It struck my heart, but that didn't harm me; Her uncle had a plow-boy young Mary loved quite well, The girl that I fondly admire

HOW PADDY STOLE THE ROPE.-Continued.
They tramped about through mud and mire, and the place they
wanted finding,

They got inside a country church, which nobody was minding;
They scraped together all they could, and then prepared to slope,
When Paddy said, "Hold on now, Mick, what shall we do for
rope?

We've got no bag to hold our swag, and before we go outside,
With something stout and strong, me lad, the bundle must be
tied;"

Just then he spied the church-bell rope, and swift as an antelope,

He scrambled up on the belfry high, to go and steal the rope.

When Paddy reached the belfry-ropes, "Be jabers!

stop,

" said he,

To get a piece that's long enough I must climb to the top;"
So like a sailor up he went, and when near the end said he:
"I think the piece that's underneath quite long enough will be."
So holding by one arm and leg, he pulled his clasp-knife out,
And right above his head and hand he cut the rope so stout;
He quite forgot it held him up. By the powers of Doctor Pope!
Down to the bottom of the church fell Paddy and the rope.

Says Mick to Paddy, "Come out of that! as he on the floor lay
groaning,

"Is that the way to steal a rope? No wonder now ye're moaning;

I'll how yez how to cut a rope. There! just lend me your knife."
"Yerra, Mick, be careful! " cried out Paddy, "or else you'll lose
your lite!"

Mick bounded up the rope, and, like an artful thief,
Instead of cutting it up above, he cut it underneath;

The piece fell down, and he was left to hang up there and mope—
"Bad cess unto the day," said he, "when we came stealing rope."

There was Paddy groaning on the floor, while Mick hung up on high,

"Come down," says Paddy. "I can't," says Mick, “for if I drop I'll die;"

Their noise soon brought the preacher 'round, the sexton and police,

But they set poor Micky free, the pair got no release;

They took them to the station, where their conduct they now rue,
For if they had no work before, they've plenty now to do;
And for their ingenuity they have a larger scope

Than when they broke into the church and tried to steal the rope.

THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.

Он, Рaddy, dear, and did you hear the news that's going 'round?
The shamrock is forbid, by law, to grow on Irish ground;
No more St. Patrick's day we'll keep-his color last be seen,
For there's a bloody law agin the wearing of the green.
Oh! I met with Napper Tandy, and he tuk me by the hand,
And he says: How is poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand?
She's the most distressed country that ever I have seen,

For they are hanging men and women for the wearing of the
green.

And since the color we must wear is England's cruel red,
Ould Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have
shed;

Then take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
It will take root, and flourish still, tho' under foot 'tis trod.
When the law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they
grow,

And when the leaves in summer time their verdure do not show,
Then I will change the color I wear in my caubeen,

But till that day, plaze God, I'll stick to the wearing of the
green.

"But why should I feel so grieved for him? Sure I've seen many die!

Last night I went to his stony cell,

With the scanty prison fare-
He was sitting at a table rude,
Plaiting a lock of hair!

And he look'd so mild, with his pale-pale face,
And he spoke in so kind a way,

That my old breast heav'd with a smothering
feel,

And I knew not what to say!
"He dies to-day," thought a fair, sweet girl-
She lacked the life to speak,
For sorrow had almost frozen her blood,
And white were her lip and cheek-
Despair had drank up her last wild tear,
And her brow was damp and chill,
And they often felt at her heart with fear,
For its ebb was all but still.

THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE.

His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,
His love is rich to me;

I could not in a palace find
A truer heart than he.
The eagle shelters not his nest
From hurricane and hail,

More bravely than he guards my breast-
The Boatman of Kinsale.

The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps
Is not a whit more pure-
The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps
Has not a foot more sure.
No firmer hand nor freer eye

E'er faced an Autumn gale—
De Courcey's heart is not so high-
The Boatman of Kinsale.

The brawling squires may heed him not,
The dainty stranger sneer—
But who will dare to hurt our cot,
When Myles O'Hea is here?
The scarlet soldiers pass along-
They'd like, but fear to rail-
His blood is hot, his blow is strong-
The Boatman of Kinsale.

His hooker's in the Scilly van,

When seines are in the foam;
But money never made the man,
Nor wealth a happy home.
So, blest with love and liberty,
While he can trim a sail,
He'll trust in God, and cling to me-
The Boatman of Kinsale.

THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.-Continued.

But if, at last, her colors should be torn from Ireland's heart,
Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old soil will part;
I've heard whispers of a country that lies far beyond the sea,
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.
Oh Erin! must we leave you, driven by the tyrant's hand?
Must we ask a mother's blessing in a strange but happy land,
Where the cross of England's thraldom is never to be seen,
But where, thank God, we'll live and die still wearing of the
green?

No! by those who were here before us, no churl shall our tyrant

be;

Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Brigid, ourselves are free.

No! we do not forget the greatness did once to sweet Erie belong;

No treason or craven spirit was ever our race among;

And no frown or no word of hatred we give-but to pay them It was all but a moment, her radiant existence, back,

In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome track.

Oh! come for a while among us, and give us the friendly hand,
And you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and gladsome land;
From Upper to Lower Ormond, bright welcomes and smiles will
spring-

On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is like a king.

BURKE'S DREAM.

SLOWLY and sadly one night in November

I laid down my weary head to repose
On a pillow of straw, which I long shall remember;
O'erpowered by sleep I feel into a doze,
Tired from working hard, down in a felon's yard;
Night brought relief to my well-tortured frame,
Locked in my prison cell, surely an earthly hell;
I fell asleep and began for to dream.

