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“As they stood hallooing back to back,

We, lightly as a feather,
Went sideling round, and in a crack

Had pinned their coats together.
" 'Twas near upon't as light as noon ;

'A largess,' on the hill,
They shouted to the full round moon,-

I think I hear 'em still !

1

“But when they found the trick, my stars !

They well knew who to blame;
Our giggles turned to ha ha ha's,

And arter us they came.
“Grace by the tumbril made a squat,

Then ran as Sam came by;
They said she could not run for fat, -

I know she did not try.
“Sue round the neathouse 2 squalling ran,

Where Simon scarcely dare ;
He stopped, --for he's a fearful man-

‘By gom there's suffen ? there !
“And off set John, with all his might,

To chase me down the yard,
Till I was nearly graned outright;

He hugged so woundly hard.
“Still they kept up the race and laugh,

And round the house we flew ;
But hark ye ! the best fun by half

Was Simon arter Sue.

2

“She cared not, dark nor light, not she ;

So, near the dairy door
She passed a clean white hog, you see,

They'd kilt the day before.
“High on the spirket 4 there it hung,–

Now Susie -- what can save ye?'
Round the cold pig his arms he flung,

And cried 'Ah ! heve I have ye!'

“The farmers heard what Simon said,

And what a noise ! good lack !
Some almost laughed themselves to dead,

And others clapped his back.
1 Cow-house. 2 Something. 3 Strangled.

4 An iron hook.

U

“We all at once began to tell

What fun we had abroad ;
But Simon stood our jeers right well ;

-He fell asleep and snored.
“Then in his button-hole upright

Did Fariner Crouder put
A slip of paper twisted tight,

And held the candle to't.
"It smoked, and smoked, beneath his nose,

The harmless blaze crept higher ; Till with a vengeance up he rose,

'Grace, Judie, Sue! fire, fire !' “The clock struck one--some talked of parting,

Some said it was a sin, And hitched their chairs ;- but those for starting

Now let the moonlight in. "Owd women, loitering for the nonce,

Stood praising the fine weather ; The menfolks took the hint at once

To kiss them all together.
“And out ran every soul beside,

A shanny-pated 2 crew ;
Owd folks could neither run nor hide,

So some ketched one, some tew.
“They skriggled 3 and began to scold,

But laughing got the master ;
Some quackling * cried, ‘let go your hold ;'

The farmers held the faster.

“All innocent, that I'll be sworn,

There wor’nt a bit of sorrow;
And women, if their gowns are torn,

Can mend them on the morrow.
“Our shadows helter skelter danced

About the moonlight ground ;
The wondering sheep, as on we pranced,

Got up and gazed around.
“And well they might-till Farmer Cheerum

Now with a hearty glee
Bade all good morn as he came near 'em,

And then to bed went he.

1 For the purpose.
3 To struggle quick.

2 Giddy, thoughtless.
4 Choking.

“ Then off we strolled this way and that,

With merry voices ringing ;
And Echo answered us right pat,

As home we rambled singing.
For, when we laughed, it laughed again,

And to our own doors followed.
"Yo ho !' we cried ; 'Yo ho !' so plain

The misty meadow hallooed.
That's all my tale, and all the fun;

Come, turn your wheels about ;
My worsted, see !—that's nicely done,

Just held my story out !”
Poor Judie !—Thus Time knits or spins

The worsted from Life's ball !
Death stopped thy tales, and stopped thy pins,

- And so he'll serve us all.

RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKIN. [Born in the county of Cork, 1767; died in 1815. Was an attorney in Cork, but not very zealous in his profession, having more taste for literature and for drawing. He had some reputation as an amateur artist, and was active in founding a Society for the Promotion of the Fine Arts in Cork. He published The Riverside, a blank-verse poem, in 1807. One of his compositions was the famous song, The Groves of Blarney.

THE FAIR MAID OF PASSAGE.1

O FAIR maid of Passage,

As plump as a sassage,
And as mild as a kitten,

Those eyes in your face !

Yerrah ! pity my case,
For poor Dermuid is smitten !

Far softer nor silk,

And more white than new milk,
Oh your lily-white hand is;

Your lips red as cherries,

And your eyes like blackberries,
And you're straight as a wand is !

