morning; good day Ma'am!

* (Exit Dobbins.) MRS. THRIFTY. Sola. Fine goings on these indeed! But the imperent fellows shant consult me with impiety; I see I shall be necessitated to have 'em punished, but I can't help it.

JOHN.

Enter JOHN, in a hurry.

Five more gemmen Ma'am, and you must get 'em dinner immediately. Master says you must get 'em beds also.

MRS. THRIFTY. Five more gemmen come, and : we to find beds for 'em all! But this is just their way, if there were no inns for thirty miles round, they'd all be welcome here. I wish with all my heart, they were all crammed into the Pository.

(Exit Mrs. T. in a flounce.)

N. B. The rest of the piece is lost, but it is in this strain. The concluding scene ends with Mrs. Thrifty going to seek the Repository, and while in the act of searching, she falls into a hole prepared for the purpose, and the curtain drops, with Mrs. Thrifty up to her neck in mud, and a chorus of boys singing around "Go to the devil and shake yourself."

SONG FOR THE GREEK PLAY DAY.

[IT was a subject of regret, at our last convivial meeting on the Grecian holiday, that no adventurous Muse had been found to compose a song for the

occasion. The author of the following lines has anxiously waited in the expectation that some abler pen would take up the theme; but, as no such production has appeared, and in order that the approaching festivity may not be entirely unhonoured by some kind of tribute from Parnassus, he hazards the approval of the subjoined trifle. Perhaps some musica doctor will take upon himself the trouble of composing a new, or adapting an old air, to the words. "The Irish Melodies"

would furnish an easy selection.]

Oh! let not the voice of the songster be wanting

On the day of the land and the language of bards! But the pean of joy let each tongue join in chanting, Now that freedom the toils of past labour rewards.

(CHORUS.

Then pledge me the wine-cup with roses surrounded,
Our voices in chorus let harmony twine;
Touch the lyre !-there's a chord in each heart
will be sounded;

And wit lies in each liquid ruby of wine.

Oh! such days are green islets in life's stormy ocean On which the glad sunbeams of joy gaily sport; Here awhile let us stay then our bark's onward motion,

And seize the bright boon, for its durance is short. Then pledge me &c.

Were old Time with his hour-meeting glass to

sweep by us,

Such a scene would entice the gray conqueror in, And the mirth of this moment would make him so joyous,

His sand he'd exchange for an hour glass of wine. Then pledge me &c.

What reck we if not without troubles we sever

The fruit of improvement from science's tree? In a red sea of wine we will whelm them for ever, And our memories shall be but of joyance and glee!

CHORUS.

Then pledge me the wine-cup with roses surrounded, Our voices in chorus let harmony twine;

Touch the lyre,—there's a chord in each heart will be sounded,

And strike a bright joke from each sparkle of wine.

AN OLD FRIEND,

SHIEL.

"The flash of wit, the bright intelligence, The beam of song the blaze of eloquence,

The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring

Home to our hearts the truths from which they spring."

BYRON.

IF ever, the "day star" of eloquence shot its enlivening lustre on an admiring world, this indeed seems to be the hour of its might and its glory. England has heard and has wondered, while her orators have told the nations, that the halcyon days of Ciceronian eloquence are not past with the honours of the Roman name; but it is in Ireland, oppressed and degraded as she is, that the high-soaring Eagle of true eloquence has fixed her rock-built nest; she hovers round with her eye of intelligent animation; and cherishes under the shadow of her wings "The Island of Saints and of Learning." As a periodical paper observes, "Eloquence is by no means an exotic in Ireland; indeed it is supposed to grow spontaneously on the Snire, as well as on the Shannon; among the hills of Kerry, as well as on the plains of Leinster." Illustrious as are her patriots, and powerful as are her orators, the object of this unfinished sketch undoubtedly holds the foremost place in the brilliant circles. In Richard Shiel the sentence of the Roman bard has been exemplified

"Poeta nascitur, Orator, fit,"

Nature formed him a poet; his own exertions made him the Orator. One day will I select, to give an idea of the powers which his extraordinary genius exhibits on every. There was to have been an Aggregate, and Shiel was in particular spirits. I was there; and O'Connell spoke. He was ap

plauded, and was tedious.

Shiel stood up, and

peal on peal the echoing cheers arose within the

vaulted dome. His dark grey eye was all fire; his countenance seemed in a blaze! he addressed the chair in his ordinary shrill tone; and, if we might judge from his opening, there was little of the orator about him. But he had not proceeded far, when the commanding cadence of his finely modulated voice filled every corner of the building. His little body seemed worked up to the highest pitch of even frantic enthusiasm by his subject, and his language flowed like an Irish stream, impetuous, overwhelming, and enwrapping in itself all, that comes within its vortex. His allusions from history were apt, and to the purpose: his figures elegant, and animated with all the fire and warmth of unrivalled genius; and his description of the "oft-told" sufferings of his hapless country, unaffectedly pathetic, beyond any of the most studied. orations of the magnificent Curran. I have envied him when I beheld him standing forth, in all the majesty of patriotism and talent; depicting the "wrongs of Ireland" with eloquence, more sublime than ever fell from mortal lips, and trumpeting to the world her tale of sorrow, while the responsive walls echoed back on the ears of his delighted auditors his thrilling effusions. As a patriot, the purity of his motives, and the zeal of his exertions, yield to those of none; while the drama can testify that his poetic faculties only want cultivation, to place him on a level with the most distinguished in

B