Turned, all of a sudden, exceedingly pale,
And sat himself down to weep and to wail;
For, soon as he saw the garment, poor Peter
Made up his mind in very short metre,
That Thisbe was dead and the lion had eat her!
So, breathing a prayer, he determined to share
The fate of his darling, "the loved and the lost,"
And fell on his dagger, and gave up the ghost!

Now Thisbe returning, and viewing her beau
Lying dead by her veil (which she happened to know),
She guessed in a moment the cause of his erring;
And, seizing the knife that had taken his life,
In less than a jiffy was dead as a herring.

Young gentlemen!-pray recollect, if you please,
Not to make appointments near mulberry-trees.
Should your mistress be missing, it shows a weak head
To be stabbing yourself till you know she is dead.
Young ladies!-you shouldn't go strolling about
When your anxious mammas don't know you are out;
And remember that accidents often befall

From kissing young fellows through holes in the wall!

THE FAR AWA LAN'.

Nae ane's wae worn and weary,
Nae ane gangs dark an' dreary
I' the far awa lan'.

Nae frien' frae frien' is pairted,
Nae chokin' tear is stairted,
Nae ane is broken-hairted,
I' the far awa lan'.

Nae bairns greet their deid mither,
Like lammies i' could weather,
I' the far awa lan'.

Nae gude wife there will sicken,

Nae strang man down be stricken,
Nae sky in murk will thicken
I' the far awa lan'.

The heights are crowned in simmer,
The burns i' gladness glimmer
I' the far awa lan'.

As birds rin till their nestie,

As to its dam ilk beastie,

We'll rin till God's own breastie

I' the far awa lan'.

KATE MALONEY.-DAGONET.

In the winter, when the snowdrift stood against the cabin door,

Kate Maloney, wife of Patrick, lay nigh dying on the floor,Lay on rags and tattered garments, moaning out with feeble breath,

"Knale beside me, Pat, my darlint; pray the Lord to give me death."

Patrick knelt him down beside her, took her thin and wasted hand,

Saying something to her softly that she scarce could understand.

"Let me save ye, O my honey! Only spake a single word, And I'll sell the golden secret where it's wanted to be heard.

"Sure it cuts my heart to see ye lyin' dyin' day by day, When it's food and warmth ye're wanting just to dhrive yer pains away.

There's a hundred golden guineas at my mercy if ye willye know that Mickey Regan's in the hut upon the hill ?"

Kate Maloney gripped her husband, then she looked him through and through;

Pat Maloney, am I dhraming? Did I hear them words o' you?

Have I lived an honest woman, lovin' Ireland, God, and thee, That now upon my death-bed ye should spake them words

to me?

"Come ye here, ye tremblin' traitor; stand beside me now

and swear

By yer soul and yer hereafther, while he lives ye will not dare

Whisper e'en a single letter o' brave Mickey Regan's name. Can't I die o' cold and hunger? Would ye have me die o' shame ?

"Let the Saxon bloodhounds hunt him, let them show their filthy gold;

What's the poor boy done to hurt 'em? Killed a rascal rich and old,—

Shot an English thief who robbed us, grinding Irish peas ants down;

Raisin' rints to pay his wantons and his lackeys up in town. "We are beasts, we Irish peasants, whom these Saxon tyrants

spurn;

If ye hunt a beast too closely, and ye wound him, won't he turn?

Wasn't Regan's sister ruined by the blackguard lying dead, Who was paid his rint last Monday, not in silver, but in lead?"

Pat Maloney stood and listened, then he knelt and kissed his wife:

"Kiss me, darlint, and forgive me; sure, I thought to save your life;

And it's hard to see ye dyin' when the gold's within my reach,

I'll be lonely when ye're gone, dear-" here a whimper stopped his speech.

Late that night, when Kate was dozing, Pat crept cautiously

away

From his cabin to the hovel where the hunted Regan lay; He was there-he heard him breathing; something whispered to him, "Go!

Go and claim the hundred guineas-Kate will never need to know."

He would plan some little story when he brought her food to eat,

He would say the priest had met him, and had sent her wine and meat.

No one passed their lonely cabin; Kate would lie and fancy still

Mick had slipped away in secret from the hut upon the hill.

