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And the cradled babe

Fond the mother nursed it, Singing it a song

As she twists the worsted!

Up and down the stair

Two more young ones patter (Twins were never seen Dirtier or fatter).

Both have mottled legs,
Both have snubby noses,
Both have Here the host

Kindly interposes:

66 Sure you must be froze

With the sleet and hail, sir;

So will you have some punch,
Or will you have some ale, sir?"

Presently a maid

Enters with the liquor (Half a pint of ale

Frothing in a beaker).

Gods! I didn't know

What my beating heart meant:

Hebe's self, I thought,

Entered the apartment. As she came she smiled,

And the smile bewitching,

On my word and honour,
Lighted all the kitchen!

With a curtsey neat
Greeting the new-comer,
Lovely, smiling Peg

Offers me the rummer;
But my trembling hand

Up the beaker tilted, And the glass of ale

Every drop I spilt it; Spilt it every drop

(Dames, who read my volumes, Pardon such a word)

On my what-d'ye-call-'ems!

Witnessing the sight

Of that dire disaster, Out began to laugh

· Missis, maid, and master. Such a merry peal

'Specially Miss Peg's was (As the glass of ale

Trickling down my legs was)

That the joyful sound

Of that mingling laughter

Echoed in my ears

Many a long day after.

When the laugh was done,
Peg, the pretty hussy,
Moved about the room

Wonderfully busy.
Now she looks to see
If the kettle keeps hot;

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This I do declare:

Happy is the laddy Who the heart can share Of Peg of Limavaddy. Married if she were,

Blest would be the daddy

Of the children fair

Of Peg of Limavaddy.
Beauty is not rare

In the land of Paddy;
Fair beyond compare
Is Peg of Limavaddy.

Citizen or Squire,

Tory, Whig, or Radical would all desire

Peg of Limavaddy. Had I Homer's fire,

Or that of Serjeant Taddy, Meetly I'd admire

Peg of Limavaddy. And till I expire,

Or till I grow mad, I Will sing unto my lyre. Peg of Limavaddy!

-"The Irish Sketch-Book."

Letter from Mr. Yellowplush to Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer

HONRABBLE Barnet!-Retired from the littery world a year or moar, I didn't think anythink would injuice me to come forrards again; for I was content with my share of reputation, and propoas'd to add nothink to those immortial wux which have rendered this Magaseen so sallybrated.

Shall I tell you the reazn of my reappearants? A desire for the benefick of my fellow-creatures? Fiddlestick! A mighty truth with which my busm laboured, and which I must bring forth or die? Nonsince-stuff! Money's the secret, my dear Barnet-money-l'argong, gelt, spicunia. Here's quarter-day coming, and I'm blest if I can pay my landlud, unless I can ad hartificially to my inkum.

This is, however, betwigst you and me. There's no need to blacard the streets with it, or to tell the British public that Fitzroy Y-ll-wpl-sh is short of money, or that the sallybrated hauthor of the Y— Papers is in peskewniary difficklties, or is fiteagued by his superhuman littery labours, or by his famly suckmstansies, or by any other pusnal matter. My maxim, dear Bullwig, is on these pints to keep quiet. What the juice does the public care for you or me? Why must we always, in prefizzes and what not, be a talking about ourselves, and our igstrodnary merrats, woas, and injaries? It is on this subjick that I porpies, my dear Barnet, to speak to you in a friendly way; and praps you'll find my advice tolrabbly holesum.

Well, then-if you care about the apinions, fur good or evil, of us poor suvvants, I tell you, in the most candied

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