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To gather the dew from the flowers on May-morning, before the sun has risen, is reckoned a bond of peculiar power between lovers

The Irish peasant says, “Watch well by daylight, for then your own senses are awake to guard you: but keep no watch in darkness, for then God watches over you.” This, however, can hardly be called a superstition, there is so much of rightful reverence in it: for though, in perfect truth, we are as dependent on God by day as by night, yet some allowance may be made for the poetic fondness of the saying.

It is believed that a wish expressed while we see a star falling, shall be fulfilled.

A four-leaved Shamrock is of such rarity, that it is supposed to endue the finder with magic power.

A small spark, attached to the wick of a candle is considered to indicate the arrival of a letter to the one before whom it burns.

They say mortals have sometimes been carried away to Fairy-land.

The superstitious believe the dream of the night to be false, and that of the morning true.

When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place.

When our attention is directed to the New Moon by one of the opposite sex, it is considered lucky.

They say that a flower may be found in a valley opening to the West, which bestows on the finder the power of winning the affection of the person to whom it is presented. Hence, it is supposed, has originated the custom of presenting a bouquet.

A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that when a child smiles in its sleep, it is “talking with angels.”

It is related of Carolan, the Irish bard, that when deprived of sight, and after the lapse of twenty years, he recognised his first love by the touch of her hand. The lady's name was Bridget Cruise; and though not a pretty name, it deserves to be recorded, as belonging to the woman who could inspire such a passion.

Many legends are extant of this romantic minstrel freebooter, whose predatory achievements sometimes extended to the hearts of the gentle sex.

It is said, Fays have the power to assume various shapes, for the purpose of luring mortals into Fairy-land. Hunters seem to have been particularly the objects of the lady fairies' fancies.

There is a certain coign-stone on the summit of Blarney Castle, in the county of Cork, the kissing of which is said to impart the gift of persuasion. Hence the phrase, applied to those who make a flattering speech, —“you've kissed the Blarney Stone.”

In the Great North American lakes there are islands bearing the name of “Manitou,” which signifies “The Great Spirit,” and Indian tradition declares that in these islands the Great Spirit concealed the precious metals, thereby showing that he did not desire they should be possessed by man; and that whenever some rash mortal has attempted to obtain treasure from “The Manitou Isle,” his canoe was always overwhelmed by a tempest. The “Palefaces,” however, fearless of “Manitou's” thunder, are now working the extensive mineral region of the lakes.

The Earl of Kildare, Lord-Deputy of Ireland, ruled justly, and was hated by the small oppressors whose practices he discountenanced. They accused him of favouring the Irish to the King's detriment, but he, in the presence of the King, rebutted their calumnies. They said, at last, “please your Highness, all Ireland cannot rule this Earl.”—“Then,” said Henry, “he is the man to rule all Ireland,” and he took the golden chain from his neck and threw it over the shoulders of the Earl who returned, with honour, to his government.

There is a beautiful saying amongst the Irish peasantry to inspire hope under adverse circumstances:—“Remember,” they say, “that the darkest hour of all is the hour before day.”

Arthur, Field-Marshal the Duke of Wellington, died on the 14th of September, 1852, at Walmer Castle, where his body lay in state under a guard of honour.

“There are very impudent people in London,” said a country cousin of mine in 1837. “As I walked down the Strand, a fellow stared at me and shouted, ‘Who are you?’ Five minutes after another passing me, cried, ‘Flare up’—but a civil gentleman, close to his heels loudly asked ‘How is your mother?’”

[This mere trifle is almost unintelligible now, but, when first published, was so effective and popular, as illustrating genteely the slang cries of the street, that it was honored by French and Italian versions from the sparkling pen of the renowned “Father Prout,” in Bentley's Miscellany.]

There is a German superstition, that when a sudden silence takes place in a company, an angel at that moment makes a circuit among them, and the first person who breaks the silence is supposed to have been touched by the wing of the passing seraph. For the purposes of poetry, I thought two persons preferable to many, in illustrating this very beautiful superstition.

This song occurs in a scene of political excitement described in the story of “He would be a Gentleman,” but might equally belong to many other periods of the history of Ireland,—a harassed land, which has been forced to nurse in secret many a deep and dread desire.

Written at the period of the “Abolition of Slavery” question.

Written on Her Majesty's Accession to the Throne.

The Song of the Month, from Bentley's Miscellany for March, 1837.

The interesting fact on which this ballad is founded, occurred to Mr. Davidson, the celebrated traveller, between Mount Sinai and Suez, on his overland return from India in 1839. He related the story to me shortly before his leaving England on his last fatal journey to Timbuctoo.

When the annual tribute of the flag of Waterloo to the crown of England was made to William the Fourth, a few hours before his Majesty's lamented death, the King on receiving the banner, pressed it to his heart, saying, “It was a glorious day for England;” and expressed a wish he might survive the day, that the Duke of Wellington's commemoration fête of the victory of Waterloo might take place. A dying monarch receiving the banner commemorative of a national conquest, and wishing at the same time that his death might not disturb the triumphal banquet, is at once so heroic and poetic, that it naturally suggests a poem.