An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus was in it-
Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minit,
An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien,
Wid prayin' an' blessin', an' all the girls cryin',
A wild wailin' sound came 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 car an' the sojers go steadily on.
An' at every side swellin' around of the cart,

A wild, sorrowful sound that would 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' blest him gets down on the ground,
An' Shamus O'Brien throws one look around!

Then the hangman drew near, an' the people grew still,
Young faces turn sickly an' warm hearts turn chill;
An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,
For the grip of the life-strangling cord to prepare;
An' the good priest has left him, having said his last
prayer!

But the good priest did more-for his hands he unbound,
An' with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground!
Bang! bang! go the carbines, an' clash go the sabres;
He's not down! he's alive! now attend to him, neighbours!
Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd-
By St. Janus, he's free !—than thunder more loud,
By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken—
One shout that the dead of the world might awaken;
The sojers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that,
An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat.

Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,
But if you want hangin' 'tis yourselves you must hang.
To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe glen,

An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him again.

FATHER O'HIGGINS OUTDONE.

ANONYMOUS.

EARLY one fine morning, as Terence O'Fleary was hard at work in his potato-garden, he was accosted by his gossip, Mick Casey, who he perceived had his Sunday clothes on.

"God's bud! Terry, man, what would you be afther doing there wid them praties, an' Phelim O'Loughlin's berryin' goin' to take place? Come along, me boachal! sure the praties will wait?'

"Och no," says Terry, "I must dig on this ridge for the childer's breakfast, an' thin I'm goin' to confession to Father O'Higgins, who holds a stashin beyont there at his own house."

"Bother take the stashin!" says Mick, 66 sure that 'ud wait too." But Terence was not to be persuaded.

Away went Mick to the berryin'; and Terence, having finished "wid the praties," as he said, went down to Father O'Higgins, where he was shown into the kitchen, to wait his turn for confession. He had not been long standing there, before the kitchen fire, when his attention was attracted by a nice piece of bacon, which hung in the chimney corner. Terry looked at it again and again, and wished the childer "had it at home wid the praties.'

"Murther alive!" says he, "will I take it? Sure the priest can spare it, an' it would be a rare thrate to Judy and the gorsoons at home, to say nothin' ov meself, who hasn't tasted the likes this many's the day." Terry looked at it again, and then turned away saying "I won't take it-why would I, an' it not mine, but the priest's? an' I'd have the sin ov it, sure! I won't take it," replied he, “an' it's nothing but the Ould Boy himself that's temptin' me! But sure it's no harm to feel it, any way," said he, taking it into his hand, and looking earnestly at it. "Och! it's

a beauty; an' why wouldn't I carry it home to Judy and the childer? An' sure it won't be a sin afther I confesses it!

Well, into his great-coat pocket he thrust it; and he had

scarcely done so, when the maid came in and told him that it was his turn for confession.

"Murther alive! I'm kil't and ruin'd, horse and foot! now, joy, Terry: what'll I do in this quandary, at all, at all? By gannies! I must thry an' make the best of it, anyhow,' says he to himself, and in he went.

He knelt to the priest, told his sins, and was about to receive absolution, when all at once he seemed to recollect himself, and cried out:

"Och! stop-stop, Father O'Higgins, dear! for goodness sake, stop! I have one great big sin to tell yit: only, sir, I'm frightened to tell id, in the regard of never havin' done the like afore, sir, niver!"

"Come," said Father O'Higgins, "you must tell it to me.”

66

Why, then, your Riverence, I will tell id; but, sir, I'm ashamed like!"

"Oh, never mind! tell it," said the priest.

Why, then, your Riverence, I went out one day to a gintleman's house, upon a little bit of business, an' he bein' ingaged, I was shown into the kitchen to wait. Well, sir, there I saw a beautiful bit ov bacon hangin' in the chimbly-corner. I looked at id, your Riverence, and my teeth began to wather. I don't know how it was, sir, but I suppose the divil timpted me, for I put it into my pocket; but if you plaize, sir, I'll give it to you,” and he put his hand into his pocket.

"Give it to me!" said Father O'Higgins; "no, certainly not; give it back to the owner."

"Why, then, your Riverence, sir, I offered it to him, and he wouldn't take id."

"Oh! he wouldn't, wouldn't he?" said the priest; "then take it home, and eat it to yourself, with your family."

"Thank your Riverence, kindly!" says Terence, “an' I'll do that same immediately, plaize God; but first and foremost, I'll have the absolution, if you plaize, sir."

Terence received absolution, and went home, rejoicing that he had been able to save his soul and his bacon at the same time.

DONEGAL.

BY GEORGE MURRAY.

THE South may boast Killarney's Lakes, of many a song the theme,

Whose wondrous loveliness exceeds the bard's sublimest dream;

And justly Leinster may be proud of Sweet Avoca's Vale, Where lovers yet, in willing ears, pour forth the tender

tale;

And Conacht, too, has many scenes of grandeur unsurpassed

Loch, river, mountain, rock-girt shores that brave the wintry blast!

And, has my Ulster ne'er a scene to glory in, at all?
She has she has the wild old land of glorious Donegal!
What! said I that the land is "wild"—this land so fair
to see?

The "Italy of Ireland" WILD!-Nay, nay, it cannot be: Tho' bleak at times her mountain tops, and cheerless to the sight,

Far oftener are her hillsides bathed in floods of golden light!

O, glorious land, O, wondrous land, this dear old land of

mine→

The land where ruled in bygone days O'Donnell's princely line,

Where Gall-o-Glagh and Kern obeyed their chieftains' every call,

And where men heroes were of old—the land of Donegal!

'Twas here the peerless Geoffrey ruled, the "dauntless Hugh" held sway,

And homage all Clan Conaill's septs right royally did pay; Stern warriors, at the wild "Aboo," around their chieftains press'd,

High hopes to meet the Saxon foe pervading every breast!

With glittering arms and bosoms bare to war they proudly trod,

And vict'ry smil'd on them while oft their heart's blood drench'd the sod;

They died as men should die to free their land from foreign thrall,

And, by their death, immortal made the name of Donegal!

And often on those old grey hills, whose jaggéd peaks uprise

In stern and rugged majesty to meet the changeful skies, Among the heath-clad, frowning tops in fiery days of old Have hid from persecution's hand the fearless and the bold;

When men, like wild beasts of the field, were hunted to the death,

.

And perished under fire and sword rather than yield their

faith;

Oh! those were days and those were times when dark oppression's pall

Lay heavily with midnight gloom o'er bleeding Donegal!

But live we now in better times, tho' despots yet remain Who fain would forge on freemen's limbs their souldebasing chain:

Thank heaven, the day is past for MEN to cringe, and fawn, and bow;

And patriots stand on Irish land who fear no tyrant now! Old Donegal, play well thy part, and soon thy soil shall

be

The property of those who till each fertile holm and lea; And that old, proudly famous land our own we yet shall call,

So high emblazoned in renown, historic Donegal!

O, Donegal can boast of scenes whereon to feast the

eyes

Of noble mountains towering up full grandly to the skies: