While Peggy, peaceful goddess,

Has darts in her right eye,

That knock men down in the market town,
As right and left they fly,-
While she sits in her low-backed car,
Than battle more dangerous far,

For the doctor's art

Cannot cure the heart

That is hit from that low-backed car.

Sweet Peggy round her car, sir,

Has strings of ducks and geese,
But the scores of hearts she slaughters
By far outnumber these,
While she among her poultry sits,
Just like a turtle dove,

Well worth the cage, I do engage,
Of the blooming god of love!
While she sits in her low-back car
The lovers come near and far,
And envy the chicken

That Peggy is pickin',

As she sits in the low-backed car.

O I'd rather own that car, sir,

With Peggy by my side,

Than a coach and four, and gold galore,

And a lady for my bride.

For the lady would sit fornenst me

On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would sit beside me
With my arm around her waist,
While we drove in the low-backed car

To be married by Father Mahar.

O my heart would beat high
At her glance and her sigh,
Though it beat in a low-backed car!

THE WAR-SHIP OF PEACE

The Americans exhibited much sympathy towards Ireland when the famine raged there in 1847. A touching instance was then given how the better feelings of our nature may employ even the enginery of destruction to serve the cause of humanity: an American frigate (the Jamestown I believe) was dismantled of all her warlike appliances, and placed at the disposal of the charitable to carry provisions.-Author.

S

WEET Land of Song! thy harp doth hang

Upon the willows now,

While famine's blight and fever's pang
Stamp misery on thy brow;

Yet take thy harp, and raise thy voice,
Though faint and low it be,

And let thy sinking heart rejoice
In friends still left to thee !

Look out-look out-across the sea
That girds thy emerald shore,
A ship of war is bound for thee,
But with no warlike store;

Her thunder sleeps-'tis Mercy's breath
That wafts her o'er the sea;

She goes not forth to deal out death,
But bears new life to thee!

Thy wasted hand can scarcely strike
The chords of grateful praise;
Thy plaintive tone is now unlike
Thy voice of former days;
Yet, even in sorrow, tuneful still,
Let Erin's voice proclaim
In bardic praise, on every hill,
Columbia's glorious name!

THE WHISTLIN' THIEF

WH

THEN Pat came over the hill,
His colleen fair to see,
His whistle low, but shrill,
The signal was to be.

(Pat whistles.)

Mary," the mother said,
"Some one is whistling sure."
Says Mary, "'Tis only the wind
Is whistling through the door."

(Pat whistles "Garryowen.")

"I've lived a long time, Mary,
In this wide world, my dear,
But a door to whistle like that
I never yet did hear.”

66

But, mother, you know the fiddle
Hangs close beside the chink,
And the wind upon the strings
Is playing the tune, I think."
(The pig grunts.)

While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep,

That I can't at your sweet purty face get a peep :
Oh, lave off that bonnet,

Or else I'll lave on it

The loss of my wandherin' sowl!
Och hone! weirasthru !

Och hone! like an owl,

Day is night, dear, to me, without you!

Och hone! don't provoke me to do it;
For there's girls by the score

That love me—and more,

And you'd look very quare if some morning you'd

meet

My weddin' all marchin' in pride down the sthreet; Throth, you'd open your eyes,

And you'd die with surprise,

To think 'twasn't you was come to it!
And faith Katty Naile,

And her cow, I

go bail,

Would jump if I'd say,

66

Katty Naile, name the day."

And though you're fair and fresh as a morning in

May,

While she's short and dark like a cowld winter's day, Yet if you don't repent:

Before Easther, when Lent

Is over I'll marry for spite!
Och hone! weirasthru !
And when I die for you,

My ghost will haunt you every night.

MY MOTHER DEAR

HERE was a place in childhood that I remember well,

And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy

tales did tell,

And gentle words and fond embrace were giv'n with joy to me,

When I was in that happy place-upon my mother's knee.

When fairy-tales were ended, "Good-night," she softly said,

And kissed and laid me down to sleep within my tiny bed;

And holy words she taught me there—methinks I yet

can see

Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my mother's

knee.

In the sickness of my childhood-the perils of my prime

The sorrows of my riper years-the cares of every time

When doubt and danger weighed me down-then pleading all for me,

It was a fervent prayer to Heaven that bent my mother's knee.

RORY O'MORE

NG Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn, He was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the

YOUNG

dawn;

He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,