of them, or the three of them in a glee, were
accustomed to sing songs in company with
three talented friends called Jonga, Wonga
and Wang. Our author does not seem to
us to possess quite Sir Walter Scott's faculty
of giving a poetic interest to mere names;
we subjoin a portion of one song which
is decidedly technical and local:

Farewell, Jarrengower, and wild Kooringwali!
Farewell, Wagra–Burjag! and Iraawarraa!
Farewell, Burra Burra! Polliah! Morang!
Farewell, Merrimingo! and thee, Burnewag!
And thce, Booroondara! and Goomalibee!
Farewell, Narab Narab! and Hinnomongee!
Farewell, Uri Uri! Korangorang! all,
From Gringegalgora to sunny Bungaul!
And lands of Gundowring and Wharparellaa!
To Peerewerrh's landscape and Burnawarthaa!
From Eckersley Mount unto Barwegee Creek!
And Alboocoot–ya to the savage Moreek!
I bid ye adieu, even Wahgunyah, thee!
By the shores of the Moonee on Towongs .idjee
All round from the Cudjewa Terramul Yan
To Yalla ye Poura, and thee, lake Wallan!

*   *   *   *

I part from ye all, ye wild lands of my song,
I bid ye goodbye, fare–thee–well, Boninyong!
Owkaparinga, Brooleeroo, Murwarrarong. wirrang,
Mypunga, yolli, Willungoo, Noorlunga, Merriang .

*   *   *   *

At this point the singer gets so absolutely
frantic and unpronounceable in his
nomenclature, that we are constrained, for the
sake of the printer's brain, to leave him.

Yarra Yarra himself is greatly occupied
with bidding farewell to savage localities, and
in bewailing the gaieties of his youth. He
has a melancholy pleasure in reflecting upon
these, now that they are past for ever.

Oh, I rejoice to think on Quillah Quah,
The fairest virgin that o'er Mookerwaa
Danced to the war–song of a naked throng,
Or Yabba Yabbaad o'er old Burrendong.

(We look in vain for an explanation of this
latter practice.)

I love the wild uncertainty of chance;
I love to see a savage war–tribe dance;
I love the grand, the beautiful, the free;
I love the mountains that o'erlook the sea.
But what is this love, to the love I bear
For Quillah Quah, the fairy of the fair.

It is clear from the above passage,—and it
is seldom indeed that we can say that much
of Mr. Cornwallis' passages,—that Yarra
Yarra forgave the young woman's conduct to
Old Burrendong, whatever it may have been.
This is, indeed, but just, since Yarra Yarra
himself at various times, becomes enamoured
of no less than four distinct young females,
not to mention incidental Platonic tendernesses
for others who have lost their original
admirers, such as the gentle sister May.
Yarra loses his second beloved object, Eve,
in this country, which she leaves for Heaven,
at an early period of their courtship; he
pursues her thither in dreams, but to no
purpose:

I went up to Heaven to thee, but I found that they'd
shut the door,

he complains. The lines in which he apostrophises
this young lady, rather shake our belief
in the poet's never having derived literary
assistance from others, insomuch as they
are an obvious parody on Mr. Tennyson's
Maud,

I shall never see her more, no never;
Eve has gone she has gone away
With the light of the passing day
She has flown from this planet for ever.

*   *   *  *

She has flown
To the heaven of angels,—flown, she has flown;

*   *   *  *

To the shadowy, spirity world, the sphere of the angels
on high.

And again, where he takes leave of the
last scintillation of sense that was left in him,
in the lines beginning,

I fancy my breath has ceased, that I'm lying a lifeless
corse;

*  *   *  *

My heart is now dead and cold, but its spirit is
reaching thee,
With a talis–electric (?) flight and a flash of angelic
glee.

*   *   *   *

So I passed with a flouting dart and a trance–like
spirity peer,

which happens when he is in the grand
centillion sphere, and amongst good society,
where spirity peers (whom we suppose are
bishops) are plentiful. Mr. Tennyson has
much to answer for in inciting Mr. Cornwallis
to these vagaries, who cannot see, and
will not be told, that he has no genius
whatever to support him in such flights.

Rachel, a beautiful young Creole (young
woman, number three), who has the
misfortune to entertain a hopeless passion for
the noble savage, is thus invoked;

Life—death—what is there left on earth?
Madness, ruin, and death;
Love, passion, blighted hopes of bliss, long as the
body's breath.
My soul it writhes in pain, and my agony's lost in
love,
My mind's a tortured wreck, and it raves with a horrid
thought,—

*   *   *   *

Alas, alas, mad thought,—my Rachel is not mine!

Which is not the only mad thought which
Yarra Yarra expresses, by any means.

'Give me imagination,' implores the poet
of the reader, or of universal nature, in the
tenth book, whereas he has enough of that
to supply all Bedlam, but lacks one single
lialfpennyworth of sense and coherency to
mix with it. Yarra Yarra delights to indulge
in soliloquies, wherein he philosophises