SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart
There's none like pretty Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land
Is half so sweet as Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry 'em ; Her mother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy 'em;

But sure such folks could ne'er beget
So sweet a girl as Sally!
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When she is by I leave my work,
I love her so sincerely;

My master comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely.
But let him bang his bellyful,
I'll bear it all for Sally;

For she's the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that 's in the week
I dearly love but one day,

And that's the day that comes betwixt
The Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm drest all in my best
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamed
Because I leave him in the lurch
As soon as text is named:

I leave the church in sermon-time,
And slink away to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again,
O, then I shall have money!
I'll hoard it up, and box it all,

And give it to my honey;

I would it were ten thousand pound!
I'd give it all to Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbors all
Make game of me and Sally,
And, but for her, I'd better be

A slave, and row a galley;

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,

How clear they are! how dark they are! and they give me many a shock.

Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower,

Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up,

Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup,

Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine,

It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before;

No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor;

But Mary kept the belt of love, and O, but she was gay!

She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete

The music nearly killed itself to listen to her

feet;

The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,

But blessed himself he was n't deaf when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,

Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;

Each day in the park, four-in-hand;

To look supernaturally grand,
If you saw papa's picture, as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that,
You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier,
In the bustle and glitter befitting
The "finest soirée of the year,"
In the mists of a gaze de chambéry
And the hum of the smallest of talk,
Somehow, Joe, I thought of "The Ferry,"
"The Fork ;"
And the dance that we had on

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall;

Of the candles that shed their soft lustre

wish it less.

And how I once went down the middle

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

HER LETTER.

I'm sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire,
It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm bediamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue :

In short, sir, "the belle of the season
Is wasting an hour on you.

A dozen engagements I've broken;

I left in the midst of a set; Likewise a proposal, half spoken, That waits on the stairs

for me yet. They say he'll be rich, when he grows up, And then he adores me indeed.

And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.
"And how do I like my position?"
"And what do I think of New York?"
"And now, in my higher ambition,
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?"
"And is n't it nice to have riches
And diamonds and silks and all that?"
"And are n't it a change to the ditches
And tunnels of Poverty Flat ?"

On the hill, when the time came to go;
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping
From under their bedclothes of snow;
Of that ride, that to me was the rarest ;
Of the something you said at the gate:
Ah, Joe, then I was n't an heiress
To "the best-paying lead in the State."

And often was his arm about my waist, That was to lift me up and down. But who

COOKING AND COURTING.

FROM TOM TO NED.

DEAR Ned, no doubt you'll be surprised
When you receive and read this letter.
I've railed against the marriage state;
But then, you see, I knew no better.
I've met a lovely girl out here;

Her manner is well- very winning:
We're soon to be-well, Ned, my dear,
I'll tell you all, from the beginning.
I went to ask her out to ride
Last Wednesday- it was perfect weather.
She said she could n't possibly :
The servants had gone off together
(Hibernians always rush away,

At cousins' funerals to be looking); Pies must be made, and she must stay,

She said, to do that branch of cooking. "O, let me help you," then I cried:

"I'll be a cooker too-how jolly!" She laughed, and answered, with a smile, "All right! but you'll repent your folly; For I shall be a tyrant, sir,

And good hard work you'll have to grapple ; So sit down there, and don't you stir,

But take this knife, and pare that apple."

She rolled her sleeve above her arm,

That lovely arm, so plump and rounded; Outside, the morning sun shone bright;

Inside, the dough she deftly pounded. Her little fingers sprinkled flour,

And rolled the pie-crust up in masses: I passed the most delightful hour

Mid butter, sugar, and molasses.

With deep reflection her sweet eyes

Gazed on each pot and pan and kettle:
She sliced the apples, filled her pies,
And then the upper crust did settle.

In one great coil were tightly twisted;
But locks would break it, here and there,
And curl about where'er they listed.

And then her sleeve came down, and I
Fastened it up her hands were doughy;
O, it did take the longest time!
Her arm, Ned, was so round and snowy.

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber's shear,

All your wish is woman to win;
This is the way that boys begin,

Wait till you come to forty year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains; Billing and cooing is all your cheer, — Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window-panes,

Wait till you come to forty year.

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass ;
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to forty year.

LOVE.

FROM THE "LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL, CANTO 111.

AND said I that my limbs were old,
And said I that my blood was cold,
And that my kindly fire was fled,
And my poor withered heart was dead,

And that I might not sing of love?-
How could I, to the dearest theme
That ever warmed a minstrel's dream,

So foul, so false a recreant prove!
How could I name love's very name,
Nor wake my heart to notes of flame!

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.