Madad Dub.*

'Twixt Quin's dark lane, and forge of Lynam,
Where startled passengers resign 'em,
If caught in twilight shades alone,

To something see; or hear a moan,
Or wail, with sound of stifled weeping,
That sets the conscious flesh all creeping ;-

On Hallow Eve, mysterious night,
The carnival of roving Sprite,
How scared old Darby Hyland feels,
As home he plods, or some say reels,
To find the Black Dog at his heels!
No growl is heard, or footstep sound;
All is stark gloomy silence round:
But in each glimpse of moonlight sheen,
Is the black, moving mastiff seen.
But, Lynam's + cottage scarcely near'd,
The mute swart fiend has disappeared.
Jer, the cold terrors that bedew,

Wipes from his brow, and breathes anew;
And freed from sable apparition,

Knocks at the door, and claims admission:

*The Black Dog. The occasional appearance of this canine phantom is one of the Newtown Legends.

+ Lynam, a cottier tenant-and black-smith to the Author.

Jeremiah (of which Jer is here the usual abbreviation) and Darby are the same name.

When lo!-A Turkey Cock assail,
Let fall his wing, erect his tail,

}

And whiz along the challenged ground,
And seek to give his trumpet sound;
Tho' sooth to say, that dwindled call
Seem'd a thin echo, faint and small.
The Door flies open; Jer comes in,
To blazing hearth, and lively din.
But soon they mark'd his haggard eye,
And all the women join'd to cry—
"He has seen something, certainly."
His tale, as soon as he can utter,
Is heard with awe, and pious mutter;
And oft the Christian sign is made,
With prayer for Heaven's averting aid:
For, that she Turkey Cock had never,
Safely could Lynam's wife assever.—
Yet was quick search made all around :-
But not a Turkey Cock was found;
At roost beneath, or perch'd on high,
In house, forge, barn, or shed, or sty;
Bawn, homestall, hedge ;-within, abroad;
Ditch, garden, field, or on the road.

But, while they search'd, a laugh was heard,
Fiend-like, and wild; a laugh that scared.—
Ah, shadowy Ban-dog! sable Shock !*
I doubt you were the Turkey Cock.

*Shock-a rough Dog.

Johnson's Dictionary.

Far from the ken of mortal eye,

In the black rath our stables lie:
Of warrior skulls the clattering floor,
And roof of infant graves hung o'er ;§
While every haunted hill around
Is battle field, or burial ground.-
When tiny voice of Fairy Elve||

s, and wail of Spirit mark it twelve,

* Ratheenduff (pronounced Raheenduff) means the small black Rath. + Cervicem equinam jungere—not capiti humano, nor, in the present case, equino. See commencement of Horace's Art of Poetry, or Epistola ad Pisones.

Perhaps varias inducere plumas (see same Epistle) might be described as a motto I had provoked; if plumæ could be rendered pens. Be this as it may, if it cannot be alleged of my vision, that it is formosa superne, (Headward,) as little can it be said, that desinit in atrum.

Fools rush into my head; and so I write.

POPE.

It was long the custom, to inter infant children on the summit of this ancient moat; which is situated in the upper grounds of Newtown.

If Elve may, by poetic license, stand for Elf, then the initial s can be struck from the next line.

From yawning moat-wall issuing forth,*
To Newtown ponds we wander North,
To quench, in crowds, our ghastly thirst;
And quaff 'till living steed would burst.
Yet, stranger, smit by cannon ball,
Long-long of yore-we're headless all;
And mutter'd growl, from angry sky,
Mimicks Earth's dread artillery,

While through the field our squadron moves,
Or-mist-like-traverses the groves;

Pale as the Courser that of yore

Him, who hath made us shadows, bore.+
Each Dog, as we approach him, bays;
Each Horse-group stands at trembling gaze;
And the mute Peasant, with a stare,
Lifts, as we pass, his fell of hair.

* Moat-wall. In Ireland it is common to confound Raths, which were Forts and Magazines, with Moats, which were barrows or sepulchral mounds. That Raheenduff was the latter, may be inferred, from its having been long used as a burying ground for children. "The Burying Field" in which it is situated, takes its name from this practice.

+ Death on the pale horse.

FREFACE TO THE ABOVE; AS SENT TO LORD

ONE MORE NIGHT

OF

NEWTOWN SPRITE;

being the last appearance, I engage; At least on metrical, or paper stage.

To trust this promise-you may think absurd;
Experience whispering, Poets break their word.
Shall we toss up then? Oft where reasoning fails,
A bet determines allons! heads or tails?

Thanks, favouring Fortune! tails say I :
At least no heads, assuredly.
Accordingly, behold, I win the toss ;

And the relieved Lord gains a loss.

Of what? of blank ennui, and sore displeasure,

At ghosts without, yet (worse by far) with measure. Nathless, I hope His Lordship will incline

To goblin infantry, sprite steeds to join. 'Twere vain indeed, for him to answer-nay: Stanch Scribbler would but have to read it neigh.

* Inserted, à l'Irlandaise, at the end.