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An Irishman's Address to his Shillelagh.

Come here, acushla ; through the world

We've travelled many a mile ; With you I've tramped ’mid bogs and brakes,

And jumpt o'er many a stile. You've cost me little for your keep

You never yet got drunk ; And on the longest summer day I never knew

you

funk.

Though other servants constant cry

Indulgence, if you please,
You never asked for wages high,

Nor looked for private ease.
And when Jim Dunn, at Ennis fair,

Declared he'd bake my bread,
And hit me a poltkogue, 'twas you,

My stick, that broke his head.

And now as life's downhill we go,

Heedless of wind and weather,
We'll journey on through weal and woe,

And reach the foot together.
And though this arm is cramped and old,

This trunk with cares o'erborne,
In Erin's cause I still might wield

Thee stoutly—my blackthorn!

A Fireside Sermon.

When Thebes and Athens flourished in their pride

The seats of artist, warrior, and sageThe ancient fathers scorned all lore beside

Books writ from nature, sky and earth their page.

But we who live in after times must be

Content to read each lecture common-place ; And I no better on the moment see

Than the three Sheffield lads the hearth that

grace.

Nought is so low in import, or so novel,

But, deeply studied, can a lesson teach ; And I can from the poker, tongs and shovel,

A homely sermon to my neighbours preach.

The first, when settled embers near expire,

Extracts a warmer heat from th' o'erturned coals, Thus conscience stirs up hell's eternal fire,

And makes it burn the fiercer on our souls.

The tongs, in pinching accents, bids us learn

That twice its length of ground is all we'll have, The last, that we to ashes inust return,

And kindred dust be shovelled on our grave.

Then let us live that we may shun the sting

Of hell's ne'er-dying worm that tortures sore, And let us die that death no dread can bring,

But with the shovel all our pains be o'er.

To a Young Lady, In reply to her request to insert some Verses in her

Scrap-Book.

'Tis curiosity, I know,
That prompts this strange request from you ;
But tho' you e'er so badly want it,
I swear that I will never grant it.
But if for every line of this

Nay, even for every verse I write,
You give me one sweet little kiss,

My oath I'll break, the black and white.

You'll say I'm modest in request,
But quickest bargains are the best ;
And in this sort, whate'er betide,
I'm always on the surest side.
If, like our modern bashful Misses,

You will not grant one for my pains,
Be still a niggard of your kisses,-

None is a loser-none has gains.

Keep them, and I will keep my lines ;-
By every light in heaven that shines,
I swear that I will never give
A verse till I the kiss receive.
You know my mind—now take or leave 'em ;

But, by the oath I lately swore,
Without the kiss you sha'n't receive 'em,-

Down goes my pen—I'll write no more.

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