HOW MISTER MURKY POPPED THE QUESTION.

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"Och,' sez I, 'there's mony a boye that's lonely livin' rite wid his friends an' naybors. Sure an' I'm lonesome mesilf.'

“How can I b’lave that,' sez she, 'whin ye've a fiddul?' "Fidduls,' sez I, 'are cheerin', but I've got me two eyes set on somethin' a moighty dale cheeriner.'

"She forgot to ax me what that sumthin' was, so I trotted off by another road, sayin':

"Faith, Nelly, I'm going back across the pond in Marchuary.'

"Indade!' sez she, flurtin' the dishrag. 'An' it's a pity ye ever cum over ?

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Yis,' sez I, Jane sed that same in her last lether.' "An' who's Jane?' axt Nelly, gettin' red loike the crabs on the table besoide her.

“She thinks a power o' me,' sez I, onheedin'.

"Shure an' that's quare.

"Yis.'

"An' bether lookin'?

"Paple moight think so."

Is she young as me?'

"An' is she waitin' fur ye?'

"Yis.'

"She'll be changin' names sure, I reckon?'

666 Yis.'

"Wat's her name now?'

"Jane-Murky!' cried I, wid delight.

"Thin, she's your sister,' sez Nelly, cross as her mistress. Well, it ain't much matter seein' as how I've got a boye watchin' fur me over in Ballycoran.'

"Wat's his name?' axt I, turnin' hot an' cold at wanst. Barney Flynn,' sez she.

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"About my size?'

"Yis.'

"Don't give him hard names,' sez she. 'Barney Flynn's my stip-bruther!'

"Then she lafft that purty laugh o' her's, an' I wint up close.

"Don't do it,' sez she. 'I'm that full o' work I couldn't reply fur a month,' and the dishes flew'd ivery which way as she said it.

"But I sat down on the stip.

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"I kin wait,' sez I.

"The mistress will cum an' foind you here.'

"I'd be plazed to mate her.'

"I'll tell her ye're a robber.'

"Begorra, that's just what I am, for I'm afther Nellie McCusker's heart!'

"Ye'll be arrested.'

"I've bin alriddy, and yer blue eyes did it,' says I. 'Cum, Nellie, lock me up in yer warm heart foriver.' "Och, it's bolted, and I've lost the key.'

"Thin I'll cloimb in at the window,' sez I.

"She hung her curly hed fur a minit, and whin she looked up I axt her to be me woife.

"I'll giv ye foive secinds,' sez I. Ef ye wull, just fetch me the big pewter spoon ye've bin wipin'; ef you won't, thin put it back in the drawer.'

She peeped at me over the top ov it.

"D'ye ye mane what

"Yis, darlin', sez I.

ye say, Pat?' sez she.

"Thin, here is the spoon !""

MORNING ON THE IRISH COAST.

BY JOHN LOCKE.

[THE incident which prompted the writing of the following lines was related to the author by a friend on his return to America from a visit to Ireland. On the voyage over the American gentleman made the acquaintance of an old Irishman, who, in his frank and candid way, told him that he had been thirty years in the States, and that he was then going home to spend the evening of his life amid the scenes of his boyhood. The old man's deep anxiety to see Ireland once more made the author's friend take a special interest in him. The night before the boat reached the Irish shore they both remained on deck, and as the dawning broke they were rewarded for their weary vigil by beholding the dim outlines of the Irish coast. The sight awakened the old man's slumbering enthusiasm, and his first impassioned exclamation was, "The top o' the mornin' to you, Ireland, alanna !"]

Than-a-mo-Dhia! but there it is!

The dawn on the hills of Ireland-
God's angels lifting the night's black veil
From the fair, sweet face of my sireland;
O Ireland! isn't it grand you look,

Like a bride in her rich adornin',
And with all the pent-up love of my heart
I bid you the top o' the mornin'!

This one brief hour pays lavishly back
For many a year of mourning;
I'd almost venture another flight
There's so much joy in returning-
Watching out for the hallowed shore,
All other attractions scornin';
O Ireland! don't you hear me shout,
I bid you the top o' the mornin'!

Ho, ho! upon Cleana's shelving strand
The surges are grandly beating;
And Kerry is pushing her headlands out
To give us the kindly greeting.

In to the shore the sea-birds fly

On pinions that know no drooping,
And out from the cliffs with welcomes charged,
A million of waves come trooping.

O kindly, generous Irish land,
So leal and fair and loving,

No wonder the wandering Celt should think
And dream of you in his roving!

The alien home may have gems and gold,
Shadows may never have gloomed it,
But the heart will sigh for the absent land
Where the love-light first illumed it.

?

And doesn't old Cove look charming there,
Watching the wild waves' motion,
Leaning her back up against the hills,
And the tips of her toes in the ocean
I wonder I don't hear Shandon's bells—
Ah, maybe their chiming's over,
For it's many a year since I began
The life of a Western rover!

For thirty summers, asthore machree,
Those hills I now feast my eyes on,
Ne'er met my vision, save when they rose
Over memory's dim horizon.

Even so, 'twas grand and fair they seemed
In the landscape spread before me;
But dreams are dreams, and my eyes would ope
To see Texas' sky still o'er me.

Oh, often upon the Texan plains,

When the day and the chase were over,
My thoughts would fly o'er the weary wave,
And around this coast line hover!
And the prayer would rise that some future day,
All danger and doubting scornin',

I might help to win for my native land
The light of young Liberty's mornin'.

Now fuller and truer the shore line shows-
Was ever a scene so splendid?

I feel the breath of the Munster breeze—
Thank God that my exile's ended!
Old scenes, old songs, old friends again,
The vale and the cot I was born in!
Oh Ireland! up from my heart of hearts
I bid you the top o' the mornin'.

-From The Boston Pilot.

MICKEY FREE AND THE EDITOR.

BY CHARLES LEVER, LL.D.

I, CHARLES O'MALLEY, and my faithful servant, Mickey Free, were at Bristol, on our way home from the war in the Peninsula, when that celebrated individual—that is to say, Mickey-once again distinguished himself, in his own peculiar fashion. Let me tell you about it.

At the Bell in Bristol we both were staying, when I entered the coffee-room, and seeing a crowd round the fire gazing at a large newspaper placard, I went over and read the object of their curiosity. It ran as follows:

"Fall of Ciudad Rodrigo; with a full and detailed account of the storming of the great breach-capture of the enemy's cannon, etc.-By Michael Free, 14th Light Dragoons."

Leaving the many around me busied in conjecturing who the aforesaid Mr. Free might be, I hurried from the room and called the waiter.

"What's the meaning of the announcement you've just put up in the coffee-room? Where did it come from?"

"Most important news, Sir; exclusively in the columns of the Bristol Telegraph; the gentleman has just arrived"

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Who, pray?. What gentleman?"

Mr. Free, Sir, No. 13-large bedroom-blue damask