the approach of autumn, many are the days we toiled together up and down the steep hill-sides, beating among the withering ferns for the bright-eyed woodcock, and many is the time we carned our reward by killing the first "cock" of the season; and later too, when they had taken to the covers, he was no mean assistant among the dry rustling leaves of the oak coppice, and I not unfrequently found that old Don was more than a match for a team of spaniels, especially if the game chanced to be wild. He was also a very good snipe dog, and many merry hours have we spent together on a muggy November day, among the wild dreary bogs of Cardiganshire and Carmarthenshire. On these occasions his style of hunting was so changed, that one could scarcely recongnize the wide ranging setter of September; his beautiful gallop and clever quartering was laid aside, and a kind of swing trot and little short casts among the rushes took their place. This cautious style was however far better adapted for the work than a freer one, as of all kinds of shooting, snipe is, I think, the most trying to a dog's power of scent, and for these reasons-first, that one always beats as much down wind as possible, as snipes almost invariably fly up into "the wind's eye," and so offer a comparatively easy cross shot; and secondly, the ground which they frequent is usually cold wet land, and unsuited for retaining scent. At this sport Don's fine nose stood him in good stead, and unless the birds were very wild, and getting up in "wisps he rarely flushed one without first " making" it: he was also most persevering in routing out " Jacks" which, having once been flushed, are, as every snipe-shooter knows, most difficult to find. I have already mentioned his taste for retrieving, this I soon put to a practical use. Often when the ice-bound earth put a stop to my favourite sport, and I found myself an unfortunate "frozen-out fox-hunter," have I started at daybreak, and with Don at my heels crept cautiously over the frozen snow, along the banks of the beautiful Tivy; and often has he, regardless alike of cold and floating ice, plunged into the stream and recovered a wounded duck or mallard, which otherwise must have escaped.

In spite of all this hard work, until last season he showed no symptoms of decay, but he was so done up after a long day on “the first," last year, that I began to have some unpleasant forebodings respecting him; however, he revived, and did me good service during the past winter, but as spring came on I was sorry to see his strength gradually wasting away, and at length he died of natural decay, on "May morning," aged 13 years.

Alas! the bard's "Non omnis moriar" cannot be applied to Don's race, or I feel sure that he would now be ranging over the golden stubbles of Elysian fields, accompanying and obeying the illustrious shade of some departed " Hawker."

June 5th, 1857.

T. S. H.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN BOWDEN DAVIES, OF MAESYCRIGAU, CARMARTHENSHIRE.

BY T. TURNER LOTHERINGTON.

I heard a low and wailing sound
Of sorrow and of pain,
And many a heart of gratitude
Took up the mournful strain;
And many a moan rose on the air,
And many an eye did weep,
For the noble-hearted Captain sleeps
The long and dreamless sleep.

Ah! yes; alas! the hour has passed,
That hour of dread and gloom,
Which breaks the cherished ties of life,
And opens on the tomb;

The moonless night of death 's arrived,
The sun of joy has set,
Yet the memory of other days
Forbids that we forget.

Ah! no; forget we cannot :
His memory will remain
Enshrined in friendly bosoms,
While life's blood they retain,
While truth, and love, and friendship
Shall wander hand in hand,
And kindness and good-nature
Are blessings in the land.

The weary and the wanderer,
The poor, the sad, the old,
Assistance aye received from him,
When sorrow's tale was told;
He dried the tears of misery,
And soothed misfortune's sigh,

A rock among the waters

When the storms were drawing nigh.

How many now will miss that kind,
That open-hearted smile,

So full of gladsome welcome,

So void of cursed guile !

D

How many now will think upon
The merry tales of old,
Now the kindly voice is silent,
And the friendly heart is cold

The silver cup is empty,

The pipe hangs on the wall,
The hound is in the kennel,
And the steed is in the stall;
A silence reigns around the house,
The voice of joy has fled,
And all proclaims too bitterly,
"The good old Captain's dead."

I followed to the church-yard;
I heard the solemn song,
As it rose in mournful cadence
The old church aisles along;
I marked the tear-drop falling
From manhood's moistened eye,
And o'er the funeral chant arose
Fair woman's bitter sigh.

Aye thus it is the tree must fall,
Its green leaves fade away,
And all of earthly happiness
Is hastening to decay;

The fount of joy runs dry at last,
The stony ground appears,
And the faded hopes of other days
Are watered by our tears.

We mourn thee, gallant Captain!

A

In thy lone and gloomy bed,

poor and silent dweller

In "the city of the dead :"

The Teivi murmuring flows along;

Her vale trees sadly wave,
And sound a mournful requiem
Around the Captain's grave.

Years may roll on, and still thy name
Untarnished yet shall be,
Enshrined within a jewelled crown
Of pleasant niemory;

Of thine unbounded good

How many a one will tell!

For thou scarce could'st have an enemy.

Kind friend! a long farewell,

A MONTH'S FISHING IN IRELAND.

