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Here smiles good humour, here the spirits tower,

Here all is cheerfulness and sunny weather:
Here shews the gourmand his capacious power,

The beau his graces, and the ' wit' his 'feather,'
Prude, jilt, coquet, assembled at this hour

Display their tastes quite unreserv'd together.
Kings, lords and commons worship its attraction,
The seal of concord on each rival faction!

'Tis over, God be prais'd'tis nearly eight,

Come, come prepare—I hear the bugle's note;
We must away: the Captain will not wait,

And see, already crowds approach the boat.
Take down the baskets-we'll be surely late :

Here, Thomas, help me on with my great coat,
The evening's chilly and the wind is high-
God bless you

all, my friends, good bye, good bye.

Now on the beach the crowds proceed along

To get on board-she's at Smith Barry's quay-
In haste and bustle moves the merry throng,

Some scarcely able to make out the way,
Having indulg'd too freely—which was wrong.

Others, (the ladies!) shaking hands, delay
Upon the shore, and thinking not of parting,
Until the Captain gives the word for starting.

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“Come, come in, Ladies--not a moment more

“Can I delay—the night is falling fast;
“Haul in, Jack, --stop a bit-there's some on shore

“Still coming on,-come, gentlemen, we're past
“ Our time by a full hour-quick, I implore

“ You. Now haul in the plank, yet stay, avast,
“I see one running, oh!- I would not doubt him,
"Stop, 'tis the Sheriff-we can't go without him.”

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November—the month of gloom—becomes a month of sunshine and promise in the world of literature. As soon as it appears—the titles of new books are once more heard ofand the columns of the Courier sparkle with other things besides Charles Wright's champaign.-November is the Spring of our year—the harbinger of the month of feasting and of holiday, and its productions are of a light and cheerful nature, that contrast well with the dark and sombre clouds that sometimes visit us. The very names they bear are inviting — Who could resist " forget me not,” presented by a lovely girl arrayed in innocence and beauty ?

The first fair flower of November is called Amulet.-It will be in full, bloom in a fortnight. We possess one already—but it is of hot-house growth. In truth, the Amulet for 1827 excels its predecessor, in beauty, interest, and

value. One of the illustrations, “ the Cottage Girl" is worth the price of the entire volume. It is engraved by Finden, from a painting by Howard, and is accompanied by some charming lines by Mrs. Hemans.

We shall probably give a review of this volume with the other annual Souvenirs, in the new year's number. We have only space now for “ the song of the Little Bird”—a legend of the south of Ireland, by Mr. Crofton Croker, It is introduced by the following remarks on the Holy Wells of Ireland—

“ As such assemblies are composed of those who believe in the perfor

mance of miracles through all ages of the world, legends of all descrip“ tions, but more particularly those of different saints, are told more freely “ than under other circumstances or in other situations. From several

so related to me, I select the following, chiefly on account of the ex: “treme simplicity of its diction. Indeed such was the charm of this sim“plicity of style over me, that at the time of hearing, I felt little inclined to

question the truth of so marvellous a tale. The scenery around me may “ have had, and probably had its influence. It was a beautiful summer's evening, and weary with walking, I had sat down to rest upon a grassy

bank, close to a holy well, I felt refreshed at the sight of the clear cold “ water, through which pebbles glistened, and sparks of silvery air shot

upwards: in short, I was in the temper to be pleased. An old woman “ had concluded her prayers, and was about to depart, when I entered “ into conversation with her, and I have written the very words, in which "she related to me the legend of the song of the Little Bird.”



Many years ago, there was a very religious and holy man, one of the monks of a convent, and he was one day kneeling at his prayers in the garden of his monastery, when he heard a little bird singing in one of the rose trees of the garden, and there never was any thing that he had heard in the world, so sweet as the song of that little bird.

And the holy man rose up from his knees, where he was kneeling at his prayers to listen to its song; for he thought he never in all his life heard any thing so heavenly.

And the little bird, after singing for some time longer in the rose tree, flew away to a grove at some distance from the monastery, and the holy man followed it to listen to its singing, for he felt as if he could never be tired of listening to the sweet song, that it was singing out of his little throat.

And the little bird after that went away to another distant tree, and sung there for a while, and then again to another tree, and so on in the same manner, but ever farther and farther away from the monastery, and the holy man still following it farther and farther and farther, still listening delighted to its enchanting song.

But at last he was obliged to give up as it was growing late in the day, and he returned to the convent, and as he approached it in the evening, the sun was setting in the west with all the most heavenly colours that were ever seen in all the world, and when he came into the convent, it was night-fall.

“ And he was quite surprised at every thing he saw, for they were all strange faces about him in the monastery, that he had never seen before, and the very place itself, and every thing about it, seemed to be strangely altered; and altogether it seemed entirely different from what it was when he left it in the morning; and the garden was not like the garden, where he had been kneeling at his devotions, when he first heard the singing of the little bird."

And while he was wondering at all he saw, one of the monks of the convent came up to him, and the holy man questioned him— Brother, what is the cause of all these strange changes that have taken place here since the morning?

. And the monk that he spoke to, seemed to wonder greatly at his question, and asked him what he meant by the change since morning; for sure there was no change; that all was just as before; and then he said, brother, why do you ask these strange questions, and what is your name? for you wear the habit of our order, though we have never seen you before.'

So upon this, the holy man told his name, and that he had been at mass in the chapel in the morning, before he had wandered away from the garden, listening to the song of a little bird, that was singing among the rose trees, near where he was kneeling at his prayers.

And the brother, while be was speaking, gazed at him very earnestly, and then told him, that there was in the convent a tradition of a brother of his name, who had left it two hundred years before; but that what had become of him was never known.

And while he was speaking, the holy man said, “ My hour of death is come: blessed be the name of the Lord, for all his mercies to me, through the merits of his only begotten son."

“ And he kneeled down that very moment, and said, brother, take my confession, and give me absolution, for my soul is departing."

“ And he made his confession, and received his absolution, and was anointed, and before midnight he died.”

“ The little bird, you see, was an Angel, one of the cherubim or seraphim ; und that was the way that the Almighty was pleased in his mercy to take to himself the soul of that holy man.'


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In the poem

We must claim indulgence from our numerous kind correspondents until our next number appears, which we intend to publish on the first of January.

The Printer's devil again implores for mercy-particularly from our fair friend Josephine Ada.

“ Yeruka," in page 289-instead of
The scarlet cardinal swells its jet throat,
The malicious imp printed,

The scarlet cardinal swells its fat throat,
And in line 122, he has substituted head for dead.

The title page and the table of contents for the first volume will be delivered with the next number.


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