THE mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky-
But why are the men standin' idle so late?

An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street?
What come they to talk of ?-what come they to see?
An' why does the long rope hang from the cross tree?
Oh, Shamus O'Brien, pray fervent and fast,

May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last ;
Pray fast and pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,
When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die
At last they threw open the big prison gate,
An' out came the sheriffs and sojers in state,
An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus was in it,
Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute.
An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien,
Wid prayin' and blessin', an' all the girls cryin',
A wild wailin' sound kem on all by degrees,

Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees.
On, on, to the gallows, the sheriffs are gone,
An' the cart an' the sojers go steadily on;
An' at every side swellin' around of the cart,
A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.
Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,
An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;

An' the priest, havin' blessed him, goes down on the ground,
An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look around.
Then the hangman drew near, an' the people grew still,
Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turn chill;
An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,
For the gripe iv the life-strangling cord to prepare;
An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.
But the good priest did more-for his hands he unbound,
And, with one daring spring, Jim has leaped on the ground.
Bang, bang! goes the carbines, and clash goes the sabres;
He's not down! he's alive still! now stand to him, neigh
bors!"

66

66

Through the smoke and the horses, he's into the crowd ;By the heavens, he's free !" than the thunder more loud, By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken,— One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.

Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,
But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang;
To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin,

An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him agin.
The sojers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that,
An' father Malone lost his new Sunday hat;
An' the sheriffs wor both of them punished sevarely,
An' fined like the divil, because Jim done them fairly.

A week after dis time, widout firing a cannon,
A sharp Yankee schooner sailed out of the Shannon;
An' the captain left word he was goin' to Cork,
But the divil a bit-he was bound to New York.
The very next spring-a bright morning in May,-
Just six months after the "great hanging day,"
A letter was brought to the town of Kildare,
And on the outside was written out fair-

66

To ould Mrs. O'Brien, in Ireland, or elsewhere."
And the inside began-" My dear good ould mother,
I'm safe and am happy-and not wishin' to bother
You in the radin' (with the help of the priest),
I send you inclosed in this letter, at laist,
Enuf to pay him, and to fetch you away
To this land of the free and brave,' Amerika.
Here you'll be happy, and never nade cryin',
So long as you're mother of Shamus O'Brien.
Give my love to swate Biddy, and tell her beware
Of that spalpeen who calls himself 'Lord of Kildare ;'
And just say to the judge, I don't now care a rap
For him, or his wig, or his dirty black
сар.
And as for dragoons, them paid men of slaughter,
Say I love them as the divil loves holy water.

And now, my good mother, one word of advice:
Fill your bag with potatoes, and whiskey, and rice;

And when ye start from ould Ireland, take passage at Cork,
And come strate over to the town of New York;
And there ax the Mayor the best way to go
To the state of Sinsnaty-in the town of Ohio;
For 'tis dare you will find me, widout much tryin',

At The Harp and the Eagle,' kept by Shamus O'Brien."

ANONYMOUS.

23. THE RHYMING APOTHECARY.

A MEMBER of the Esculapian line
Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne ;
No man could better gild a pill,
Or make a bill;

Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head;
Or chatter scandal by your bed;
Or spread a plaster.

His fame full six miles round the country ran ;

In short, in reputation he was solus;

All the women called him

His name was Bolus.

66

a fine man!"

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade

(Which, oftentimes, will genius fetter), Read works of fancy, it is said ;

And cultivated the belles-lettres.
And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have taste, who cure a phthisic?
Of poetry though patron god,

Apollo patronizes physic.

Bolus loved verse, and took so much delight in't,
That his prescriptions he resolved to write in't.

No opportunity he e'er let pass,

Of writing the directions on his labels, In dapper couplets-like Gay's Fables; Or, rather like the lines in Hudibras.

Apothecary's verse!—and where's the treason?
"Tis simple honest dealing-not a crime;
When patients swallow physic without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.

He had a patient, lying at death's door,

Some three miles from the town,-it might be fo,

To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article,

In pharmacy, that's called cathartical,

And on the label of the stuff

He wrote verse;

Which, one would think, was clear enough,

And terse:

"When taken,

To be well shaken."

Early next morning, Bolus rose,
And to his patient's house he goes,
Upon his pad,

Which a vile trick of stumbling had :
It was, indeed, a very sorry hack ;-
But, that's of course;

For, what's expected from a horse,
With an apothecary on his back?
Bolus arrived, and gave a loudish tap,
Between a single and a double rap.

Knocks of this kind,

Are given by gentlemen, who teach to dance;
By fiddlers and by opera singers;

One loud, and then a little one behind,

As if the knocker fell by chance

Out of their fingers.

The servant lets him in with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place-
Portending some disaster;

John's countenance as rueful looked and grim,
As if th' apothecary had physicked him,
And not his master.

"Well, how's the patient?" Bolus said:
John shook his head.
"Indeed!-hum!-ha!-that's very odd!
He took the draught?" John gave a nod.
"Well, how ?—what then? Speak out, you dunce!"

Why, then," says John,

66 we shook him once."

"Shook him! how?" Bolus stammered out.

"We jolted him about."

"Zounds! shake a patient, man!—a shake won't do." "No, sir, and so we gave him two."

Two shakes!--odds curse!

"Twould make the patient worse.

"It did so, sir, and so a third we tried."

"Well, and what then?"" Then, sir, my master died."

COLMAN.

24. BROWN STOUT.

A BREWER, in a country town,
Had got a monstrous reputation!
No other beer than his went down,-
The Hosts of the surrounding station
Carving his name upon their mugs,
And painting it on every shutter;

And though some envious folks would utter
Hints, that its flavor came from drugs,
Others maintained 'twas no such matter,
But, owing to his monstrous vat,——
As corpulent, at least, as that
At Heidelberg-and some, say fatter.

His foreman was a lusty black,
An honest fellow;

But one that had an ugly knack
Of tasting samples, as he brewed,
Till he was stupefied and mellow.
One day, in this top-heavy mood,
Having to cross the vat aforesaid
(Just then with boiling beer supplied),
O'ercome with giddiness and qualms, he
Reeled-fell in—and nothing more said,
But in his favorite liquor died,

Like Clarence in his butt of Malmsey.

In all directions round about,

The negro absentee was sought,
But, as no human noddle thought
That our fat black was made brown stout,
They settled that the negro left

The place for debt, or crime, or theft.
Meanwhile, the beer was day by day
Drawn into casks and sent away,

Until the lees flowed thick and thicker,
When, lo! outstretched upon the ground,
Once more their missing friend they found,
As they'd oft-done before,-in liquor!
See," cried his moralizing master,
"I knew the fellow always drank hard,
And prophesied some sad disaster.