were suspended by the approach of Aile, a blooming queen, the wife of Meargach of the azure sword, and mother of Ciardan and Liagan. When she beheld her husband and sons cold in death, she burst forth into passionate lamentations, mingled with praises of their virtues, and doleful complaints that it was by treachery they were overcome. Grania, the wife of Finn, comes to console Aile, and assures her that they fell in fair combat, and that Finn was of too noble a nature ever to sanction treachery. As the hostile warriors were still in the field, she courteously asks Aile if she would wish to see a single combat, or would prefer an engagement between the two whole armies. Aile, "brighter than the sun," replied that she would rather behold a conflict between thirty warriors, on each side, contending for fame and victory. Accordingly the proposed number is selected from Aile's friends, and on the other side, thirty Fenians brave, who oft had cohorts nobly slain.” They met, and fought till only three Fenian chiefs were left alive. Then Grania, thinking that Aile had witnessed enough of the superiority of the Fenians, admonished her to return home with the remnant of her host. But Aile, still thirsting for vengeance, declared she would never return till Finn had yielded, or every man of her host were slain. The trumpet sounded to the charge 66 And such a dreadful fight I ween, As man encountered man, E'en since the world began. Only three of Finn's enemies survived the battle, and they, with Aile their blooming queen, took to their ships and departed, but whither our record sayeth not. The hill on which the battle was fought was named the " Hill of Carnage," a name to which it was justly entitled— Knockanaur-in the barony of Irraghticonnor. THE LAMENTATION OF AILE, THE BEAUTY OF BRIGHT ASPECT. IN Barron's Magazine, entitled "Ancient Ireland," published in Dublin, 1835, there is a copy of this poem in Irish, accompanied with an English prose translation, in an equal number of stanzas. Ala is there stated to be the wife of Morga, not of Meargach, of the azure sword; and "her lament is over her two sons and their father, who were killed in battle. Properly speaking, it is not a whole poem, but merely a portion of a long epic poem, of which it forms but one of the episodes. It is, however, perfect in itself, and quite fit to be published separately. In fact, the different parts of this epic poem have been preserved in this way, and are generally transcribed in separate pieces, and called by different names, according to the prominent character or subject of each piece. In the same manner we learn that the different books of the Iliad of Homer were for a long time detached and scattered separately, and so sung through the different provinces of Greece."-P. 103. The Lay of Talc Mac Trone may be considered as consisting of several distinct parts. First, the Druid's observance of omens in the sky, and his fears of some approaching calamity; second, the approach of Talc Mac Trone and his conflict with Oscar; third, the coming of Meargach to avenge his death; fourth, the overthrow of Ciardan and Liagan, the two sons of Meargach; and finally, the "Lamentation of Aile" (or Ala) for the loss of her husband and her two sons. In Barron's Magazine (Dublin, 1835), the latter poem is said to be connected with Illan of Sora, as the persecutor of the lady who fled for protection to the Fenians. Moira Borb, in the lay bearing that title, was the son of Sora's king, who came on an enchanted steed in quest of his fair fugitive, and is not to be confounded with Talc, though in some respects the one lay has a marked resemblance to the other. A translated copy of Tale Mac Trone was kindly presented to the author many years ago by Mr. Owen O'Connellan, translator of Garraghty's Edition of the Annals of the Four Masters, Professor of Irish in Queen's College, Cork, a scholar to whom he takes this opportunity of gratefully acknowledging that he is under many similar obligations. ARGUMENT.-The Lay of Talc Mac Trone concludes with the Lamentation of Ala, in which she pathetically deplores the untimely fate of her husband and sons, of whose valour she held such high notions that she deemed them invincible in fair conflict. She, therefore, bitterly accuses Finn of having employed deceit and treachery to overcome them. In the opening apostrophe to Meargach, she says that he fell without a wound, and not gloriously in battle. Too well had she anticipated his disastrous fate, from the various omens which preceded his departure, such as the appearance of armies passing in martial array through the dark glens of the sky, and the low moans of the spirit of the hills. She deplores the loss of all her past delights, and wishes for death to terminate her sorrow. Again she reflects on the past, and dwells with painful recollection on the numerous intimations she had received of her approaching calamity-as the ominous forgetfulness of his hounds and the sports of the chace-the crimson colour of the stream that rolled by her castle walls-the screams of the eagle-the withering of the neighbouring trees-the wailing of the hounds-her fearful visions, and particularly that one in which her tower seemed to have sunk into the earth, and a lake of blood to have risen in its place. All these signs too plainly indicated the calamitous fate of the friends she deplored. O Meargach hero of the green sharp blade, But now in dust inglorious art thou laid, Slain by no wound, but brought by treachery low. For thee-by wiles o'ercome, not slaughtering glaive, For thee, thy wretched spouse pours bitter tears; And for her sons-the beautiful, the brave, Who still were foremost in the strife of spears. Far didst thou come across the roaring main, In quest of glory from the Fenian train, Too well I knew that danger dread was nigh, When cloud-borne legions camped on heaven's high way, By the low moans that swelled upon the wind, Not distant far my sorrow I should find, The grief of griefs that darts my bosom through. Too well I knew ill-omened was the day, That from my arms my blooming heroes tore; By the red blood-drops on their cheeks that lay, That ne'er again should I behold them more. Now bitter wo is mine-my shield! my tower! Since with my sons in death my husband lies, A long and sad farewell to past delights, To bowers, to maidens, chiefs of noble race; To games, to banquets, festive days and nights, The echoing hills, the soul-delighting chace. Oh! that some shaft would pierce my wo-worn heart, Don't you remember, when you stretched your sail And steered from home? You'll ne'er return, I cried; Oh! ne'er approach the shores of Innisfail, Ne'er with the Fenians let your might be tried. Each morn the raven's deep and hollow croak Your hounds forgetting, nought of them you spoke, Red grew the foam upon the swelling flood, I saw, alas! that you were doomed to fall. When to our fort th' ill-boding eagle came, When the tree withered that beside us grew, The day you sailed, with many an anxious look, Too well the mournful cry and lengthened wail The chace would you pursue with hound and horn. My broken rest, my floods of scalding tears, Sad omens-told mine were no idle fears, That your loved aspects ne'er would greet my sight. Lonely I stood, forsaken and forlorn, Down sunk our tower, and in its place outspread |