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ward each other, unseen, unfelt, till in a moment more, emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta dealt her deadly stroke to the Arctic. The death-blow was scarcely felt along the mighty hull. She neither reeled nor shivered. Neither commander nor officers deemed that they had suffered harm. Prompt upon humanity, the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration and respect!) ordered away his boat with the first officer to inquire if the stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley went over the ship's side, oh, that some good angel had called to the brave commander in the words of Paul on a like occasion, "Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be saved."

They departed, and with them the hope of the ship, for now the waters gaining upon the hold, and rising upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. Oh, had now that stern, brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom the sailors were wont to mind, had he stood to execute sufficiently the commander's will, we may believe that we should not have had to blush for the cowardice and recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of fireman, engineers, waiters, and crew, rushed for the boats, and abandoned the helpless women, children, and men, to the mercy of the deep! Four hours there were from the catastrophe of collision to the catastrophe of SINKING!

Oh, what a burial was here! Not as when one is borne from his home, among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid peacefully beneath the turf and flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a burialservice. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the burial-place. No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hollowed earth. Down, down they sank, and the quick returning waters smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as if it had not been.

THE IRISH PICKET.-ORPHEUS C. KERR.*

I'm shtandin' in the mud, Biddy,
Wid not a spalpeen near,

An' silence, spaichless as the grave,
Is all the sound I hear.

Me gun is at a "showldher arms,"
I'm wetted to the bone,

An' whin I'm afther shpakin' out,
I find meself alone.

This Southern climate's quare, Biddy,
A quare and bastely thing,
Wid winter absint all the year,

And summer in the spring.

Ye mind the hot place down below?
And may ye niver fear

I'd dhraw comparisons-but then
It's awful warrum here.

The only moon I see, Biddy,

Is one shmall star, asthore,
An' that's forninst the very cloud
It was behind before;

The watchfires glame along the hill,
That's swellin' to the south;

An' whin the sintry passes thim
I see his oogly mouth.

It's dead for shlape I am, Biddy,
And drhamin' shwate I'd be,
If thim owld rebels over there
Would only lave me free;
But when I lane against a shtump,
An' shtrive to get repose,

A musket ball be's comin' shtraight
To hit me spacious nose.

It's ye I'd like to see, Biddy,

A shparkin' here wid me,

And thin, avourneen, hear ye say,

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Acushla, Pat, machree!"

"Och, Biddy, darlint," thin says I,

Says you, "Get out of that,"

Says I, "Me arrum mates your waist,"
Says you, "Be daycint, Pat."

R. H. NEWELL.

NUMBER FOUR.

An' how's the pigs, and ducks, Biddy?
It's thim I think of, shure,

That looked so innosint and shwate
Upon the parlor flure;

I'm sure you're aisy with the pig,
That's fat as he can be,

An' fade him wid the best, because
I'm towld he looks like me.

Whin I come home agin, Biddy,
A sargint tried and thrue,
It's joost a daycint house I'll build,
And rint it chape to you;

We'll have a parlor, bed-room, hall,
A duck-pond nately done,

With kitchen, pig-pen, pratey-patch,
An' garret-all in one.

But, murther! there's a baste, Biddy,
That's crapin' round a tree,

An' well I know the crathur's there,
To have a shot at me.

Now, Misther Rebel, say yer prayers,
And howld yer dirthy paw,

Here goes! -be jabers, Biddy, dear,
I've broke his oogly jaw!

"AH-GOO!"-CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.

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Vot vas id mine baby vas trying to say,
Ven I goes to hees crib at der preak of der day?
Und oudt vrom der planket peeps ten leedle toes,
So pink und so shveet as der fresh plooming rose,
Und twisting und curling dhemselves all aboudt,
Shust like dhey vas saying: "Ve vant to get oudt!”
Vhile dot baby looks oup, mit dhose bright eyes so plue,
Und don'd could say nodings; shust only: "Ah goo!"
Vot vos id mine baby vas dinking aboudt,
Vhen dot thumb goes so quick in hees shveet leedle mout',
Und he looks right avay like he no understandt
Der reason he don'd could quite shvallow hees handt;
Und he digs mit dhose fingers righdt into hees eyes,
Vhich fills hees oldt fader mit fear und surbrise;
Und vhen mit dhose shimnasdic dricks he vas droo,
He lay back und crow, und say nix budt: "Ah-goo!"

