Water-grass-hill.

There flourishes, I hear, in London, a Mr. Hudson, whose reputation as a comic lyrist, it would seem, has firmly taken root in the great metropolis. Many are the laughter-compelling productions of his merry genius; but "Barney Brallaghan's Courtship" may be termed his opus magnum. It has been my lot to pick a few dry leaves from the laurel-wreath of Mr. Moore, who could well afford the loss: I know not whether I can meddle rightly after a similar fashion with Hudson's bay. Yet is there a strange coincidence of thought and expression, and even metre, between the following remnant of antiquity, and his never-sufficiently-to-be-encored song.

The original may be seen at Bobbio in the Apennines,—a Benedictine settlement, well known as the earliest asylum opened to learning after the fall of the Roman Empire. The Irish monk Colombanus had the merit of founding it, and it long remained tenanted by natives of Ireland. Among them it has been ascertained that Dante lived for some time, and composed Latin verses; but I cannot recognise any trace of his stern phraseology in the ballad. It appears rather the production of some rustic of the Augustan age; perhaps one of Horace's ploughmen. It is addressed to a certain Julia CallapygÉ, ?a??p???, a name which (for shortness I suppose) the rural poet contracts into Julia "CallagÉ." I have diligently compared it with the vulgate version, as sung by Fitzwilliam at the Freemasons' Tavern; and little doubt can remain of its identity and authenticity.

P. P.