Your talk is so quare,

And your sweet curly hair,
Is as black as the devil ;

And your breath is as sweet, too,

As any potatoe,

Or orange from Seville.
1 Passage is the town now named Queenstown, Cork,

When dressed in her boddice

She trips like a goddess,
So nimble, so frisky ;

One kiss from her cheek,

'Tis so soft and so sleek
That 'twould warm me like whisky.

So I sobs and I pine,

And I grunts like a swine,
Because you're so cruel ;

No rest can I take,

All asleep or awake,
But I dreams of my jewel.

Your hate, then, give over,

Nor Dermuid, your lover,
So cruelly handle ;

Or, faith, Dermuid must die,

Like a pig in a stye,
Or the snuff of a candle.

SIMON QUIN."

THE TOWN OF PASSAGE.
The town of Passage is neat and spacious,

All situated upon the sea ;
The ships a-floating, and the youths a-boating,

With their cotton coats on each summer's day.
'Tis there you'd see, both night and morning,

The men of war, with fresh-flowing sails;
The bould lieutenants, and the tars so jolly,

All steering for Cork in a hackney chaise.
'Tis there's a stature drawn after nature,

A leaping from the mud upon the dry land ;
A lion or a leopard, or some fierce creature,

With a Reading-made-easy all in his hand.?
There's a rendez-vous house for each bould hero

For to take on, whose heart beats high;
The colours a-drooping, and the children's rockets

All pinned across it, hanging out to dry.
?Tis there's a Strand too, that's decked with oar-weeds,

And tender gob-stones 3 and mussel-shells;
And there's skeehories, and what still more is,

A comely fresh-flowing water rill. 1 I am unable to give any particulars concerning this writer. His poem is inserted in Crofton Croker's Popular Songs of Ireland, 1839: it appears to be the first form of a ballad which has been retouched by various hands, and has been popular under all.

% The figure-head of an old ship. 3 Round pebbles. 4 Hawthorn berries.

1

'Tis there the ladies, when break of day is,

And tender lovers, do often pelt;
Some a-airing and some a-bathing,

All mother-naked, to enjoy their health.
And there's a ferry-boat that's quite convenient,

Where man and horses do take a ride ;
'Tis there in clover you may pass over

To Carrigaloe on the other side.
There may be seen 0 ! the sweet Marino,

With its trees so green 0 ! and fruit so red ;
Brave White Point, and right fornent it

The Giant's Stairs, and sweet Horse's Head.
There's a house of lodgings at one Molly Bowen's,

Where often goes in one Simon Quin;
Oh! 'tis there without a coat on, you'd hear her grope on

The door to open, to let him in.
Then straight up stairs one pair of windows,

With but the slates betwixt him and the sky;
Oh 'tis there till morning the fleas all swarming

Do keep him warm in where he does lie.

a

MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS. [Born in London in 1773, son of a West-India planter, and deputy-secretary in the War-Office; died in the Gulf of Florida, July 1818. Lewis was partly educated in Germany, which may have served to develop his peculiar taste for the horrible, supernatural, and grotesque. His first work was the once highly celebrated romance of The Monk, published in 1795: hence his ordinary nickname “Monk Lewis." Tales of Terror, Tales of Wonder, and other volumes in verse and in prose, followed : his play of The Castle Spectre was a conspicuous public success. Lewis entered parliament, but soon retired thence. He was a man of fashion, of a volatile mercurial nature, which, along with his very diminutive stature, exposed him to some ridicule. At the same time, he was truly good-hearted, and in many respects estimable : Walter Scott has termed him one of the kindest and best creatures that ever lived." He took two voyages to the West Indies, in 1815 and 1817, to look after his property there, and partly to assure himself that the slaves upon his estates received humane treatment. It was on returning from the second of these voyages that he died at sea, of a fever. At first it was rumoured that his philanthropic feelings had cost him his life: one of his slaves was said to have given him poison, in order to hasten the emancipation which, as announced by Lewis himself, would be accorded to all of them on the occurrence of his death). GRIM, KING OF THE GHOSTS; OR, THE DANCE OF DEATH.

A CHURCHYARD TALE.

Why, how now, old sexton ? why shake you with dread?

Why haunt you this street, where you're sure to catch cold? Full warm is your blanket, full snug is your bed ! And long since, by the steeple-chimes, twelve has been told.”

i The seat of Savage French, Esq., on the Great Island.

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