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I trates them alike without any imparshality,
And maintain meself on the ground of neutrality,
For the same I've got meself in a quonderum,
For they keep tazing and tazing, to make me fond of

But the more they taze me, the greater the dislike,
And it's sick that I am with their blathering sight.
If there's any truth in dreams, we'd been one long ago,
For I keep dreaming every night, I am lovin' ye so.
By the holy St. Patrick, I loves ye and no other,
And for the likes of ye forsake father and mother.
On me knees, Helen darling, I ask yer consent,
For better or worse, without a rid cent;
If ye refuse me, bedad, I'm like to go crazy,
And cut me throat with a razor to make me soul aisy.
I'm a Catholic, ye know, but for the sake of relation,
Wouldn't mind to change creed and sign a recantation.
I'd do anything in the world, anything ye would say,
If ye'd be Mistress Dolin instead of Miss Day,
I'd save all me money, and buy a new coat,
And go to New Orleans by the steam packet boat;
I'd buy a half acre and build a nice house,
Where nothing would taze us, so much as a mouse;
And you'll hear nothing else, from year out to year in,
But sweet words of kindness from yer Patrick Dolin.
As to the matter of property, Helen me honey,
I've great expectations, but not a ha'p'orth of money,
Me father's a merchant who keeps a great store,
" WARM MEALS FOR A QUARTHER" is the sign on the

door ;
And there he sells lickers and all sorts of trash
That beats all the stores for bringing in cash;
But better than all is me kind-hearted ould aunty
That lives in the patch in her nate little shanty,

tis exhay longo

Patch "unty a

For oft have I dreamed me ould auntie had died
And left me her shanty, with a trifle beside.
'Tis meself that would say, predicting no wrong,
That aunty must die sometime before very long,
And every morning I'm waking, 'tis expecting to find
That the spirit has left aunty and shanty behind,
Then there on the patch would we live, Helen darlin',
With never a hard word, bickering and quarrellin';
But if ye should die—forgive me the thought,
I'd behave meself as a dacent man ought,
I'd spend all me days in wailing and crying,
And wish for nothing better than just to be dying.
You'd see on marble slabs, reared up side by side,
“Here lies Patrick Dolin.” “Here lies Helen his bride.”
Yer indulgence in conclusion on my letter I ask,
For to write a love-letter is no aisy task;
I've an impediment of speech, as me letter all shows,
And a cold in me head that makes me write through me

Please write me a letter to me great-uncle's care,
With the prescription upon it, “ Patrick Dolin, Esquire,
In haste," write in big letters on the outside of the cover,
And believe me, forever, yer distractionate lover.

Written with my own hand. his Rev. O. F. STARKEY.




M Y mate and I had a cosy nest,
11 It was hidden away in a mountain breast
In the heart of nature wild and free;
And two birdlings fair in the nest had we,
But the war-wind blew, and we lacked the food
That was wont to supply our little brood;

So my mate took his flight far over the sea
In search after food for them and for me,
But ere he came back the birdlings had flown,
And I was left in the nest alone;
They had flown away beyond the sea,
And alas! they can never come back to me.
They had flown farther off than the farthest star.
Their wings were o'er tender to fly so far-
But the angels bore them up in their flight.
And oh! their young pinions so pure and bright
Soared away and away to a heavenly height.
I watched them till my eyes grew dim,
No longer birds but seraphim,
And sang in heaven their holy hymn;
They made their nests away in the skies
And now they are birds of paradise.
Alas! my wings were so heavy with sin,
I watched but I could not follow them in.
And oft'times we weep, my mate and I,
For these dear young birdlings away in the sky,
And still he goes far over the sea,
But now he only brings food for me.
I carry my grief like a wound in my breast
And hover around the empty nest;
Or sitting in that nest alone
I sing of naught but my birdlings flown.
You chide me because my songs are sad,
And ask for numbers blithesome and glad.
Oh! ask not for songs that are happy and gay
When my loving mate is so far away;
Ask not for songs that are joyous and free
When my birdlings can never come back to me.
If I sing to you it must either be
A song of the grave, or a song of the sea.



“PUILD me straight, O worthy Master!

Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster,

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!”

The merchant's word, Delighted, the Master heard ; For his heart was in his work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every art. And with a voice that was full of glee, He answered, “ Ere long we will launch A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch As ever weathered a wintry sea !” All is finished! and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength. Today the vessel shall be launched ! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched; And o'er the bay, Slowly, in all his splendors dight, The great sun rises to behold the sight. The ocean old, Centuries old, Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, Paces restless to and fro, Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest ; And far and wide, With ceaseless flow, His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast.

He waits impatient for his bride.
There she stands,
With her foot upon the sands,
Decked with flags and streamers gay,
In honor of her marriage-day,
Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending,
Round her like a veil descending,
Ready to be
The bride of the gray, old sea.
Then the Master,
With a gesture of command,
Waved his hand;
And at the word,
Loud and sudden there was heard,
All around them and below,
The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
Knocking away the shores and spurs.
And see! she stirs !
She starts,-she moves,-she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel,
And, spurning with her feet the ground,
With one exulting, joyous bound,
She leaps into the ocean's arms!
And lo! from the assembled crowd
There rose a shout, prolonged and loud,
That to the ocean seemed to say,–
"Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray;
Take her to thy protecting arms,
With all her youth, and all her charms !"
How beautiful she is ! how fair
She lies within those arms, that press
Her form with many a soft caress
Of tenderness and watchful care!

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