"And then, 'mid meadowy banks,
I flirted with the flowers,
That stooped, with glowing lips,
To woo me to their bowers.

"But these bright scenes are o'er,
And darkly flows my wave;
I hear the ocean's roar,

And there must be my grave!"

THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS.

J. CLARENCE MANGAN.

O WOMAN of Three Cows, agragh! don't let your tongue thus rattle!

Oh, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle!

-and here's my hand to you, I only say

I have seen

what's true

A many a one with TWICE your stock, not half so proud as you.

Good-luck to you! don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser;

For, worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser;

And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows:

Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants!

'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!

If they were forced to bow to fate, as every mortal bows,

Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows?

Your neighbour's poor-and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas

Because, inagh! you've got three cows-one more, I see, than she has :

That tongue of yours wags more at times, than charity allows ;

But if you're strong be merciful!-GREAT Woman of Three Cows!

Ah! there you go!-You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing!

And I'm too poor to hinder you! but, by the cloak I'm wearing,

If I had but FOUR Cows myself, even though you were

my spouse,

I'd thwack you

well to cure your pride, my Woman

of Three Cows!

SOLITUDE.

LORD BYRON.

OH! that the desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair Spirit for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
And, hating no one, love but only her!
Ye Elements !-in whose ennobling stir
I feel myself exalted-can ye not
Accord me such a being? Do I err
In deeming such inhabit many a spot?

Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

I REMEMBER.

THOMAS HOOD,

I REMEMBER, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window, where the sun
Came peeping in at morn :
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs, where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday :
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing,

TO A SKYLARK.

My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now;

And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,
The fir-trees, dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky :
It was a childish ignorance:
But now, 'tis little joy

To know I'm further off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

49

TO A SKYLARK.

W. WORDSWORTH.

Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
For thy song, Lark, is strong:
Up with me, up with me into the clouds !
Singing! Singing!

With clouds and sky above thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through wildernesses dreary,
And to-day my heart is weary;

Had I now the wings of a fairy,

Up to thee would I fly.

There is madness about thee, and joy divine,
In that song of thine:

Lift me, guide me high and high

To thy banqueting-place in the sky.

Joyous as morning,

Thou art laughing and scorning:

Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth
To be such a traveller as I.

Happy, happy Liver,

With a soul as strong as a mountain river,
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors and dusty ways must wind:
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
As full of gladness, and as free of heaven,
I, with my fate contented, will plod on,

And hope for higher raptures when Life's day is done.

LITTLE RUSSET.

T. D. SULLIVAN.

LITTLE Russet, brown and bright.
With the blue eyes full of light,
Crimson lips that smile full oft,
Arching eyebrows dark and soft,
Fond of love and full of glee,
Take this little song from me.

Well I know, since pleasant days,
All winsome little ways;
your
How you trotted round about,

Never resting, in or out,

Busy at no one thing long,

Doing right and doing wrong.

How talked and how you sung,

you

With your little tripping tongue,

Prayed to "Dod" and bowed your head,

Asked for jam upon your "bed,"

Spoke to birdies on the "tees,"

Eat your pies and called them "pees."