The Editor's Hat.

One bleak windy morning
Our "devil" set out;
The chilly blast scorning,
He held on his route;
To a garret repairing
For lean or for fat,
He knew he'd get either

In th' EDITOR'S HAT.

The man of the inkhorn
Was seated upright

On the pallet of straw

Where he rolled thro' the night,

His cloak was around him,

His shoes on a mat;

To a table beside him

He stretched for his HAT.

'Twas chaotic confusion-
A pie-box to view,
There were murders in plenty,
A marriage or two;

The last battle in India,

French news, and all that,

Were huddled together

In th' EDITOR'S HAT.

The great speech of Russell ;Blow-up of a Brig:

A pig taught to whistle;

The state whirligig ;

Dan O'Connell's preamble

To civilize Pat;

Were mixed humble-jumble
In th' EDITOR'S HAT.

The "devil" grinn'd slyly : "I'm waiting for takesThe foreman has sent me.". "Be off in three shakes;

There is no want of copy,

You impish young brat."

Here the ED. tossed out

The contents of his HAT.

An old Enigma.

Years of adventure have been mine: With prophet, servant, king I walked ; My tale is told with pen divine

And I with God's elect have talked.

My mother nourished me with milk,
But on her lap I never lay;
She clad me not in glossy silk,

Tho' slaves did wait lest I should stray.

To school in youth I never went;

To teach me down an angel came,

My early days in sport I spent ;
In age I bore a prophet's fame.

I never at baptismal fount

Received a name that could decay; I met with God on Zophim Mount, And saw his glory on the way.

A heav'n-taught lesson 'twas I spoke When causeless stripes a tyrant gave;

No law of God I ever broke,

And yet was laid not in the grave.

My earthly woes I silent bore ;

Like Job I evil did eschew ;

His patience oft is counted o'er-
My patience is proverbial too.

Simple, uneducated, I

Α message from the Lord have borne ; I never on a couch did lie,

The scourge was all his thanks to me;

And tho' I daily bore my cross,

The Throne of Christ I ne'er shall see.

Answer to the Above,

By Mr. Boyle, Schoolmaster, of Maryborough,
Signed BR-ASS-PEN.

Dear STEEL, your riddle I read through,

But far it did surpass

My skill until I thought of you,

Then thought of " Balaam's Ass."

You say you "at baptismal fount
Received no name,"-alas!

Sure prophets, more than I could count,
Have "saddled thee" an ass.

Should any ask you "who art thou?"
When going to Church or Mass,
Politely answer, (with a bow,)
"Sir, am I not thine ass?"

If an ass-ass-in you should meet,
Just in a narrow pass,

May you behave full as discreet,
As did fam'd "Balaam's Ass."

Should you,

while in this "vale of tears,"

Lose silver, gold, and brass,

Your cross, may you, (devoid of cares,)

Bear, patient as an ass.

And when on earth you cease to bray,
And lie beneath the grass,
Each passer-by with truth may say,
Here lies a prating ass!

These really simple and witty lines, which appeared in the LEINSTER EXPRESS the week succeeding the publication of the Enigma, drew from me, more in fun than in resentment, a rather severe and caustic effusion, inscribed to their worthy author; but lest the reprinting thereof should cause the slightest pain to a man whom I highly respect, I have determined not to allow it insertion in this volume.-May it be forgotten! Peace to its ashes!