attachment to the horison which bounds the hill and

the lake within its verge.

'England! thy beauties are tame and domestic,
To one who has roved on the mountains of pride;
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,

The steep, frowning glories of MANGERTON's side."

After spending an adequate time in admiring the surrounding scenery, we descended the declivity, and hastened towards our Inn. The important business of dinner we dispatched, with all due solemnity, when, after devoting a genial hour to the worship of Bacchus, and a fretting moment to the discharge of our bill, we left HAGLEY, and all its attractionsstrongly wishing that it were our lot, sometimes, to retire to such a spot, where inspiration was sporting in every zephyr, and the muse herself seemed wooing our devotion.

D.

S.

L.

SIR THADY OF THE BOGS.

To the Oscott Votaries of Pathos, whoever they may be, this simple and affecting tale is inscribed by

One of themselves,

FETTERLOCK.

NOT far from the banks of the sweet-flowing Slaney, Not a mile from a village ycleped Ballyblaney;

Where pigs and spalpeens roll about at their ease, And the innocent creatures do just what they please;

Where the women are dirty, and full of good

nature,

The men fond of fights and a drop of the cratur, Where one cot you'll not find in a state of completeness,

And the rest corresponding in order and neatness; Not a mile from this hamlet a cabin is seen,

Picturesquish enough, though not o'er above clean; The view from the door is as grand as you please; You're not bothered with woods, or with silly green.

trees;

No ridiculous hedges your vision to clog,

But as far as you look you'll see nothing but bog. It is made up of turf, and of mud, and of clay, But it shews on its ceiling the chinks of decay;

In the roof was a hole, where the thatch was too

thin,

For the smoke to get out, and the rain to get in
The floor is of mud-work as well as the ceiling,
Brown to the view, and soft to the feeling.
The pigs they walked in, and the pigs they walked
out,

With a grunt and a groan and a toss of the snout.
Fat Judy was there, and there too, I ween,

By the side of a pig, lay a little spalpeen,

His face and his hands were both hidden with dirt, And his clothes-but he had none-not even a

shirt!

He was, to tell truth, an enlivening yonng creature, Much resembling a pig both in habits and feature.

What was wanting, this scene of delight to complete, Do you ask? Arrah sure, it was Thady the Great!

But Sir Thady, inflamed with heroic desires, Had left all the turf and the bogs of his sires; And grasping a reaping-hook firm in his hand, He rushed to the wheat fields of Albion's land, And was reaping a harvest of glory and grain, On the nethermost side of the deep roaring main.

"He is come-he is come," with his hook in his hand,

Once more to the bogs of his own native land; The spalpeens and fat Judy were mad with delight, And the praties are boiled for the "festal tonight."

II.

The bog re-echoed to the cry
Of "Welcome, Thady to your sty!"
And many a youth from Ballyblany,
With many a bard and grinning Zany,
Crowded around the cabin wall,
And welcomed Thady one and all.
Dame Judy smirked, the garsoon roared,
The pigs with grunt confessed their lord;
“And many a glad-heart breathed the sound
Of laughing joy and mirth around."

III.

"There be glad-hearts in Thady's cot,"

All care and pain are gone to rot,
Yes--all are glad but Judy :

For sure her Thady's face was grum,
His eloquence was rather mum,

In short the man was moody.

His sun-burnt cheek looked pale I ween,
"His frown was dark, and dread his e’en;"
His black eye, black with recent fight,
Looked big and little with affright.
In short, they all were frighted who
Beheld Sir Thady look so blue.

IV.

Sir Thady swept the bacon by,
The murphies trembled 'neath his eye—
The spalpeens were amazed.

For if to touch the cates they dare,
He looks upon them like a bear;
They trembled as he gazed.
Chaotic gloom so filled his eye,
That all, in wondering sympathy,

Think some one he has kilt:

"But who is he that thus does roam Along the mud-floor of the dome" Distracted by his guilt?

V.

The master of the boggy plain,
Had gone to reap the Sasenach grain,
And left his turf and frogs-

His sickle gleamed beneath the sky,
He cropped the barley, wheat, and rye—
SIR THADY OF THE BOGS!

The stocks had made his shins grow thick,
The whipping-post had seen him kick,
The tread-mill's wheel and fetter's goad,
"Where crawl the basilisk and toad,
Had turned his heart of flesh to stone,"
And baked him in affliction's sun.
He heeded not the bacon's power,
He turned him from the cakes of flower,
And mused with bronzed brow-
"And many a whispering guest would tell,
What ruled him thus with varied spell,
The where-the when-the how-

But that dread night has left a tale,
Which made each garsoon of the vale"

Each youth of Ballyblany,

"With opened mouth grow plaguy pale," By the banks of the river Slany.

VI.

Where Brummage sends its sable streams To deck the night-man's waggon;

Where Phoebus o'er the pork-shop gleams,