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A truce without doors or within,
From speeches long as tradesmen spin,
Or rest from her eternal din,
- He found not.
He every soothing art display'd;
Tried of what stuff her skin was made :
Failing in all, to Heav'n he pray'd
To take her.
Once walking by a river's side
In mournful terms, “My dear,” he cried,
“No more let feuds our peace divide,
I'll end them.
“Weary of life, and quite resign'd
To drown I have made up my inind,
So tie my hands as fast behind
- As can be.
“Or Nature may assert her reign,
My arms assist, my will restrain,
And swimming, I once more regain
My troubles.”
With eager haste the dame complies,
While joy stands glist'ning in her eyes;
Already in her thoughts he dies
- Before her.
“Yet, when I view the rolling tide,
Nature revolts,” said he ; “beside,
I would not be a suicide,
* * And die thus:
“It would be better far, I think,
While close I stand upon the brink,
You push me in—nay, never shrink,
But do it.”
To give the blow the more effect,
Some twenty yards she ran direct,
And did what she could least expect
o She should do.
He slips aside, himself to save,
So souse she dashes in the wave,
And gave what ne'er before she gave,
Much pleasure.

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Its chimneys in the rear ! And there's the iron rod so high, That drew the thunder from the sky And turn'd our table-beer! There I was birch'd there I was bred There like a little Adam fed From Learning's woful tree : The weary tasks I used to con!— The hopeless leaves I wept upon — Most fruitless leaves to me!— The summon'd class —the awful bow!— I wonder who is master now And wholesome anguish sheds? How many ushers now employs, How many maids to see the boys Have nothing in their heads ! And Mrs. S " " " ?–Doth she abet (Like Pallas in the parlour) yet Some favour'd two or three.— The little Crichtons of the hour, Her muffin-medals that devour, And swill her prize bohea 3 Ay, there's the play-ground ! there's the lime, Beneath whose shade in summer's prinue So wildly I have read — Who sits there now, and skims the cream Of young Romance, and weaves a dream Of Love and Cottage-bread? Who struts the Randall of the walk? Who models tiny heads in chalk 1 Who scoops the light canoe What early genius buds apace Where's Poynter Harris Bowers ? Chase ? Hal Baylist bl;the Carew Alack thy're gone—a thousand ways : And some are serving in “the Greys,” And some have perish'd young — Jack Harris weds his second wife; Hal Baylis drives the wane of life; And blithe Carew—is hung Grave Bowers teaches A B C To savages at Owhyee;

Poor Chase is with the worms"— All, all are gone—the olden breed — New crops of mushroom boys succeed, “And push us from our forms ” Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout. And leap, and skip, and mob about, At play where we have play'd : Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twins Their crony arms; some in the shine, And some are in the shade Lo, there what mix'd conditious run I The orphan iad; the widow's son; And fortune's favour'd care— The wealthy born, for whom she hath, Mac-Adamized the future path— The nabob's pamper'd heir. Some brightly starr'd- some evil born,For honour some, and some for scorn,-For fair or foul renown ' Good, bad, indiff'rent—none may lack' Look, here's a White, and there's a Black" And there's a Creole brown : Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep. And wish their frugal sires would keep Their only sons at home;— Some tease the future tense, and plan The full-grown doings of the man, And pant for years to come ! A foolish wish : There's one at hoop: And four at fives 1 and five who stoop The marble taw to speed : And one that curvets in and out, Reining his fellow Cob about.Would I were in his steed 2 Yet he would gladly halt and drop That boyish harness off, to swop With this world's heavy wan– To toil, to tug. O little fool! While thou caust be a horse at school, To wish to be a man Perchance thou deem'st it were a thin; To wear a crown, to be a king !