Methought that I sat on the green hills of Erin,
Premeditating her victory won;
Surrounded by comrades, no enemy fearing.
Stand was the cry, every man to his gun!
Then on came the Samagh facing our Irishmen,

But they soon rallied back from our Pike volunteers,
Whose cry it was shrill, hurrah, boys! Father Murphy
And his brave Shellamires.

Then methought that I seen our brave, noble commanders
All mounted on chargers and in gorgeous array,

In green, trimmed with gold, with their bright shining sabers,
On which danced the sunbeams of freedom that day;
On, was the battle-cry, conquer this day or die;
Sons of Hibernia, fight for liberty.

Show neither fear nor dread, vanquish the foe ahead!
Cut down their horse, foot and artillery.

Then on the cannon balls flew, men from both sides drew,
Our men were bound by oath to die or hold their ground;

So from our vengeance the Samagh fled,
Leaving the fields covered with dead.

While each man cried out gloriously:

Her presence, her absence, all crowded on

me;

But time has not ages, and earth has not distance

To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee! Again am I straying where children are play. ing

Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air, Mountains are heathy, and there I do see thee, Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of

Kenmare!

To him who far travels how sad is the feelingHow the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim,

Come from your prison, Burke! Irishmen have done their work, When the scenes he most loves, like the river's
God he was with us, old Erin is free!

Then methought, as the clouds were repeatedly flowing,
I saw a lion stretched on the crimson-gold places,
Beneath the pale moonbeams in death's sleep reposing,
The comrades I knew I would never see again;
Then over the mountain path homewards I hastened back,
There saw my mother, who fainted, gave a loud scream,
At the shock of which I awoke, just at daybreak,
And found myself a prisoner, and all but a dream.

soft stealing

All fade as a vision and vanish from him! Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that garland,

That memory weaves of the bright and the fair;

While this sigh I am breathing my garland is

wreathing,

And the rose of that garland is Kate of
Kenmare!

KATE OF KENMARE.-Continued.

In lonely Lough Quinlan in summer's soft hours,

Fair islands are floating that move with the tide,

Which, sterile at first, are soon covered with flowers,

And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like
glide!
Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awak-
ened,
And the heart bears a harvest that late was
so bare,

Of him who in roving finds objects in loving,
Like the fawn of the valley-sweet Kate of

Kenmare!

Sweet Kate of Kenmare, though I ne'er may behold thee

Though the pride and the joy of another may

be

Though strange lips may praise thee and strange arms enfold thee!

'A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on

thee!

THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE.

A. D. 1690.

Ir was upon a summer's morn, unclouded rose the sun.
And lightly o'er the waving corn their way the breezes won;
Sparkling beneath that orient beam, 'mid banks of verdure gay,
Its eastward course a silver stream held smilingly away.

A kingly host upon its side a monarch camp'd around,
Its southern upland far and wide their white pavilions crowned;
Not long that sky unclouded show'd, nor long beneath the ray
That gentle stream in silver flowed, to meet the new-born day.
Through yonder fairy-haunted glen, from out that dark ravine,*
Is heard the tread of marching men, the gleam of arms is seen;
And plashing forth in bright array along yon verdant banks,
All eager for the coming fray, are rang'd the martial ranks.
Peals the loud gun-its thunders boom the echoing vales along,
While curtain'd in its sulph'rous gloom moves on the galiant
throng;

And foot and horse in mingled mass, regardless all of life,
With furious ardor onward pass to join the deadly strife.

One feeling I cherish that never can perish-Nor strange that with such ardent flame each glowing heart beats
One talisman proof to the dark wizard care-
The fervent and dutiful love of the Beautiful, Their battle word was William's name, and "Death or Liberty!"
high,
Of which thou art a type, gentle Kate of
Kenmare!
Then, Oldbridge, then thy peaceful bowers with sounds unwonted

MOTHER, HE'S GOING AWAY.

Now what are you crying for, Nelly?

Don't be blubbering there like a fool;
With the weight o' the grief, faith, I tell you
You'll break down the three-legged stool.
I suppose now you're crying for Barney,

But don't b'lieve a word that he'd say,
He tells nothing but big lies and blarney-
Sure you know how he served poor Kate
Karney.

Daughter. But, mother!
Mother. O, bother.

Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away,

And I dreamt the other night Of his ghost-all in white! [Mother speaks in an undertone.] The dirty blackguard!

Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away.

If he's going away, all the betther

Blessed hour when he's out of your sight!
There's one comfort-you can't get a letther-
For yiz neither can read nor can write.
Sure 'twas only last week you protested,
Since he courted fat Jinney M'Cray,
That the sight o' the scamp you detested-
With abuse sure your tongue never rested-

Daughter. But, mother!
Mother. Oh, bother!

Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away.
[Mother, speaking again with peculiar parental
piety.] May he never come back!
Daughter. And I dream of his ghost,

Walking round my bedpost-
Oh, mother, he's going away.

rang,

And now that well-contested strand successive columns gain,
While backward James's yielding band are borne across the plain.
In vain the sword green Erin draws, and life away doth fling-
Oh! worthy of a better cause and of a bolder king.

In vain thy bearing bold is shown upon that blood-stain'd
ground;

Thy tow'ring hopes are overthrown, thy choicest fall around; Nor, sham'd, abandon thou the fray, nor blush, though conquer'd there,

A power against thee fights to-day no mortal arm may dare.

Nay, look not to that distant height in hope of coming aid-
The dastard thence has ta en his flight, and left his men betray'd.
Hurrah! hurrah! the victor shout is heard on high Dunore;
Down Platten's vale, in hurried rout, thy shatter'd masses pour.