ad been
half a dozen times imprisoned,--some said that she had even visited
"Beresford's riding-school," where the knout was in daily practice; but
this is not so clear: certain it is, both her songs and sympathy had
always been on the patriotic side. She was the terror of Protestant
ascendency for many a year long.

Like Homer, she sung her own verses; or, if they were made for her, the
secret of the authorship was never divulged. For several years previous
to the time I now speak of, she had abandoned the Muses, save on some
special and striking occasions, when she would come before the world
with some lyric, which, however, did little more than bear the name of
its once famed composer.

So much for the past. Now to the present history of Betty Cobbe.

In a large unceilinged room, with a great fire blazing on the hearth,
over which a huge pot of potatoes was boiling, sat Betty, in a straw
chair. She was evidently very old, as her snow-white hair and lustreless
eye bespoke; but the fire of a truculent, unyielding spirit still warmed
her blood, and the sharp, ringing voice told that she was decided to
wrestle for existence to the last, and would never "give in" until
fairly conquered.

Betty's chair was the only one in the chamber: the rest of the company
disposed themselves classically in the recumbent posture, or sat,
like primitive Christians, cross-legged. A long deal table, sparingly
provided with wooden plates and a few spoons, occupied the middle of the
room, and round the walls were several small bundles of straw, which I
soon learned were the property of private individuals.

"Come along till I show ye to ould Betty," said one of the varlets to
me, as he pushed his way through the crowded room; for already several
other gangs had arrived, and were exchanging recognitions.

"She's in a sweet temper, this evening," whispered another, as we
passed. "The Polis was here a while ago, and took up 'Danny White,' and
threatened to break up the whole establishment."

"The devil a thing at all they'll lave us of our institu-shuns," said a
bow-legged little blackguard, with the 'Evening Freeman' written round
his hat; for he was an attache of that journal.

"Ould Betty was crying all the evening," said the former speaker; by
this time we had gained the side of the fireplace, where the old lady
sat.

"Mother! mother, I say!" cried my guide, touching her elbow gently;
then, stooping to her ear, he added, "Mother B