dreams were thine!

Of the merry harvest-home, all beneath the good green tree,

The poppies and the spikes of corn, the shouting and the glee

Of the lads so blithe and healthy, and the girls so gay and neat,

And the dance they lead around the tree with ever twinkling feet;

And the bushy piles of lentisk to rest the aching brow,

And reach and pluck the damson down from the overladen bough,

And munch the roasted bean at ease, and quaff the Ptelean wineTheocritus! Theocritus! what pleasant dreams were thine!

And higher dreams were thine to dream of Heracles the brave,

And Polydeukes good at need, and Castor strong to save;

Of Dionysius and the woe he wrought the Theban king;

glittering ring;

Of Tiresias, the blind old man, the fam'd Aonian seer;

Of Hecatè, and Cthonian Dis, whom all mankind revere;

And of Daphnis lying down to die beneath the leafy vine

Theocritus! Theocritus! what pleasant dreams were thine !

But mostly sweet and soft thy dreamsof Cypris' loving kiss,

Of the dark-haired maids of Corinth, and the feasts of Sybaris ;

Of alabaster vases of Assyrian perfume, Of ebony, and gold, and pomp, and softlycurtain'd room;

Of Faunus piping in the woods to the Satyrs' noisy rout,

And the saucy Panisks mocking him with many a jeer and flout;

And of the tender-footed Hours, and
Pieria's tuneful Nine-
Theocritus! Theocritus! what pleasant
dreams were thine!

Here and there
Like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cates,
And dishes and plates,

Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! he hopp'd upon all !
With a saucy air,

He perch'd on the chair

Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat, In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat; And he peer'd in the face

Of his Lordship's Grace, With a satisfied look, as if he would say, "We two are the greatest folks here today!"

And the priests, with awe,

As such freaks they saw,

Said, "The Devil must be in that little

Jackdaw!"

And they did splash her with real Macasshur,

And the Queen said, "Ah! then thank ye all for me!"

Then the trumpets braying, and the organ playing,

And the sweet trombones, with their sil

ver tones;

But Lord Rolle was rolling ; —'t was mighty consoling

To think his Lordship did not break his bones!

Then the crames and custard, and the beef and mustard,

All on the tombstones like a poultherer's shop;

With lobsters and white-bait, and other swate-meats,

And wine and nagus, and Imparial Pop!

There was cakes and apples in all the Chapels,

With fine polonies, and rich mellow pears,

Och! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he got prog enough,

The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs.

Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people wonder'd,

Crying, "God save Victoria, our Royal Queen!"

Och! if myself should live to be a hundred,

Sure it's the proudest day that I'll have seen!

And now, I've ended, what I pretended,

This narration splendid in swate poe-thry, Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher, Faith, it's myself that 's getting dhry.

THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY

THERE was a lady liv'd at Leith,

A lady very stylish, man;
And yet, in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman
A nasty, ugly Irishman,

A wild, tremendous Irishman,

A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

His face was no ways beautiful,

For with small-pox 't was scarr❜d across; And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost double a yard across. Oh, the lump of an Irishman, The whiskey-devouring Irishman, The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue the fighting, rioting Irish

man.

One of his eyes was bottle-green,

And the other eye was out, my dear; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear. Oh, the great big Irishman, The rattling, battling Irishman The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irish

man.

He took so much of Lundy-foot

That he used to snort and snuffle-O! And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. Oh, the horrible Irishman,

The thundering, blundering IrishmanThe slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman.

His name was a terrible name, indeed,
Being Timothy Thady Mulligan;
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of
punch

He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again.

The boozing, bruising Irishman,

The 'toxicated Irishman

The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman.

This was the lad the lady lov'd,
Like all the girls of quality;

And he broke the skulls of the men of
Leith,

Just by the way of jollity.

Oh, the leathering Irishman,

The barbarous, savage Irishman The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were bother'd I'm sure by this Irishman.