'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 highGod 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 quayIn 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.

"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."

At length she moves, the wheel revolving flies,
Yet still some lazy loiterer lags behind;

But all in vain to "stop the boat” he cries,

The Captain cannot stop, tho' well inclin'd.

A flood of purple fills the glowing skies,

And night's chill shade approaching fast we find,

For home we steer, impatient of delay,

To crown at last the pleasures of the day.

The deck was crowded-but not all were seated,
They had not seats sufficient-so they stood
Or mov'd along, as better-some related

Their day's adventure, and the dinners good
They had enjoyed-some were quite elevated,

And could not well conceal their merry mood-
But crack'd their jokes with such a loud horse laughter,
As must have made them blush, when mention'd after.

Some smok'd segars, and in their neighbours' faces
Puff'd the full volume-but it was a joke
Not relish'd much-and which in such a place is
Not pleasant-some can't bear the smell of smoke-

One lad was rather free of his embraces,

For which his head was very nearly broke, (Or rather broken.) He conceiv'd a spark Ought not to be rejected in the dark!

The cabin too was crowded every where,
Almost to suffocation, for so many

Dreaded the taking cold from the night air,

That they would not stay outside; and if any Had children, they were sure to cram them there,

For fear of coughs, to cure which costs a penny-
And sometimes the poor infants 'woke and bawling,
Rais'd a duet of hushaby and squalling!

And while thro' deep Lough Mahon's gulph we go,
In pitchy darkness-stars didn't ev'n appear—
And thinking short would be our passage-lo!
The engine stops-and suddenly we hear

The Captain asking anxiously to know

The reason-terror seize upon all, and fear Strikes thro' each heart-the women so bewild'ring The men, about their drowning with their children!

But 'twas soon over, and they only had

To lie to for an hour or so, to put

New leather on the valve-the old was bad

And worn away, the Captain vow'd 'twas but

The work of a few moments. We were glad
It was no worse-the thought of being shut
Up in a sinking boat at first alarm'd us,

But soon O'Brien's smiles appeas'd and charm'd us,

We move at length-the Custom house we gain,
But here another sad misfortune tries

Our patience all bewailing is in vain-
The tide had fallen so much the vessel lies
Aground and here-till morning she'll remain-
A brig beside us soon her boat supplies,
And after much delay we land. And Heaven
Be prais'd we're safe-for new 'tis past eleven.

Here close we our narration. For if not

'Tir'd nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep'
Would close it for us quickly. We have got
Safe o'er the perils of the watʼry deep,
And fear our courteous readers must have caught
Our yawn and weariness-and wish to steep
Their senses in forgetfulness.' A drowsy tale
Is a good opiate when all others fail.

Farewell then Steam Boat, and farewell O'Brien,
And all my fellow passengers farewell,
Good night-if e'er we meet again, rely on
My word, I shall not our adventures tell.
'Tis time my cap of wisdom I should tie on,
And grow more serious after this long spell.
So from my weary Pegassus dismounting,
I bid adieu to rambling and recounting.

FINIS

THE AMULET FOR 1827.

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 of-and 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

66

“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 simplicity 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."

66

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 he 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; and that was the way that the Almighty was pleased in his mercy to take to himself the soul of that holy man.'

"

TO CORRESPONDENTS, &c.

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. In the poem " 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.

END OF VOL. I.