THE WIDOW TO HER DYING CHILD-BY MATTHEW CHILD.

THAT sigl's for thee, thou precious one; life's tide is ebbing fast,
And o'er thy once all-joyous face death's sickly hue is cast.
Thine azure eye hath lost its ray, thy voice its buoyant tone,
And, like a flower the storm has crush'd, thy beauty's past and gone.

Another pang, and all is o'er-the pulseless heart is still,
Meekly, though sad, thy mother bows to the Almighty's will;
Grief presses heavy on my heart, my tears fall thick and fast,

But thou-thou art in heaven, my child, life's chequer'd dream is past.

The busy feet that gladly ran thy mother's smile to greet;
The prattling tongue that lisp'd her name in childhood's accents sweet;
The glossy curl that beam'd like gold upon thy snowy brow;
The lip, meet rival of the rose, O Death! where are they now?

Wither'd beneath thine icy touch; lock'd in thy dull cold sleep;
While all the joy a mother knows is silently to weep;

Or start as Fancy's echo wakes thy voice to mock her pain,
Then turn to gaze upon thy corse, and feel her grief is vain.

The grave, the dark cold grave, full soon will hide thee from my view,
While I my weary way through life in solitude pursue;
My early and my only love is number'd with the dead,

And thou-my last sole joy on earth-thou too, my boy, hast fled.

"I read somewhere but a few days ago this without any hint of its being so."

66

66

very

translation,

'Impossible!" cried the Doctor, "Mat. is too honourable

a man for that, and you may well be sure I did not publish it." Nevertheless," persisted I, "I could swear I saw it; and now I come to recollect, it is in this book." Taking up a volume of the Saturday Magazine, I searched, and lo! there it was at page signed, K. D. W.

vol.

"That beats all," cried Dr. Polyglott, “K. D. W. then has robbed us both-hocus-pocusing Mat.'s translation into an original of his own, and plundering me at the same moment."

The Doctor was seriously affected; seeing which I recommended his pillow to him, the rather as daylight was breaking in-for, what with the meerschaum and the Latin, the Doctor had lost all ken of time, and the night had sped away like a winged dream. My young-hearted old patron took my hint and went to bed, and so our conversation ended-from the which,

if our reader have derived neither pleasure nor profit, Heaven help him! If, however he have enjoyed either the one or the other, or both, let him rejoice in the gratifying expectancy of farther revelations, in future days, of the learned lucubrations of Dr. Pandemus Polyglott.

* This was

THREE goblets of wine

Alone should comprise
The extent of the tipple
Of those that are wise.

The first is for health;

And the second I measure,
To be quafted for the sake
Of love, and of pleasure.

The third is for sleep;

And, while it is ending,
The prudent will homeward

Be thinking of wending.

The fourth, not our own,

Makes insolence glorious;

And the fifth ends in shouting,

And clamour uproarious

And those who a sixth

Down their weasands are pouring,

Already are bruising,

And fighting, and flooring.

Oh ! the tight little vessel,

If often we fill it,

How it trips up the heels

Of those who may swill it!

published in Blackwood for May, 1834, as sung at THE NOCTES. The Greek was there represented as written by Eubulus, a comic poet, contemporary with Eubilides of Miletus, the preceptor of Demosthenes. I suspect wrote the Greek as well as the English.-M.

that Maginn

VoL. II. — 2

* After much search, (having vainly sent to England for a copy,) I have found this Latin translation of the well known Irish Ballad of "Judy Callaghan," in an old number of the Southern Literary Messenger. It is there stated to have been given to the Editor by the late Mr. Reynolds, the eminent classical teacher in the Richmond Academy, and is credited to "a Kerry Latinist." It is very true that all the County Kerry men (" conticuere omnes") are excellent Latin scholars, but equally true that Maginn wrote the version which I here present. It was affiliated on him, in his life-time, and even named as his before his face. Besides, it has Maginn's peculiar mark―it imitates the very rythm of the ori ginal. The air of "Judy Callaghan" was composed, in Dublin, by the late Jonathan Blewitt, who died in 1854. He was an Englishman, but had accurately caught the particular characteristics of an Irish jig tune. The words were written long after the music-authorship unknown.-In the magazine, the Latin translation is given as "The Sabine Farmer's Serenade. Being a newly-recovered fragment of a Latin opera.”— -M.

MONSIEUR JUDAS est un drôle
Qui soutient avec chaleur
Qu'il n'a joué qu'un seul rôle
Et n'a pris qu'une couleur.
Nous qui détestons les gens
Tantôt rouges, tantôt blancs,
Parlons bas,
Parlons bas,

Ici près j'ai vu Judas,
J'ai vu Judas, j'ai vu Judas.

Curieux et nouvelliste,
Cet observateur moral
Parfois se dit journaliste,
Et tranche du libéral;
Mais voulons-nous réclamer
Le droit de tont imprimer,

Parlons bas,

Parlons bas,

Ici près j'ai vu Judas,

J'ai vu Judas, j'ai vu Judas.

*This parody upon one of Béranger's most popular satires, was sung by Odoherty at THE NOCTES, and was published in Blackwood for July, 1829. It was republished by every ultra-Protestant journal in the United Kingdom, as levelled at Sir Robert Peel, who had brought in and carried Catholic Emancipation, to which the whole of his preceding twenty years of public life had been constantly and energetically opposed. Peel's own plea was that he was as Anti-Catholic as ever, but the crisis arose when he had to choose between Emancipation and Civil War, and he preferred the former. — M.