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Cried Michael na Chauliny, “And troth that's
true—
Himself and the fiddle were matched by few,
They went together thro’ every weather,
Full of diversion and tough as leather—
I thought he'd never think of dying,
But, Jesus keep us—there he's lying.”
Then the cauliaghs squatting round on the floor
Began to keenagh and sob full sore;—
“God be good to the ould gossoon
Sure, life's like music, and ended soon.
There's playing and plighting,
There's frolic and fighting,
There's singing and sighing,
There's laughing and crying—
But the skirl of the wake is the end of the
tune 1”

At the wake of O'Connor,

The merry ould man,
To wail in his honour

The cauliaghs began;
And Rose, Donnell's daughter,
From over the water,
Began (sure saints taught her!)

The sweet drimindhu ;
All was still:—in the middle,
With stick and with fiddle,

O'Connor stretched silent, seemed hearkening too !

Oh, 'twas sweet as the crooning of fairies by night, Oh, 'twas sad—as you listened, you smiled in delight, With the tears in your eyes; it was like a shower falling, When the rainbow shines thro' and the cuckoo is calling; You might feel through it all, as the sweet notes were given, The peace of the Earth and the promise of Heaven In the midst of it all the sweet singer did stand, With a light on her hair, like the gleam of a hand ; She seemed like an angel to each girl and boy, But most to Tim Cregan, who watched her in joy, And when she had ended he led her away, And whispered his love, till the dawning of day. After that, cried Pat Rooney, the rogue of a lad, “I’ll sing something merry—the, last was too sad l’” And he struck up the song of the Piper of Clare, How the bags of his pipes were beginning to tear,

And how when the cracks threatened fairly to end them He cut up his own leather breeches to mend them 1 How we laugh’d, young and old ! “Well, beat that if you can,” Cried fat Tony Bourke, the potheen-making Inari“Who sings next?” Tony cried, and at that who came in, Dancing this way and that way in midst of the din, But poor Shamus the Fools and he gave a great spring— “By the cross, merry boys, 'tis mysilf that can sing?” Then he stood by the corpse, and he folded his hands, And he sang of the sea and the foam on the sands, Of the shining skiddawn as it flies to and fro, Of the birds of the waves and their wings like the snow, Then he sank his voice lower and sang with strange sound Of the caves down beneath and the beds of the drown'd. Till we wept for the boys who lie where the wave rolls, With no kinsmen to stretch them and wake their poor souls. When he ceased, Shamus looked at the corpse and he said, “Sure a dacenter man never died in his bed!” And at that the old cauliaghs began to croon: “Sure life's like his music, and ended as soonThere's dancing and sporting, There's kissing and courting, There's grief and there's pleasure To fill up the measure— But the skirl of the wake is the end of the tune 1”

** A health to O'Connor l’”

Fat Anthony said:
“We'll drink in the honour

Of him that is dead.”
A two-gallon cag then,
Did Anthony drag then
From out his old bag then,

While all there grew keen.
'Twas sweet, strong and filling—
His own best distilling;

Oh, well had the dead man loved Tony's potheen!”

Then the fun brightened up; but of all that befell It would take me a long day in summer to tell—

Of the dancing and singing, the leaping and sporting, And sweetest of all the sly kissing and courting ! Two nights was the waking; two long winter nights O'Connor lay smiling in the midst of the lights, In the cloud of the smoke like a cloud in the skies, The blessing upon him, to close his ould eyes. Oh, when the time comes for myself to de

part, May I die full of days like the merry old

man I'll be willing to go with the peace on my heart, Contented and happy, since life's but a span;

And O may I have, when my lips cease to spake,

To help my poor soul, such an elegant wake

The country all there, friends and kinsmen

and all, And myself in the middle, with candle and pall. Came the dawn, and we put old Connor to rest, In his coffin of wood, with his hands on his breast, And we followed him all by the hundred and moreThe boys all in black, and his friends sighing sore. We left him in peace, the poor sleeping gossoon, Thinking “life's like his music, and ended full soon.

There's laughing and sporting, There's kissing and courting, There's grief and there's pleasure To fill up the measure—

But the wake and the grave are the end of the tune 1”

“Good-bye to O'Connor,”
“Cried Barnaby Blake,
May the saints do him honour
For the ould fiddle's sake
If the saints love sweet playing—
It's the truth that I'm saying—
His sowl will be straying
And fiddling an air!
He'll pass through their middle,
With stick and with fiddle,

And they'll give him the ceadmille fealta up

there !” Robent Bucha NAN.

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A logic so grand That few understand To what in the world it applies, my boy.

Statistics, reflections, reviews, my boy,

Little scraps to instruct and amuse, my boy,
And lengthy debate
Upon matters of State

For wise-headed folk to peruse, my boy.

The funds as they were and are, my boy,
The quibbles and quirks of the bar, my boy;
And every week
A clever critique
On some rising theatrical star, my boy.

The age of Jupiter's moons, my boy,

The stealing of somebody's spoons, my boy,
The state of the crops,
The style of the fops,

And the wit of the public buffoons, my boy.

List of all physical ills, my boy,

Banish’d by somebody's pills, my boy,
Till you ask with surprise
Why any one dies,

Or what's the disorder that kills, my boy.

Who has got married, to whom, my boy,

Who were cut off in their bloom, my boy,
Who has had birth
On this sorrow-stain'd earth,

And who totters fast to their tomb, my boy.

The price of cattle and grain, my boy,

Directions to dig and to drain, my boy, But 'twould take me too long To tell you in song

A quarter of all they contain, my boy.

WORMS.

[THE following lines were addressed by Alexander Pope, Author of the Dunciad, Essay on Man, etc., to “The Ingenious Mr. Moore, inventor of the celebrated worm powder.]