Vot makes dot shmall baby shmile vhen he's ashleep;
Does he dink he vas blaying mit some von, "bopeep?'
Der nurse say dhose shmiles vas der sign he haf colic-
More like dot he dhreams he vas hafing some frolic;
I feeds dot oldt nurse mit creen albles some day,
Und dhen eef she shmiles, I pelief vot she say;
Vhen dot baby got cramps he find someding to do
Oxcept shmile, und blay, und keep oup hees: "Ab-goo!"

I ask me, somedimes, vhen I looks in dot crib:

"Vill der shirdt-frondt, von day, dake der blace off dot bib?
Vill dot plue-eyed baby, dot's pooling mine hair,
Know all vot I knows aboudt drouble und care?"
Dhen I dink off der vorldt, mit its pride und its sins,
Und I vish dot mineself und dot baby vas tvins,

Und all der day long I haf nodings to do

Budt shust laugh und crow, und keep saying: "Ah-goo!" -Youth's Companion.

BATTLE OF FONTENOY.-THOMAS DAVIS.
May 11th, 1745.

Upon the death of Charles VI., Emperor of Austria, in 1740, his daughter Maria Theresa discovered that the sovereigns of Europe, instead of being true to their oaths and to her, made immediate claims upon her territories, and prepared to enforce them by open hostilities. In a short time the question became a European quarrel, to be settled only by the doubtful issue of war. Louis XV. of France and Frederick the Great opposed her, whilst England, Holland, Hungary, Bavaria, and Hanover, aided her in the protection of those rights which had been guaranteed to her. In prosecution of this war, an array of 79,000 men, commanded by Marshal Saxe, and encouraged by the presence of both king and dauphin, laid siege to Tournay, early in May, 1745. The Duke of Cumberland advanced at the head of 55,000 men, chiefly English and Dutch, to relieve the town. After a fearful and bloody battle, terribly disastrons to both sides, Louis was about to leave the field. In this juncture Saxe ordered up his last reserve -the Irish Brigade. It consisted that day of the regiments of Clare, Lally, Dillon, Berwich, Roth, and Buckley with Fitz James's horse. O'Brien, Lord Clare, was in command. Aided by the French regiments of Normandy and Vaisseany, they were ordered to charge upon the flank of the English with fixed bayonets, without firing. Upon the approach of this splendid body of men, the English were halted on the slope of a hill, and up that slope the brigade rushed rapidly and in fine order. "They were led to immediate action, and the stimulating cry of Cuimhnigidh ar Luimneac agus ar fheile na Sacsanach,' (Remember The fortune of Limerick and British faith,) was re-echoed from man to man. the field was no longer doubtful, and victory the most decisive crowned the arms of France." The capture of Ghent, Bruges, Ostend, and Oudenarde followed the victory of Fontenoy.

Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed, And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain

assailed;

For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery, And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary.

As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British soldiers burst, The French artillery drove them back, diminished, and dispersed.

The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at even-
tide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread;
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their

head;

Steady they step adown the slope; steady they climb the hill; Steady they load; steady they fire, moving right onward still; Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast, Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast;

And on the open plain above they rose and kept their course, With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force

Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks,

They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks.

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round;

As stubble to the lava-tide, French squadrons strew the

ground;

Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired;

Fast from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. "Push on, my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried; To death they rush, but rude their shock-not unavenged they died.

On through the camp the column trod, King Louis turns his rein:

"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain;"

And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Were not these exiles ready then,-fresh, vehement, and

true.

"Lord Clare," he says, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!"

The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes! How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're wont to be so

gay,

The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day,-

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