And sleep on regal down | Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares; Far o: is that head that wears l

* That hat without a crown | ... And dost thou think that years acquire ... New added joys' Dost think thy sire

More happy than his son 1 . * That manhood's mirth —Oh, go thy ways To Drury-lane when plays, And see how forced our fun - Thy taws are brave –thy tops are rare – Our tops are spun with coils of care : Our dumps are no delight !— The Elgin marbles are but tame And 'tis at best a sorry game To fly the muse's kite . Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead ... Our topmost joys fall dull and dead Like balls with no rebound ! And often with a faded eye We look behind, and send a sigh Towards that merry ground ! Then be contented. Thou hast got The most of heaven in thy young lot; o There's sky-blue in thy cup ! Thou'lt find thy manhood all too fast— Soon come, soon gone: and age at last A sorry breaking-up !

Ittish Wakes.

The wakes, that is to say, the assemblages of the neighbours in melancholy convention round the bodies of the deceased, during the nights that pass between death and interment, form no inconsiderable part in the occasional amusements of an Irish village, and no incurious characteristic in the customs of the ‘ountry. The o of the deceased is laid out in a arge room upon a bedstead or table, and covered by sheet with the face only exposed; sprigs of rosenary, mint, and thyme, flowers and odorous herbage re spread over the coverlid, and the corpse is sur. mounted *:::. of snuff and tobacco to regale the isitants. Tobacco pipes are plentifully distributed

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have not exploded old customs, two and sometimes four female bards attend on those mournful occasions, who are expressly hired for the purpose of lamentation; this is probably a relique of druidical usage coeval with the Phoenician ancestry; and they sing, by turns, their song of death in voices sweet, and piercing, but in tones the most melancholy and affecting. They sing together, in rude extempore verse, the genealogy and family history, and they recount all the exploits, and virtues, and even the very dresses, conversations, and endearing manners of the deceased. Here there appears a display of different ages, characters, and passions, all the young and the old; the serious and the comical ; the grave and the gay of the lower classes assemble. No where does the real genius and humour of the people so strongly appear, tragedy, comedy, broad farce, pantomime, match-making, love-making, speech-making, songmaking, and story-telling, and all that is comical in the genuine Irish character, develope themselves with the most fantastical freedom in the rustic melo-drame; the contrasted scenes succeed each other as quick as thought; there is a melancholy in their mirth, and a mirth in their melancholy, like that which pervades their national music, and the opposite passions alternately prevail, like light and shade playing upon the surface of a sullen stream. The people come many miles to one of those serio-comic assemblies; refreshments of cakes, whiskey, and ale are distributed between the acts to the visitants, who sit up all night; but the grand feast is reserved to precede the funeral obsequies. A whole hecatomb of geese, turkies, fowls, and lambs are sacrificed some days before for the occasion, and the friends, acquaintances, and neighbours of the deceased are regaled with an abundant cold collation, and plenty of ale, s irits, and wine: while the company of the lower order assemble in the exterior barn or court-yard, and are feasted with baskets of cakes and tubs of ale. When the fu_

neral sets out for the place of interment, the road fa.

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miles is covered by an impervious crowd, horse and foot, sometimes to the number of several thousands, especially if the deceased be a person in ordinary re:t or esteem with his neighbours. The bards form the procession, and, at intervals, renew the hymn of grief, which is chorused by the whole crowd, with shouts of “Ululo,” that rend the skies.

-- ON a CLE pri C.A.T. G.A.M. ESTE r.
What, can he be a teacher of moral regards
Who reads us a Sunday-night lecture on cards
Who cites “Hoyle on Whist” both in chapter and
verse
With the orthodox chances of filling a purse 1
Tells of eighty odd pounds in a family way,
He won at a sitting—by dint of mere play"
Counted thirteen by cards, in revokes and in tricks,
And ne'er flinch'd all the evening from seven to six;
But took odds on each point his opponent could
name,
And call'd this improvement, I think, on the game.
Oh! if such be a priest whom promotion delights,
Ordain him archdeacon of Boodle's and White's.

- Moden N of Lirf.
What legions of fables and whimsical tales
Pass current for gospel where priestcraft prevails 1
Qurancestors thus were most strangely deceiv'd ;
What stories and nonsense for truth they believ'd :
Rut we, their wise sons, who these fables reject,
Even truth, now-a-days, are too apt to suspect:
From believing too much the right faith we let fall;
So now we believe—troth ! just nothing at all.