If happy you'd be,
Come hie with me

Down, down to yon darkling glen
Where the gold trout glide
'Neath the silv'ry tide,

Far, far from the haunts of men;
Where the gentle breeze

Courts the dark green trees,

Ere the sun yields its parting ray,
Oh then, oh then,

Come hie to the glen,

For fishing is the sport for me.

On Saturday the 9th day of May last, at one o'clock P.M., I left smoky sultry London, via Bristol, for the "beautiful city called Cork," where I arrived on the following day at a quarter after three o'clock P.M., just in time to drive about two miles to my brother's country house, and catch him and his family at dinner. Not having seen any of the family since the same time the previous year, my reception was warm indeed, from mon frère, the grandfather of the party seated, to his fine little grandson Willy, who commands a regiment of the "Patrick-street Rangers," and drills them regularly every evening, after school, in Goold's yard, which is the juvenile "Aldershott of Cork," and where constant practice in the arts of war is communicated to the newly initiated recruits on a system that would charm the souls of older F.M.'s and K.C.B.'s for its novelty and ingenuity. Barricades of sugar-casks-which also answer the purpose in another part of the drill for rifle-pits, and when turned upside down, serve as a finish, for the Malakoff-give the soldier in embryo some idea of what, perchance, his future destiny may be. Thus it is we play through life from the cradle to the grave with our fellow-bipeds. As a school for soldiers, I know of no part of the world where, from the same cradle upwards, the young boys naturally take to such schooling as a soldier requires as in my native Ireland. Thus it is, I believe, that we are so fond of fighting. It is a part of our study and practice in youth, and hence we never forget it.

Having communicated to one of my nephews at dinner that I was determined to be off to the Shournah river next day, I was agreeably surprised to find that he had everything ready. "Plenty of flies and bait, uncle, and lots of trout, but they are rather small." No matter to me, if I caught them: that was what I came to Ireland for. After dinner I drew out my plan of operations for the ensuing month, and having engaged him as my cicerone, getting "the governor's permission," we planned our route, the rivers we were to wade and invade, and in anticipation then, as in fact after, we filled our basket with regular" whoppers." I enquired whether there were any letters for me, as some time before I left London I communicated with several

friends in Limerick, Clare, and Cork, and expected notes of instruction as to the time when I was to visit them, and the particular route I was to take. I found there were two epistles, one from an old friend in Clare, whom I was under promise to spend a week with (a month he vowed in his communication) and in this he told me that his sportsman, Tom Callaghan, would meet me in Cork in a few days, and "lug me along like a cock-salmon in a fish-jowlter's basket," to the wilds of the county of Clare, where, if Lough-na-minna did not belie its old name, and that we had even a moderate quantity of luck, there was no fear but we would have splendid sport. How true his anticipation was will appear before I close my story. The other letter was from honest Charley R-, the only genuine John-Bull-Irishman I ever met. He is as honest as the sun; as impulsive and warmhearted as all my countrymen ; as positive, when he takes anything in his head which he thinks right, as a mule; and, with a love of sporting which extends to hunting, fishing and shooting, combines an aptitude for business that few Irishmen possess. He farms a large tract of ground midway between three of the most sporting rivers in the county of Cork. The Blackwater is but a short mile and a half from his house if you wish to look for a salmon, while the Owbey (Spenser's Mulla) and the Funcheon are each about three miles in different directions. To this spot, then, I made up my mind to direct my first steps after I had fished the rivers around Cork for a few days.

On Monday morning, May the 11th, my nephew and I left Cork for the Shournah, which is a drive of about six miles to the head of it, and we commenced fishing with flies and bait. As in my case some fifty-six years had passed away, I could not stoop to bait fish, so I chose the flies, and my nephew went about a mile higher up the river, in order that when he followed me down, the trout, which my presence would disturb, might be settled in their lodges by the time he paid them a visit with the worms.

I killed three dozen and five, chiefly with the brown wren and orange grouse. I changed my flies several times before I pleased them sufficiently to have good sport. I had the wren for a tail-fly, with the grouse and a silver grey for droppers. The water was very clear and low, and I was obliged to fish with fine tackle. I procured my flies from Farlow of the Strand, and for beauty of finish and colour in the dye of the silk they are unequalled. And now, my readers who are anglers, allow me to give you a word of advice with my story. For summer fishing, on lake or in the river, be assured you cannot fish too fine. Let the wire of your hooks be chosen for its lightness. Do not suppose that because the water may be a little coloured your fly must be large; the natural fly that runs on the water, and on which you see the trout feeding so ravenously, are small, and that is the reason why they will not look at your flies if they are large; or if they do take a peep, it will be only to run away from them. Adapt the size of your artificial fly to the natural one you see floating along, and even in beer-coloured water the trout will take them in preference to those usually fished, which are often three sizes too large. The fact is, in dark water the trout are always near the surface for the purpose of feeding, while in clear water they invariably lie near the bottom, unless in a deep pool,

.