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ANONYMOUS.-JOHN WOLCOT.

Like a porter all day, with fatigue fit to crack,
I'm seeking for rest, at each place;

Or, like Pilgrim of old, with his load at his back,
Only my load I bear on my face.

I can't get a wife, though each hour hard I try,
The girls they all blush, like a rose;

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'I'm afraid to have you!" when I ask 'em for why? Because you have got such a nose.

Oh, dear! lauks-a-daisy me!

Their cause of refusal I cannot suppose,

They all like the man, but they say-blow his nose !

Like a large joint of meat before a small fire,
They say that my proboscis hangs-

Or, to a brass knocker, naught there can be nigher,
And in length it a pump-handle bangs.

A

wag, you must know, just by way of a wipe, Said, with a grin on his face, t'other night, As he from his pocket was pulling a pipe, "At your nose will you give me a light?" Oh, dear! lauks-a-daisy me!

If I ask any one my way to disclose,

If I lose it, they answer, Why, follow your nose.

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ANONYMOUS.

19. ECONOMY.

ECONOMY's a very useful broom,

Yet should not ceaseless hunt about the room
To catch each straggling pin to make a plum.
Too oft economy's an iron vice,

That squeezes e'en the little frames of mice,
That peep with fearful eyes, and ask a crumb.

Proper economy's a comely thing;

Good in a subject-better in a king;

Yet, pushed too far, it dulls each finer feelingMost easily inclined to make folks mean;

Inclines them, too, to villany to lean,

To overreaching, perjury, and stealing-
E'en when the heart should only think of grief,
It creeps into the bosom like a thief,

And swallows up the affections, all so mild;-
Witness the Jewess and her only child.

Poor Mistress Levi had a luckless son,
Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat,
In imitation of the ambitious great,
High from the gallery, ere the play began,
He fell all plump into the pit,

Dead in a minute as a nit:

In short, he broke his pretty Hebrew neck,
Indeed-and very dreadful was the wreck!

The mother was distracted, raving, wild,
Shrieked, tore her hair, embraced and kissed her child,
Afflicted every heart with grief around.
Soon as the shower of tears was somewhat past,
And moderated the hysteric blast,

She cast about her eyes in thought profound;
And being with a saving knowledge blest,
She thus the playhouse manager addressed :

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Sher, I am de moder of de poor Chew lad,
Dat meet misfortune here so bad;

Sher, I must haf de shilling back, you know,
Ass Moses haf nat see de show.'

JOHN WOLCOT.

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JIST afther the war, in the year '98,

As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate,
'Twas the custom, whenever a pisunt was got,
To hang him by thrial-barrin' sich as was shot.
There was trial by jury goin' on by daylight,
And the martial law hangin' the lavins by night.
It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon ;
If he missed in the judges, he'd meet a dragoon ;
An' whether the sojers or judges gev sentence,
The divil a much time they allowed for repentance.
An' it's many's the fine boy was then an his keepin',
Wid small share iv restin', or atin', or sleepin',
An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned to sell it,
A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet-

ANONYMOUS.

Unsheltered by night and unrested by day,

With the heath for their barrack, revenge for their pay.
An' the bravest an' hardiest boy iv them all,
Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall.
His limbs were well set, an' his body was light,

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An' the keen-fanged hound had not teeth half so white;
But his face was as pale as the face of the dead,
An' his cheek never warmed with the blush of the red :
An' for all that, he wasn't an ugly young bye,
For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye,
So droll an' so wicked, so dark an' so bright,
Like a fire-flash that crosses the depth of the night;
An' he was the best mower that ever has been,
An' the illigantest hurler that ever was seen:
In fincin' he gev Patrick Mooney a cut,
An' in jumpin' he bate Tom Malowney a fut;
For lightness iv fut there was not his peer,
For, by gorra! he'd almost outrun the red deer;
An' his dancin' was sich, that the men used to stare,
An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare;
An', by gorra! the whole world gev into him there.
An' its he was the boy that was hard to be caught,
An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought,
An' it's many the one can remember right well
The quare things he done, an' it's oft I heerd tell
How he freckened the magisthrates in Cahirbally,
An' escaped thro' the sojers in Aherloe Valley,
An' leathered the yeomen, himself agin four,
An' stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore.
But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest,
An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best.

After many a brave action of power and pride,

An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side,
An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,
In the darkness of night he was taken at last.
Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,
For the door of the prison must close on you soon;
An' take your last look at her dim lovely light,
That falls on the mountain and valley this night;—
One look at the village, one look at the flood,
An' one at the sheltering, far-distant wood.
Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,

An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still;
Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' and wake,

An' farewell to the girl that would die for your sake.
An' twelve sojers brought him to Maryborough jail,
An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail.

ANONYMOUS.

21. THE SAME.-PART SECOND.

As soon as a few weeks was over and gone,
The terrible day iv thrial kem on.

There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand,
An' sojers on guard, an' dhragoons sword in hand;

An' the court-house so full that the people were bothered,
An' attorneys an' criers on the pint iv bein' smothered;
An' counsellors almost gev over for dead,

An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead;
An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big,
With his gown on his back, an' an illigant new wig.
An' silence was called, an' the minute it was said,
The court was as still as the heart of the dead,
An' they heard but the opening of one prison lock,
An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock.

For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng,
An' he looked at the bars, so firm an' so strong,
An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend,
A chance to escape, nor a word to defend ;
An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone,
As calm an' as cold as a statue of stone;
An' they read a big writin', a yard long, at laste,
An' Jim didn't undherstand it nor mind it a taste.
An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, an' he says,
"Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase ?”

An' all held their breath, in the silence of dhread,

An' Shamus O'Brien made answer an' said :

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My lord, if you ask me if in my lifetime

I thought any treason, or did any crime

That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,

The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear,

Though I stood by the grave to receive my death blow,
Before God and the world, I would answer you, no;

But if you would ask me, as I think it like,

If in the rebellion I carried a pike,

ANONYMOUS.

An' fought for ould Ireland, from the first to the close,
An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes,—
I answer you, yes; an' I tell you again,

Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then
In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry,
An' that now for her sake I am ready to die."
Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,
An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light;
By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap!
In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.
Then Shamus' mother, in the crowd standin' by,
Called out to the judge, with a pitiful cry,

"Oh, judge, darlin', don't!—oh! don't say the word!
The crathur is young-have mercy, my lord!

He was foolish-he didn't know what he was doin':

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You don't know him, my lord;-oh! don't give him to ruin!
He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest hearted ;-
Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted!
Judge, mavourneen, forgive him-forgive him, my lord,
An' God will forgive you :-oh! don't say the word!"
That was the first minute that O'Brien was shaken,
When he saw he was not quite forgot or forsaken;
An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,
The big tears wor running fast, one afther t'other,
An' two or three times he endeavored to spake,
But the sthrong manly voice used to falther an' break;
But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride,
He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide;
An' says he," Mother, darlint, don't break your poor heart,
For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;
And, God knows, it's better than wandering in fear
On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,
To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast
From thought, labor, and sorrow forever shall rest.
Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more-
Don't make me seem broken in this my last hour;
For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven,
No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!"
Then, towards the judge Shamus bent down his head,
An' that minute the solemn death sintence was said.

ANONYMOUS

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