We were all charmed with her good parts, sweetness of countenance, and discourse and ready wit, being satisfied thereby that Nature knoweth no difference between Europe and America in blood, birth, and bodies, as we read in Acts 17 that God hath made of one blood all mankind.

I was specially minded of a saying of that ingenious but schismatic man, Mr.Roger Williams, in the little book which he put forth in England on the Indian tongue:-- "Boast not, proud English, of thy birth and blood, Thy brother Indian is by birth as good; Of one blood God made him and thee and all, As wise, as fair, as strong, as personal.
"By nature wrath's his portion, thine, no more, Till grace his soul and thine in Christ restore.
Make sure thy second birth, else thou shalt see Heaven ope to Indians wild, but shut to thee!" March 15.
One Master O'Shane, an Irish scholar, of whom my cousins here did learn the Latin tongue, coming in last evening, and finding Rebecca and I alone (uncle and aunt being on a visit to Mr.Atkinson's), was exceeding merry, entertaining us rarely with his stories and songs.

Rebecca tells me he is a learned man, as I can well believe, but that he is too fond of strong drink for his good, having thereby lost the favor of many of the first families here, who did formerly employ him.

There was one ballad, which he saith is of his own making, concerning the selling of the daughter of a great Irish lord as a slave in this land, which greatly pleased me; and on my asking for a copy of it, he brought it to me this morning, in a fair hand.

I copy it in my Journal, as I know that Oliver, who is curious in such things, will like it.
KATHLEEN.
O NORAH, lay your basket down, And rest your weary hand, And come and hear me sing a song Of our old Ireland.
There was a lord of Galaway, A mighty lord was he; And he did wed a second wife, A maid of low degree.
But he was old, and she was young, And so, in evil spite, She baked the black bread for his kin, And fed her own with white.
She whipped the maids and starved the kern, And drove away the poor; "Ah, woe is me!" the old lord said, "I rue my bargain sore!" This lord he had a daughter fair, Beloved of old and young, And nightly round the shealing-fires Of her the gleeman sung.
"As sweet and good is young Kathleen As Eve before her fall;" So sang the harper at the fair, So harped he in the hall.
"Oh, come to me, my daughter dear! Come sit upon my knee, For looking in your face, Kathleen, Your mother's own I see!" He smoothed and smoothed her hair away, He kissed her forehead fair; "It is my darling Mary's brow, It is my darling's hair!" Oh, then spake up the angry dame, "Get up, get up," quoth she, "I'll sell ye over Ireland, I'll sell ye o'er the sea!" She clipped her glossy hair away, That none her rank might know; She took away her gown of silk, And gave her one of tow, And sent her down to Limerick town And to a seaman sold This daughter of an Irish lord For ten good pounds in gold.
The lord he smote upon his breast, And tore his beard so gray; But he was old, and she was young, And so she had her way.
Sure that same night the Banshee howled To fright the evil dame, And fairy folks, who loved Kathleen, With funeral torches came.
She watched them glancing through the trees, And glimmering down the hill; They crept before the dead-vault door, And there they all stood still! "Get up, old man! the wake-lights shine!" "Ye murthering witch," quoth he, "So I'm rid of your tongue, I little care If they shine for you or me." "Oh, whoso brings my daughter back, My gold and land shall have!" Oh, then spake up his handsome page, "No gold nor land I crave! "But give to me your daughter dear, Give sweet Kathleen to me, Be she on sea or be she on land, I'll bring her back to thee." "My daughter is a lady born, And you of low degree, But she shall be your bride the day You bring her back to me." He sailed east, he sailed west, And far and long sailed he, Until he came to Boston town, Across the great salt sea.
"Oh, have ye seen the young Kathleen, The flower of Ireland?
Ye'll know her by her eyes so blue, And by her snow-white hand!" Out spake an ancient man, "I know The maiden whom ye mean; I bought her of a Limerick man, And she is called Kathleen.
"No skill hath she in household work, Her hands are soft and white, Yet well by loving looks and ways She doth her cost requite." So up they walked through Boston town, And met a maiden fair, A little basket on her arm So snowy-white and bare.
"Come hither, child, and say hast thou This young man ever seen ?" They wept within each other's arms, The page and young Kathleen.
"Oh give to me this darling child, And take my purse of gold." "Nay, not by me," her master said, "Shall sweet Kathleen be sold.
"We loved her in the place of one The Lord hath early ta'en; But, since her heart's in Ireland, We give her back again!" Oh, for that same the saints in heaven For his poor soul shall pray, And Mary Mother wash with tears His heresies away.
Sure now they dwell in Ireland; As you go up Claremore Ye'll see their castle looking down The pleasant Galway shore.
And the old lord's wife is dead and gone, And a happy man is he, For he sits beside his own Kathleen, With her darling on his knee.
1849.
March 27, 1679.
Spent the afternoon and evening yesterday at Mr.Mather's, with uncle and aunt, Rebecca and Sir Thomas, and Mr.Torrey of Weymouth, and his wife; Mr.Thacher, the minister of the South Meeting, and Major Simon Willard of Concord, being present also.