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no other young Irish singer to whom we can point from whom more should be expected in the future. He has just the qualities which will ensure him a lasting hold upon his countrymen-mirth, pathos, tenderness, and music. There is a genuine lilt in his song, and it breathes now of the spirit of gaiety, now of the spirit of tears.

I have arrived at the close of my rapid survey. It is possible that in a field so vast I may not have given to some writers that measure of consideration which is fairly their due; to such my apology is warmly tendered. It was, however, my object to show that the Irish Muse in our day is capable of giving forth that concord of sweet sounds which distinguished her in the past; and this, I think, I have fully established. Irish poetry is not dead; on the contrary, there are symptoms of a strong reawakening of the ost chords. No land can be permanently unhappy which possesses the noble heritage of song. Ireland has had many sorrows; may she soon come to the end of them in a natural, and therefore the best, way. Let Divine Poesy do her share in the regeneration. Though her influence is subtle, and apparently impalpable, that influence is one of the deepest and most potent of all the humanising forces in a nation's life.

G. BARNETT SMITH.

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Joggerel Hitties.

No. I.

A TALE WITH A MORAL.

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THE clock of St. Paul's was just rapping out Four!
When a handsome young man trotted in at the door
Of McLoosum's Hotel; who he was I can't tell !
But a tale I'll unfold, that your blood will run cold,
About that young man with cognomen unknown,
Who never can half his past evil condone,
Or restore to the bosom of outraged McLoosum
The trust in mankind out of which he'd bamboozled him!

“Ha, waiter, the menu !he cried, as he took
His seat at a table—so fierce was his look,
So full of a something, a je ne sais quoi,
That two innocent maids who took tea with their ma,
For the life of 'em couldn't restrain the faux pas
Of an audibly uttered admiring “O, la!"


That changed to a feeling of positive shock
When he double-demmed all, from the soup to the hock,
Found fault with the cuisine, poked fun at the cellar,
And swore that the cook was an ignorant feller!
When the dinner was ordered, leaned back in his chair,
And surveyed all the room with his nose in the air.

“Sir, the dinner is served !" the head waiter observed ;

" That mysterious young man bounded into a chair, And joyfully beamed his proud face I declare, As he glanced round the table and marked what was there. He swallowed the soup, and he gobbled the fish, And didn't he tuck into every dish! Into venison patés, ragoûts, meringues, And an ortolan stuffed who had seen some fat days;

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Into Périgord pie, and a sweet vol au vent
And a dozen more things with prefixes so long,
I cannot with ease get 'em into this song!
When the wreck on the table was highly complete,
That mysterious young man slowly rose to his feet;
With languishing grace put his hand in his pocket,
Then loudly exclaimed, “Why, by Jove, I've not got it!”
The waiters winked round, but the head of them frowned,
He guessed 'twas The Purse that could nowhere be found !
Nor wondered to hear, “Of your little account
I find that at present I've not the amount,
But I'll look in next time I'm passing the door,
Have a look at the menu, and pay up my Score !”

Now, would you believe, that with impudence doosid,
That waiter declined those excuses so lucid,
But ran for McLoosum, who shortly appeared
And politely requested the Score might be cleared;
Which his tone, it was low; but I'd have you to know
He'd been gifted by Heav'n with a sensitive toe,
That quite of itself had a wonderful knack
Of playing a devil's tattoo on the back
Of persons who dined without paying the Score!
And so as it chanced (and I grieve to relate it,
Since from this occurrence so grave might be dated
McLoosum's remorse) a short step to the door
Was made by a mortal, who'd ne'er flown before !
From a seat on his nose, all in battered small-clothes,
That mysterious young man slowly rose to his toes:
“On this very day week, as the clock strikes FOUR,
Will I stop at this portal, step in at this door,
When I'll pay out McLoosum, and pay up my Score !"

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Six days all have vanished, behold now the banished
Young knight of the carpet appear in a trice!
He pulls out his purse, Loosum's claim to disburse;
While the waiters all scurry like so many mice,
And, all in a quake, Loosum owns his mistake,
And thinks that his toe had St. Vitus's dance !
“Say no more !" cries the stranger, in generous burst
Of warm bonhomie, "you're forgiven, but first,

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To show there's no malice between us, we'll dine
Tête-à-tête at this table; the cost shall be mine!
And deep in the bottle we'll drown the vile kick
That honesty served with so shocking a trick !”

McLoosum bowed low; and, like lightning, lo!
The board it was spread, while the wine, brown and red,
Flanked a table that groaned at the weight on its back !
And livelier comrade, or one better able
To give a smart turn to a bon mot or fable,
It never had been Loosum's fortune to meet,
Than this charming young man, so distingué, so neat!
But all things must end. With the last petit ver
The stranger full lightly sprang up from his chair,
And turning his coat-tails up over his back,
Showed what was below, with a monstrous great lack
Of manners, for which he was deeply to blame !
Then called from the door in that attitude same,
Pay yourself in a cheque from the same bank, McLoosum !"
And was gone before waiter or host could pursue him !

I spare you the sufferings horrid
Of Loosum, or tell how his visage, so florid,
Grew purple, and green, and magenta, and blue,
But hasten to tell you the MORAL in view :
When once you've been gulled, let that lesson suffice,
And never be sold in the same fashion twice!

PETER PIPER.

In mercy

My Lodging is on the Cold Ground.

A STORY, IN THREE PARTS.

By the Author of “His Last STAKE,” &c.

PART II.

Six months later Mrs. Douglas, with her nurse and child, was in London. She had taken handsome rooms in Brook Street. Edward Sinclair was at Long's Hotel, and she had definitely promised to become his wife in August. It was then May, and town was very full. She had tried to put off the marriage until she had been a year a widow, but her lover's entreaties had finally prevailed, and she yielded. She could not truthfully give as a reason for delay that the friends of her late husband would be aggrieved by her second marriage, just nine months after his terrible death; for, as far as Sinclair knew, not one of the Douglas connection had taken any notice of her. But he asked no questions. In truth, she seemed absolutely friendless, and she would not allow Sinclair to bring any of his friends to call

upon her.

“No," she said and he could not refuse any request that was made with her lovely dark eyes fixed upon his face—“I cannot meet strangers just yet. Let us have a quiet wedding, and go abroad for a year. When we come back to England, you can introduce me as your wife.”

But to old friends whom he met-generally at his ClubSinclair spoke without reserve of the happy change which was about to take place in his life. One or two remembered the tragic fate of Fredericka's husband at the foreign hotel, and said, “Poor devil! he kept queer company then, did he not ? She

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