Jemimer Hann, she fainted dead; I almost did the same; And may all soft-spoke rogues, say I, be brought to sudden shame;

since then I've never give no trust to neither great nor small, And them as thinks to "do" me now, I wish 'em luck! That's all.

What Miss J. Thought of Him.

Come, bring a wreath o' cypress flowers, and twine it in my haw bun 'air,

For ah! my 'oliest 'opes is fled, my soul is shaddered with despair!

The dire decree is spoke and done, and I, poor I, at last must part

From him, the fairest, falsest youth, that ever broke a virgin's 'art.

Nay, nay, not false, at least to me!-for tho' a holler world

uporaid,

And cruel men may spurn with scorn the rewing they themselves has made;

Nay, the they talk of crime and guilt that young and once pure soul hath known,

Yet somethink tells me, tells me still, that erring 'art is hall my bown!

"Tis true, he never told his love in them sweet words what lovers prize,

But oh, the hellerquence o' looks, the liquid languidge o' the heyes!

What meaning in them tender tones that seemed my virgin 'art to beg,

When he'd bespeak a tender chop, or hask me for another hegg!

And then his v'ice in portry's page, how soft, how hangellike, it were!

Strange that sich faults as his should dwell in one so gentle and so fair;

Yet who shall tell what in'nard strife, what fierce temptation's withering blight,

With p'raps no mother's 'oly 'and to guide his hinfant steps aright.

Farewell, misguided youth, farewell; henceforth my life is steeped in gloom,

And soon I trusts this fragile form shall rest within the pitying tomb:

But hever, hever, while I live, tho' fate decrees we two must part, Thine himmage as I saw'd it last is graven on this haking 'art!

What He Thought of Mrs. and Miss J.

Believe me, my boy? I should think she did, or I shouldn't have got the tin:

If I'd told her I was the Lord Mayor's son I think she'd have took it in:

From my clerical self to my father, the squire, she swallowed the story whole,

Till I thought I should roar in the old gal's face, I did upon my soul.

Ha ha! It wasn't half bad, you know, that box-screw business of mine:

By Jove! when she found it out at last the tableau must have been fine!

I should like to have seen the poor old dear, with her hands held up in dismay,

And I warrant the fair "Jemimer Hann" was in a deuce of

a way.

Ha ha! Oh dear, when I think of that gal, it's enough to kill me, it is!

A gushing young creature of thirty-five, with a great, red, pimply phiz;

A mouth as wide as the giant's, you know, that you see in the penny shows,

Reddish cheeks, and carroty hair, and a regular turn-up nose. I could see she was spoony on me at first, so I kept the game afloat,

For I thought it would help to gammon mamma if I got the daughter's vote,

But lor, 'twould have made an anchorite laugh to watch her simpers and sighs,

And how she turned up the yellow whites of her lack-adaisy eyes!

What do you say? Keep clear of the police!-Do you want to insult me now?

"Tis only a county-court matter, that's all, and a fellow must live somehow!

Here, come, we'll have just another game for old acquaintance sake!

A woman? So it isn't, old son! You've been and lost the break!

THE GROVES OF BLARNEY.-RICHARD A. MILLIKEN.

The groves of Blarney they look so charming,

Down by the purlings of sweet silent brooks,— All decked by posies, that spontaneous grow there, Planted in order in the rocky nooks.

'Tis there's the daisy, and the sweet carnation,
The blooming pink, and the rose so fair;
Likewise the lily and the daffodilly,-
All flowers that scent the sweet, open air.

"Tis Lady Jeffers owns this plantation,
Like Alexander, or like Helen fair;
There's no commander in all the nation
For regulation can with her compare.
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder
Could ever plunder her place of strength;
But Oliver Cromwell, he did her pommel,
And made a breach in her battlement.

There's gravel walks there for speculation,
And conversation in sweet solitude;
"Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or
The gentle plover, in the afternoon.
'Tis there's the lake that is stored with perches,
And comely eels in the verdant mud;
Besides the leeches, and the groves of beeches,
All standing in order for to guard the flood.

"Tis there's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in,
With the maids a-stitching upon the stair;
The bread and biske', the beer and whiskey,
Would make you frisky if you were there.
'Tis there you'd see Peg Murphy's daughter
A washing praties fornent the door,
With Roger Cleary, and Father Healy,

All blood relations to my Lord Donoughmore.
There's statues gracing this noble place in,
All heathen goddesses so fair,—
Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus,
All standing naked in the open air.
So now to finish this brave narration,
Which my poor geni' could not entwine;
But were I Homer, or Nebuchadnezzar,
'Tis in every feature I would make it shine.

REPARTEE.-BEN WOOD DAVIS.

They were lunching, one day,
In a handsome café,

And she happened to say,

As she noticed the way

That he and ice cream were in unity,

"Can you eat ice cream with impunity?" And he made the reply,

With a wink of the eye,

"No, but I can with a spoon."

But her triumph came soon;
As they left the saloon,
He gave her a good opportunity:
"And now, Bessie, dear,

As the weather is clear,

Can you take a walk with impunity?"
Her smile was as bright as the moon,
And deliciously shy

Came the mocking reply,
"No, but I can with a spoon."

THE TWO WEAVERS.-HANNAH MORE

As at their work two weavers sat,
Beguiling time with friendly chat,
They touched upon the price of meat,
So high, a weaver scarce could eat.
"What with my brats and sickly wife,"
Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life;
So hard my work, so poor my fare,
'Tis more than mortal man can bear.
"How glorious is the rich man's state!
His house so fine, his wealth so great!
Heaven is unjust, you must agree;
Why all to him? Why none to me?

"In spite of what the Scripture teaches,
In spite of all the parson preaches,
This world-indeed, I've thought so long-
Is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong.

"Where'er I look, howe'er I range,
"Tis all confused, and hard and strange;
The good are troubled and oppressed,
And all the wicked are the blest."

Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause,
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws;
Parts of his ways alone we know;
"Tis all that man can see below.

"Seest thou that carpet, not half done,
Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun?
Behold the wild confusion there;

So rude the mass, it makes one stare.

"A stranger, ignorant of the trade,
Would say no meaning's there conveyed;
For where's the middle, where's the border?
Thy carpet now is all disorder."

Quoth Dick, "My work is yet in bits,

But still in every part it fits;

Besides, you reason like a lout,

Why, man, that carpet's inside out."

Says John, "Thou sayest the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen;
This world that clouds thy soul with doubt
Is but a carpet inside out.

"As when we view these shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends,
So when on earth things look but odd,
They're working still some scheme of God.

"No plan, no pattern can we trace;
All wants proportion, truth and grace;
The motley mixture we deride,

Nor see the beauteous upper side.

"But when we reach that world of light,
And view these works of God aright;
Then shall we see the whole design-
And own the Workman is divine.

"What now seem random strokes, will there All order and design appear;

Then shall we praise what we have spurned, For then the carpet will be turned.”