How much, egregious Moore? are we, Deceived by shows and forms ?

Whate'er we think, whate'er we see, All human race are worms.

Man is a very worm by birth,
Proud reptile, vile and vain,

Awhile he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.

That woman is a worm, we find, E'er since our grannum's evil;

She first conversed with her own kind, That ancient worm, the Devil.

The fops are painted butterflies,
That flutter for a day;

First from a worm they took their rise,
Then in a worm decay.

The flatterer an ear-wig grows,
Some worms suit all conditions;

Misers are muck-worms; silk-worms, beaus,
And death-watches, physicians.

That statesmen have a worm, is seen By all their winding play;

Their conscience is a worm within, That gnaws them night and day.

Ah, Moore thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise

If thou couldst make the courtier void
The worm that never dies.

Thou only canst our fate adjourn
Some few short years, no more;
E’en Button's wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.
ALEXANDER POPE.

ROBIN GOODFELLOW.

[RobiN GoodFellow, alias Hobgoblin, alias Puck, an English domestic sprite, who was, as Sir Walter Scott has written, “the constant attendant upon the English fairy court, and, to the elves, acted in some measure as the clown or jester of the company, a character then to be found in the establishment of every person of quality, or, to use a more modern comparison, resembled the Pierrot of the pantomime. His jests were of the most simple, and, at the same time, of the broadest comic character; to mislead a clown on his path homeward, to disguise himself like a stool, in order to induce an old gossip to commit the egregious mistake of sitting down on the floor when she expected to repose on a chair, were his special employments." In the writings of Shakespeare and Milton reference is made to this spirit. The following poem is attributed to Ben Jonson.]

FRoM Oberon, in fairy land,
The king of ghosts and shadows there,
Mad Robin I, at his command,
Am sent to view the night-sports here,
What revel rout
Is kept about,
In every corner where I go,
I will o'ersee,
And merry be,
And make good sport, with ho, ho, no l

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LONG ISLAND HUNTING. *

[MR. W. L. ALDEN is (1884) and for some years has teen, the humorous editor of the New York Times, and in 1878 some of his drollest articles were published under the title of “Shooting Stars,” from which the following articles: Long Island Hunting, The Six Button Principle, and Red Hair are taken.]

MORE than six months have come and gone since the Long Island Hunt was oranized. During that time the gallant unters have chased the wild anise-seed bag at least twice every week. One would suppose that by this time every member of the hunt must have been in at the death, but, strange as it may seem, not a single anise-seed bag has been killed. A matter so serious as this cannot be passed over in silence, and it becomes necessary to inquire why the chase has in every instance proved unsuccessful. It will not do to say that the hunters have abstained from killing anise-seed bags in order to avoid the premature extirpation of the animal. Although our most learned naturalists were until recently unaware of the existence of the aniseseed bag on Long Island, there can be no doubt that the animal is abundant in Queens and Suffolk Counties. In every instance the dogs have struck the scent without any difficulty. This shows conclusively that the covers of Long Island are full of anise-seed bags, and refutes the pretext that the hunters forbear to kill because they fear that the animal will be exterminated. It is, perhaps, hardly worth while to notice the ludicrous mistake made by certain provincial papers, that the aniseseed bag is a literal cloth bag, filled with a supposed substance called anise-seed, and #. on the ground by a mounted room. The absurdity of this supposition is glaringly apparent. Is it probable that a dozen or more men would ride after a pack of hounds in pursuit of a miserable prosaic bag? Very small boys might agree to make believe that a bag is a live animal, just as very little girls sometimes make believe that a dust-brush wrapped in a towel is a living infant, but men have outgrown such childish plays. This preposterous mistake of the rural

* Published by G. Purs.AM's SoNs, New York

press is mentioned here because it may be reiterated by Philadelphian or Oshkoshian papers in explanation of the failure to kill. Chasing wild animals may or may not be an improving occupation, but the supposition that the Long Island hunters deliberately chase a “make-believe” animal, does them a gross injustice. The anise-seed bag is somewhat larger and fiercer than the fox, but rather smaller than the wolf. It is of a light brown color, with an enormous mouth and a fierce disposition. Nevertheless, it shuns the sight of man, and lurks in the depths of the forests, or makes its way across the country by availing itself of the shelter of ditches and stone walls. It is much fleeter than the fox, but a good ack of hounds can always run it down. he anise-seed bag, in spite of its fierceness when driven to bay, rarely attacks man except in numbers, and when suffering from hunger. In the early history of the Plymouth colonists the anise-seed i. were very numerous and bold. They would gather at the outskirts of thesettlement in packs of several hundred, and sit on end howling dismally, and longing to stay their stomachs with even the most sour and angular pilgrim in all Plymouth. Still, it does not appear that any of the colonists were actually killed by these animals. True, we read in the journal of Capt. MILES STANDISH an entry to the effect that “it is said that Mr. John ALDEN was last night devoured by anise

seed bags, and that his vain and fickle widow is in much tribulation. There are

those who think that he hath received his deserts;” but it subsequently proved that the rumor was false. BUFFON asserts that the anise-seed bag will fight desperately when its means of escape are cut off, and that the hunter frequently so. for his temerity with his life. This, owever, woo written of the larger species which inhabits the desert of Gobi, and may not be true of the Long Island variety. The latter may be as dangerous as local legends claim that it is; but there is no well-authenticated case of the death of any Long Islander at the hands, or rather the teeth, of an anise-seed bag. Can it be possible that the gallant huntsmen who have hitherto ridden so unsuccessfully are really afraid to bring the animal to bay, lest they or their dogs should suffer serious injury? Although

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