Edward Lysight, Esq., barrister-at-law—His peculiar talents—A song of
his contrasted with one of Moore’s on the same subject—_Ounagh_ and
_Mary_—Pastoral poetry—“The Devil in the Lantern”—A love story—“We’re
a’ _noddin_”—Sketch of Mr. Solomon Salmon and his daughter—Mr.
Lysight’s nuptials with the latter—Sociality at Somers’ Town—A morning
call—All is not gold that glitters—Death of the counsellor and his
lady.
Among the eccentric characters formerly abounding at the Irish bar, was
one whose species of talent is nearly extinct, but whose singularities
are still recollected by such of his professional contemporaries as have
had the good fortune to survive him.
Edward Lysight, a gentleman by birth, was left, as to fortune, little
else than his brains and his pedigree. The latter, however, was of no
sort of use to him, and he seldom employed the former to any lucrative
purpose. He considered law as his _trade_, and conviviality (to the
cultivation whereof no man could apply more sedulously) as his
_profession_. Full of point and repartee, every humourist and _bon
vivant_ was his patron. He had a full proportion of animal courage; and
even the fire-eaters of Tipperary never courted his animosity. Songs,
epigrams, and lampoons, which from other pens would have terminated in
mortal combat, being considered inherent in _his_ nature, were
universally tolerated.
Some of Lysight’s sonnets had great merit, and many of his national
stanzas were singularly characteristic. His “Sprig of shillelah and
shamrock so green” is admirably and truly descriptive of the low Irish
character, and never was that class so well depicted in so few words:
but, to my taste, his sketch of a May morning is not to be exceeded in
that cheerful colouring and natural simplicity which constitute the very
essence and spirit of genuine pastoral. The beginning of the copy of
verses called “Ounagh” offers an illustration of this; and it is much to
be lamented that, with strange inconsistency, the man did not write
another line of it adapted for publication. The first verse is, however,
in my mind, worthy of being recorded, and I give it as a sample either
of my bad or good taste. All I am _sure_ of is, that _I_ admire it.
’Twas on a fine May morning,
When violets were springing O,
Dew-drops the fields adorning,
The birds melodious singing O:
The green trees
Each soft breeze
Was gently waving up and down:
The primrose
That sweet blows
Adorned Nature’s verdant gown:
The purling rill
Stole down the hill,
And softly murmur’d thro’ the grove,
This was the time Ounagh stole out, to meet her barefoot love.[45]
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Footnote 45:
Pastoral poetry, whether classic, amatory, or merely rural, owes its
chief beauty to _simplicity_. Far-fetched points and fantastic
versification destroy its generic attribute; and their use reminds one
of the fashion of _harmonising_ the popular melodies of a country, in
order that young ladies may screech them with more complicated
execution.
Thus, I prefer, upon the whole, my deceased friend Lysight’s words
written to an old tune, to those of my celebrated living friend, Mr.
Thomas Moore; and think the _Ounagh_ of the one likely to be quite as
attractive a girl as the _Mary_ of the other, notwithstanding all the
finery wherewith the mention of the latter is invested. But our
readers shall judge for themselves. We have given the commencement of
Mr. Lysight’s version: here followeth that of Mr. Moore’s.
The day had sunk in dim showers,
But midnight now with “lustre meek”
Illumin’d all the pale flowers,
Like hope that lights the mourner’s cheek.
I said (while
The moon’s smile
Play’d o’er a stream in dimpling bliss)
The moon looks
On many brooks—
The brook can see no moon but this.
And thus I thought our fortunes run,
For many a lover looks on thee,
While, Oh! I feel there is but one—
One Mary in the world for me!—
Had not my talented friend garnished the above ditty with a note,
admitting that he had pilfered his _Irish_ Melody from an
_Englishman’s_ brains (Sir William Jones’s), I should have passed over
so extravagant an attempt to _manufacture simplicity_. I therefore
hope my friend will in future either confide in his own supreme
talents, or not be so candid as to spoil his song by his sincerity.
“It is the devil (said Skirmish) to desert; but it’s a d—d deal worse
to _own_ it!”
I think Dean Swift’s sample of Love Songs (though written near a
century ago) has formed an admirable model for a number of modern
sonnets; it should be much esteemed, since it is copied by so many of
our minstrels.