2n<» S. No 32., Aug. 9. '56.1 



NOTES AND QUERIES. 



107 



think, and which he has illustrated in his works on ' M^- 

 te'orologie.' The question may be solved if meteorologists 

 will take the trouble of making accurate observations on 

 Saturday, Sunday, and Monday next, when, judging from 

 former experience, these meteors may be expected in 

 great numbers. With this view, I hope your valuable 

 journal will be the means of calling the attention of ob- 

 servers to this approaching phenomenon all over the 

 world. " T. FoKSTEE. 



" Brussels, August 3." 



By-the-bye, is not the writer, Dr. Forster, the 

 author of the curious Floral Works described in 

 " N. & Q ," P* S. ix. 569., X. 108., and by some of 

 your contributors supposed to be dead ? 



R. R. S. 



^utvitS. 



ME. PATRICK o'kELLY, THE IRISH BARD. 



I have just made a careful examination of four 

 different editions of the poems published under 

 the name of this individual. First : 



" Killamey, a descriptive Poem, by Pat. O'Kelly. 'Ah ! 

 sure no Pencil can- like Nature paint.' Tompson. Dublin : 

 printed for the author by P. Hoey, No. 33. Upper Ormond 

 Quay, 1791." Pp. 136. 



In this collection we have " Killamey, and Po- 

 etical Miscellanies.' Second : The edition of 

 1824, pp. 110 (the copy I saw had no title-page), 

 which contains " The Ronian Kaliedoscope, the 

 Eldophusicon, the Manoscope, the Eidouranium, 

 the Deodad," &c. &c. Third : 



" The Hippacrene ; a collection of Poems by Patrick 

 O'Kelly, Esq. • Exegi monumentum aere perennius.' 



' E'en Magerton himself shall pass away, 

 Ere the production of the Muse decay.' 



Dublin: F. and T. Courtney, Printers, 18. Whitefriars 

 Street, 1831." Pp. 128. 



In this we find several of his old pieces repub- 

 lished, with some novelties. Among the last the 

 " Lines to a Plagiarist, or the Daw deplumed," 

 deserves particular attention. We quote the 

 opening lines : 



" Hail Mickey Carty ! ! Prince of Pirates hail ! 

 Hail pedmit poetaster of Kinsale ; 

 Hail poacher pedagogue ! and once more hail 

 Prime peerless plagiarist of poor Kinsale ! ! 

 Proud, perking Daw, the peacock's painted tail 

 Lent plumes to deck the chatt'rer of Kinsale ! ! 

 Poor purblind, putid pseudo-poet tell 

 Do Giants' garbs suit puny pigmies well ? " &c. &c. 



Third. A part of a compilation of some of the 

 old poems with additional matter, no date, which 

 begins at page 105, and ends with page 132. 

 From the character of the type used in this edi- 

 tion I should suppose it was published subsequent, 

 or at all events but a very few years previous, to 

 the edition of 1831 just noticed. 



To return to the edition of 1824. In this we 

 find the following poem (page 45) : 



" The Simile, 

 Written on the beautiful beach of Lehinch, in the county 

 of Clare : this romantic spot, so long admired by many, is 

 the property of Andrew Stackpool, Esquire. 



"This erudite gentleman is admired by a numerous 

 circle of friends, and caressed by a grateful tenantry, 

 being one of the most lenient landlords in this land of 

 aristocratic peculation." 



" My life is like the Summer Rose 

 That opens to the morning sky, 

 But ere the shade of evening close 

 Is scatter'd on the ground to die. 



" But on the Rose's humble bed 

 The sweetest dews of night are shed : 

 As if she wept such waste to see, 

 But who ? alas ! shall weep for me ? 



" My life is like the autumn leaf 

 That trembles in the noon's pale ray ; 

 Its hold is frail — its date is brief, 

 Restless, and soon to pass away : 



" Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade 

 The parent tree shall mourn its shade ! 

 The winds bewail the leafless tree ; 

 But who shall then bewail for me ? 



" My life is like the print which feet 

 Have left on Lehinch desert strand : 

 Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

 The track shall vanish from the sand : 



" Yet, as if grievous to efface 

 The vestige of the human race ! 

 On that fond shore loud roars the sea ; 

 Who, but the Nine, shall roar for me? " 



This poem also appears in the edition without 

 date, page 118, with sundry corrections and im- 

 provements. 



Now this poem, taken either as it originally ap- 

 peared, or as it afterwards was corrected, I have 

 good reasons to suppose, was pilfered by O'Kelly 

 from another. The following lines were published 

 in Philadelphia in 1815 or"l6 (perhaps some of 

 your Philadelphia correspondents may help me to 

 the title and exact date of the paper in which they 

 first appeared), with the name of my late father, 

 the Hon. Richard Henry Wilde, attached as the 

 author of them : 



" My life is like the summer rose 

 That opens to the morning sky, 

 And ere the shades of evening close 

 Is scattered on the ground to die. 

 Yet on that rose's humble bed 

 The softest dews of night are shed, 

 As if she wept such waste to see — 

 But none shall drop one tear for me ! 

 " My life is like the autumn leaf 

 That trembles in the moon's pale ray ; 

 It's hold is frail — it's date is brief. 

 Restless, and soon to pass away ; 

 Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade 

 The parent tree will mourn its shade. 

 The wind bewail the leafless tree, 

 But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

 " My life is like the print, which feet 

 Have left on Sampa's desert strand, 

 Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

 Their track will vanish from the sand ; 