UNNECEssa R Y can Doup.
What Ton one day says, he the next will deny,
And candidly tell us—'tis all a d-'d lie:
Friend Thomas, this candour from you is not wanted,
For why should you own it?—"Tis taken for granted.
ART of ston Y-TELLING.
Story-tellers may be divided into the Short, the
Mons, the Marvellous, the Insipid, and the De-
Hightful.

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have rid it in three hours; I bought him of a neighbour, one Mr. Masterson; yet, because I would not put my friend in a fright, &c.” Thus far he went in one minute; the story lasted an hour; so that, upon a fair computation, i. spoke seven thousand seven hundred and forty words, instead of six hundred, by which means he made use of seven thousand one hundred and forty more than he had occasion for. The Marvellous is he who is fond of telling such things as no man alive, who has the least use of his reason, can believe. This humour prevails very much in travellers and the vain-glorious: but it is with them very pardonable, because no man's faith is imposed upon; or, if it should be so, no ill consequence attends persons seriously extravagant, exPecting others should give credit to what they know impossible for the greatest dunce to swallow. One of these, who had travelled to Damascus, told his company that the bees of that country were as big as turkies. “Pray, sir,” said a gentleman, bego pardon for the question, “how large were the lives?” “The same size with ours,” replied the traweller. “ Very strange,” said the other : “but how got they into their hives "-" That is none of my business; egad, let them look to that.” Another who had travelled as far as Persia, spoke to his man John, as he was returning home, telling him how necessary it was that a traveller should draw things beyond the life, otherwise he could not hope for that respect from his countrymen which otherwise he might have: “ but at the same time, John,” said he, “wheresoever I shall dine or sup, seep you close to my chair, and if I do very much ::ceed the bounds of truth, punch me behind, that i may correct myself.” . It happened one day, that he dined with a certain gentleman, who shall be aneless, where he affirmed that he saw a monkey to the island of Borneo, which had a tail threescore ards long. John punched him, “I am certain it as fifty, at least.” John punched again. “I beeve, to speak within compass, for I did not measure , it must have been forty." John gave him another Juch. “I remember it lay over a quickset hedge, ad therefore could not be less than thirty." John

at him again. “I could take my oath it was twenty.” This did not satisfy John. Upon which the master turned about in a rage, and said, “Damn you for a puppy! would you have the monkey without any tail at all !” The Insipid, who may not unfitly be called soporific, is one who goes plodding on in a heavy, dull relation of unimportant facts. You shall have an account, from such a person, of every minute circumstance that happened in the so where he had been ; what he did, and what they did; what they said, and what he said; with a million of trite phrases; with an “And so,” beginning every sentence; and “To make a long story short;” and “As I was saying;” with many more expletives of equal signification. It is a most dreadful thing when men have neither the talent of of nor the discretion of holding their tongues; and that, of all people, such as are least qualified, are commonly the most earnest in this way of conversation. The Delight/ul Story-teller is one who speaks not a word too much, or too little; who can, in a very careless manner, give a great deal of pleasure to others, and desires rather to divert, than be applauded; who shows good understanding, and a delicate turn of wit in every thing which comes from him; who can entertain his company better with a history of a child and its hobby-horse, than one of the soporifics can with an account of Alexander and Bucephalus. Such a person is not unlike a bad reader, who makes the most ingenious piece his own; that is, dull and detestable, i. only coming through his mouth.

Little M outlis. From London, Paul the carrier coming down To Wantage, meets a beauty of the town; They both accost with salutation pretty, As “How dost Paul ?” “Thank ye, and how dost

Betty r"

“Did'st see our Jack, nor sister? No, you've seen
I warrant, none but those who saw the queen.”
“Words often spoke in jest,” says Paul, “are true,
I came from Windsor, and if some folks knew
As much as I, it might be well for you."

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