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Alas! and I have not
The pleasant hour forgot

When one pert lady said

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"O Landor! I am quite
Bewildered with affright!

Another more benign

Drew out that hair of mine,

And in her own dark hair Pretended it was found,

That one, and twirled it round; Fair as she was she never was so fair!

UNDER THE LINDENS.

UNDER the lindens lately sat
A couple, and no more, in chat;
I wondered what they would be at
Under the lindens.

I saw four eyes and four lips meet;
I heard the words, "How sweet!

how sweet!"

Had then the fairies given a treat
Under the lindens ?

I pondered long, and could not tell What dainty pleased them both so well:

I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on Bees! pees! was it your hydromel

your head!"

Under the lindens?

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SCHNITZErl's philosopede.

HERR SCHNITZERL make a

pede,

Oh, vot ish all dis eartly pliss?
Oh, vot ish man's soocksess ?
philoso-Oh, vot ish various kinds of dings?
Und vot ish hobbiness?

Von of de pullyest kind; It vent mitout a vheel in front, And hadn't none pehind. Von vheel vas in de mittel, dough, And it vent as sure as ecks, For he shtraddled on de axle-dree Mit de vheel petween his lecks.

Und ven he vant to shtart id off,
He paddlet mit his feet,
Und soon he cot to go so vast
Dat avery dings he peat.
He run her out on Broader Shtreed,
He shkeeted like der vind;
Hei! how he bassed de vancy crabs,
And lef dem all pehind!

De vellers mit de trottin nags

Pooled oop to see him bass; De Deutschers all erstaunished saidt: "Potztausend! Was ist das?" Boot vaster shtill der Schnitzerl flewed

On-mit a gashtly smile;
He tidn't tooch de tirt, py shings!
Not vonce in half a mile.

Ve find a pank-node in de shtreedt,
Next dings der pank is preak;
Ve folls, und knocks our outsides in,
Ven ve a ten-shtrike make.

So vas it mit der Schnitzerlein
On his philosopede;

His feet both slipped outsideward shoost

When at his extra shpeed. He felled oopon der vheel, of course; De vheel like blitzen flew: Und Schnitzerl he vas schnitz in vact,

For id shlished him grod in two.

Und as for his philosopede,

Id cot so shkared, men say, It pounded onward till it vent Ganz teufelwards afay.

But vhere ish now de Schnitzerl's soul?

Where dos his shbirit pide? In Himmel troo de entless plue, Id dakes a medeor ride.

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That, at least, he's worth any two saints that we know!"

Then they all got blind drunk-which completed their bliss,

Now the first faction fight in owld And we keep up the practice from

Ireland, they say,

Was all on account of Saint Patrick's

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that day to this.

RORY O'MORE.

YOUNG Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn,

He was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the dawn;

He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,

And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.

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"Now, Rory, be easy," sweet Kathleen would cry,

Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,

"With your tricks, I don't know, in throth, what I'm about, Faith, you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." "Oh! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way

You've thrated my heart for this many a day,

And it's plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure?

For it's all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike;

The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound:"

"Faith!" says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground." "Now, Rory, I'll cry, if you don't let me go:

Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!"

"Oh!" says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear,

For dhrames always go by conthrairies, my dear.

Oh! jewel, keep dhraming that same till you die,

And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie!

And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure?

Since 'tis all for good luck," says

bold Rory O'More.

“Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teazed me enough, Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste."

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,

And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light,

And he kissed her sweet lips-don't you think he was right? "Now, Rory, leave off, sir—you'll hug me no more,

That's eight times to-day you have kissed me before." "Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure,

For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.

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