true

Himself and the fiddle were matched by few,
They went together thro' every weather,
Full of diversion and tough as leather-
I thought he'd never think of dying,
But, Jesus keep us-there he's lying."
Then the cauliaghs squatting round on the floor
Began to keenagh and sob full sore ;-

God be good to the ould gossoon!
Sure, life's like music, and ended soon.

There's playing and plighting,
There's frolic and fighting,
There's singing and sighing,
There's laughing and crying-

But the skirl of the wake is the end of the tune!"

At the wake of O'Connor,

The merry ould man,

To wail in his honour

The cauliaghs began;

And Rose, Donnell's daughter,
From over the water,

Began (sure saints taught her!)
The sweet drimindhu ;

All was still;-in the middle,
With stick and with fiddle,
O'Connor stretched silent, seemed hearkening
too!

Oh, 'twas sweet as the crooning of fairies by night,

Oh, 'twas sad-as you listened, you smiled in delight,

With the tears in your eyes; it was like a shower falling,

When the rainbow shines thro' and the cuckoo is calling;

to end them

He cut up his own leather breeches to mend them!

How we laugh'd, young and old! "Well, beat that if you can,”

Cried fat Tony Bourke, the potheen-making

man

"Who sings next?" Tony cried, and at that who came in,

Dancing this way and that way in midst of the din,

But poor Shamus the Fool! and he gave a great spring

"By the cross, merry boys, 'tis mysilf that can sing?"

Then he stood by the corpse, and he folded his hands,

And he sang of the sea and the foam on the sands,

Of the shining skiddawn as it flies to and fro, Of the birds of the waves and their wings like the snow,

Then he sank his voice lower and sang with strange sound

Of the caves down beneath and the beds of

the drown'd.

Till we wept for the boys who lie where the wave rolls,

With no kinsmen to stretch them and wake their poor souls.

When he ceased, Shamus looked at the corpse and he said,

"Sure a dacenter man never died in his bed!' And at that the old cauliaghs began to croon : "Sure life's like his music, and ended as

soon

In the midst of it all the sweet singer did stand,

With a light on her hair, like the gleam of a hand;

She seemed like an angel to each girl and boy, But most to Tim Cregan, who watched her in joy,

And when she had ended he led her away, And whispered his love, till the dawning of day.

After that, cried Pat Rooney, the rogue of a lad,

"I'll sing something merry-the, last was too sad !"

And he struck up the song of the Piper of | Clare,

tune !"

There's dancing and sporting,
There's kissing and courting,
There's grief and there's pleasure
To fill up the measure-
skirl of the wake is the end of the

"A health to O'Connor !"

Fat Anthony said:
"We'll drink in the honour
Of him that is dead."

A two-gallon cag then,
Did Anthony drag then
From out his old bag then,

While all there grew keen.
"Twas sweet, strong and filling-
His own best distilling;

Oh, well had the dead man loved Tony's potheen!"

Then the fun brightened up; but of all that befell

How the bags of his pipes were beginning to tear,

"Good-bye to O'Connor,"
"Cried Barnaby Blake,
May the saints do him honour

For the ould fiddle's sake!

If the saints love sweet playingIt's the truth that I'm sayingHis sowl will be straying

And fiddling an air!

He'll pass through their middle, With stick and with fiddle,

JABBERWOCKY.

(From Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.) 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand :
Long time the manxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

LEWIS CARROLL,

A NEWSPAPER.

ORGANS that gentlemen play, my boy,
To answer the taste of the day, my boy;
Whatever it be,

They hit on the key,

And pipe in full concert away, my boy.

News from all countries and climes, my boy, Advertisements, essays, and rhymes, my boy, Mix'd up with all sorts

Of flying reports,

there !"

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

At least in the editor's eyes, my boy,

She first conversed with her own kind, That ancient worm, the Devil.

The fops are painted butterflies,
That flutter for a day;

First from a worm they took their rise,
Then in a worm decay.

The flatterer an ear-wig grows,

Some worms suit all conditions; Misers are muck-worms; silk-worms, beaus, And death-watches, physicians.

That statesmen have a worm, is seen
By all their winding play;
Their conscience is a worm within,

That gnaws them night and day.

Ah, Moore! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise

If thou couldst make the courtier void
The worm that never dies.

Thou only canst our fate adjourn

Some few short years, no more; E'en Button's wits to worms shall turn, Who maggots were before.

ALEXANDER POPE.

ROBIN GOODFELLOW.

[ROBIN GOODFELLOW, alias Hobgoblin, alias Puck, an English domestic sprite, who was, as Sir Walter Scott has written, the constant attendant upon the English fairy court, and, to the elves, acted in some measure as the clown or jester of the company,-a character then to be found in the establishment of every person of quality, or, to use a more modern comparison, resembled the Pierrot of the pantomime. His jests were of the most simple, and, at the same time, of the broadest comic character; to mislead a clown on his path homeward, to disguise himself like a stool, in order to induce an old gossip to commit the egregious mistake of sitting down on the floor when she expected to repose on a chair, were his special employments.' In the writings of Shakespeare and Milton reference is made to this spirit. The following poem is attributed to Ben Jonson.]

FROM Oberon, in fairy land,

The king of ghosts and shadows there,
Mad Robin I, at his command,

Am sent to view the night-sports here,
What revel rout