they must stand at the full stretch of the strap (straw-rope), and exhibit the full length of their ample sides. The drover hesitates no longer; a dozen well-fed porkers, confined to a single wooden pin, driven into the ground, arrest his attention; he takes with his eye their weight and dimensions, and, in a moment, the back of the seller's right hand is fastened in the palm of his. With all the ease of a monied man he draws a crown piece from his pocket, and places it deliber ately in the farmer's palm, whispering mysteriously into his ear the price at which he dare venture. For worlds he would not let the bystanders hear, but the rustic is familiar with his ways; he understands his meaning; and, therefore, with a scornful pshaw ! he puts back the silver bait. Again the sleek swine are examined, and again the Waterford agent approaches the seller; he raises his arm in the manner of pagan asseveration, and smack comes down the piece of money in the farmer's hand. It rings on his horny palm, but he heeds it not; the drover must advance; he does so, and once more it sounds audible in his hand. The seller is tempted, he arouses himself, raises his hand to its utmost stretch, with the crown' between his fingers and thumb, and then lets it fall with a quick impetus. These exertions beget a mutual fierceness; their bargaining blows become louder and faster, till, at length, the great affair is consummated, the porkers are marked, and the dealers shake hands. The seriousness of their countenances relaxes; but the drover has no time for compliments, he draws his stick from between his knees, jirks it into his left hand, and hurries off in pursuit of new bargains. The drover is a man of some consequence: the merchant trusts in his judgment, and, though the peasant knows he is a knave, he acts as if he desired his friendship: the 'squire is also on intimate terms with him; he knows every body; can talk about bad seasons and low prices; gives a character to a farmer, and, perchance, knows something of racehorses. His acquaintance is, therefore, courted, but he heeds it not; he is a bird of passage-to-day in the county of Kilkenny and to-morrow in the county of Tipperary. In times of war he tempts the farmer in his own bawn,-the navy must be fed,-but, in these piping times of peace, he must be courted-there are rivals for cheapening pork in the market. Here comes another mercantile agent, but of a very different complexion. There is a fulness and a sleekness about him that argues an acquaintance with better |