Kate Maloney woke and missed him; guessed his errand there and then;

Raised her feeble voice and cursed him with the curse of God and men.

From her rags she slowly staggered, took her husband's loaded gun,

Ι

Crying, “God, I pray Thee, help me, ere the traitor's deed be done!"

All her limbs were weak with fever as she crawled across

the floor;

But she writhed and struggled bravely till she reached the cabin door;

Thence she scanned the open country, for the moon was in its prime,

And she saw her husband running, and she thought, "there yet is time."

He had come from Regan's hiding, past the door, and now

he went

By the pathway down the mountain, on his evil errand bent.

Once she called him, but he stopped not, neither gave he . glance behind,

For her voice was weak and feeble, and it melted on the wind.

Then a sudden strength came to her, and she rose and followed fast,

Though her naked limbs were frozen by the bitter winter blast;

She had reached him very nearly when her new-born spirit fled.

"God has willed it !" cried the woman, then she shot the traitor dead!

From her bloodless lips, half frozen, rose a whisper to the sky

"I have saved his soul from treason; here, O Heaven, let me die.

Now no babe unborn shall curse him, nor his country loathe

his name;

I have saved ye, O my husband, from a deed of deathless shame."

No one yet has guessed their story; Mickey Regan got away. And across the kind Atlantic lives an honest man to-day; While in Galway still the peasants show the lonely moun tain side

Where an Irishman was murdered and an Irishwoman died

OPPORTUNITY.

In harvest-time, when fields and woods
Outdazzle sunset's glow,

And scythes clang music through the land,
It is too late to sow.

Too late! too late!

It is too late to sow.

In wintry days, when weary earth
Lies cold in pulseless sleep,
With not a blossom on her shroud,
It is too late to reap.

Too late! too late!
It is too late to reap.

When blue-eyed violets are astir,

And new-born grasses creep,

And young birds chirp, then sow betimes,
And thou betimes shalt reap.

Then sow! then sow!
And thou betimes shalt reap.

DE PEN AND DE SWOARD.

Happening to pass through Mount V. about Christ mas-time, I was invited by a friend to accompany him to the "Colored Debating Society." Your correspondent went. The object of the argument on that particular evening was the settlement at once and forever of the question, "Which am de mightiest, de pen or de swoard?"

Mr. Laukins said about as follows: "Mr. Chaarman, what's de use ob a swoard unless you's gwyne to waar? Who's hyar dat's gwine to waar? I isn't, Mr. Morehouse isn't, Mrs. Morehouse isn't, Mr. Newsome isn't; I'll bet no feller wot speaks on de swoard side is any ideer ob gwyne to waar. Den what's de use ob de swoard? I don't tink dere's much show for argument in de matter."

Mr. Lewman said: "What's de use ob de pen 'less you knows how to write? How's dat? Dat's what I want's to know. Look at de chillun ob Isr'l-wasn't but one man in de whole crowd gwyne up from Egyp' to de Promis' Lan' cood write, an' he didn't write much. [A voice in the audience, "Wrote de ten comman'ments, anyhow, you bet." Cheers from the pen side.] Wrote 'em? wrote 'em? Not much; guess not; not on a stone, honey. Might p'r'aps cut 'em wid a chisel. Broke 'em all, anyhow, 'fore he got down de hill. Den when he cut a new set, de chillun ob Isr'l broke 'em all again. Say he did write 'em, what good was it? So his pen no 'count nohow. No, Saar. what fotched 'em into de Promis' Lan', Saar. it's rediculous. Tink, Saar, ob David a-cuttin' off Goliah's head wid a pen, Saar! De ideer's altogedder too 'posterous, Saar! De swoard, Saar, de swoard mus' win de argument."

De swoard's

Why, Saar,

Dr. Crane said: "I tink Mr. Lewman a leetle too fas'. He's a-speakin' ob de times in de dim pas', when de mind ob man was crude, an' de han' ob man was in de ruff state, an' not toned down to de refinement ob cibilized times. Dey wasn't educated up to de use ob de pen. Deir hans was only fit for de ruff use ob de swoard. Now, as de modern poet says, our swoards rust in deir cubbards, an' peas, sweet peas, covers de lan'. An' what has wrot all dis change? De pen. Do I take a swoard now to git me a peck ob sweet