Ye clergy so wise

Who myst'ries profound can demonstrate most clear, How worthy to rise!

You preach once a week,

But your tithes never seek
Above once in a year:

Come here without failing,
And leave off your railing

'Gainst bishops providing for dull stupid drones;
Says the text so divine,

"What is life without wine?"

Then away with the claret-a bumper, Squire Jones.
Ye lawyers so just,

Be the cause what it will, who so learnedly plead,
How worthy of trust!

You know black from white,
Yet prefer wrong to right
As you chance to be fee'd :
Leave musty reports,

And forsake the king's courts,

Where dulness and discord have set up their thrones; Burn Salkeld and Ventris,

With all your damn'd entries,

And away with the claret-a bumper, Squire Jones.
Ye physical tribe,

Whose knowledge consists in hard words and grimace
Whene'er you prescribe,

Have at your devotion
Pills, bolus, or potion,
Be what will the case:
Pray where is the need

To purge, blister, and bleed ?

When, ailing yourselves, the whole faculty owns
That the forms of old Galen

Are not so prevailing

As mirth, with good claret, and bumpers, Squire Jones.

Ye foxhunters eke,

That follow the call of the horn and the hound,
Who your ladies forsake
Before they're awake,
To beat up the brake

Where the vermin is found:

Leave Piper and Blueman,

Shrill Duchess and Trueman

No music is found in such dissonant tones:

Would you ravish your ears

With the songs of the spheres,

Hark away to the claret—a bumper, Squire Jones!

BARNEY BRALLAGHAN'S COURTSHIP.

"TWAS on a windy night,

At two o'clock in the morning,

An Irish lad so tight,

All wind and weather scorning,
At Judy Callaghan's door,

Sitting upon the palings,

His love-tale he did pour,

And this was part of his wailings—
Only say

You'll have Mister Brallaghan,
Don't say nay,

Charming Judy Callaghan.

Oh, list to what I say,

Charms you've got like Venus;

Own your love you may,

There's only the wall between us;

You lie fast asleep,

Snug in bed and snoring,
Round the house I creep,
Your hard heart imploring.
Only, say, &c.

I've got nine pigs and a sow,
I've got a stye to sleep 'em ;
A calf and a brindled cow,

And got a cabin to keep 'em;
Sunday hose and coat,

An old grey mare to ride on,
Saddle and bridle to boot,

Which you may ride astride on.
Only say, &c.

I've got an old Tom cat,

Thro' one eye he's staring;

I've got a Sunday hat,

Little the worse for wearing;

I've got some gooseberry wine-
The trees had got no riper;
I've got a fiddle fine,

Which only wants a piper.
Only say, &c.

I've got an acre of ground,

I've got it set with praties;

I've got of backey a pound,

And got some tay for the ladies;

I've got the ring to wed,

Some whiskey to make us gaily,
A mattress, feather bed,

And handsome new shillelah.
Only say, &c.

You've got a charming eye,

You've got some spelling and readirg;
You've got, and so have I,

A taste for genteel breeding;
You're rich, and fair, and young,

As everybody's knowing,
You've got a dacent tongue,
Whene'er 'tis set a going.
Only say, &c.

For a wife till death

I am willing to take ye

But, och, I waste my breath,

The devil himself can't wake ye!

'Tis just beginning to rain,

So I'll get under cover;

I'll come to-morrow again,

And be your constant lover.
Only say, &c.

This song was thought worthy, by the illustrious "Father Prout" (no bad judgeindeed, he's as good as a judge and jury in such matters), of being honoured by his polyglot pen with a Latin version. I believe he did the same honour to my "Molly Carew."

O, THE DAYS WHEN I WAS YOUNG!
SHERIDAN. From the "Duenna."

O, the days when I was young!

When I laughed in fortune's spite,
Talk'd of love the whole day long,

And with nectar crown'd the night:

Then it was, old father Care,

Little reck'd I of thy frown;
Half thy malice youth could bear,
And the rest a bumper drown.

Truth, they say, lies in a well;
Why, I vow I ne'er could see,
Let the water-drinkers tell-
There it always lay for me!
For when sparkling wine went round
Never saw I falsehood's mask :

But still honest Truth I found

In the bottom of each flask.

True, at length my vigour's flown,
I have years to bring decay:
Few the locks that now I own,

And the few I have are grey;
Yet old Jerome, thou may'st boast
While thy spirits do not tire,
Still beneath thy age's frost
Glows a spark of youthful fire.

THE BIRTH OF SAINT PATRICK.

SAMUEL LOVER. From "Songs and Ballads."

On the eighth day of March it was, some people say,
That Saint Patrick at midnight he first saw the day;
While others declare 'twas the ninth he was born,
And 'twas all a mistake between midnight and morn;
For mistakes will occur in a hurry, and shock,

And some blamed the babby-and some blamed the clock-
Till with all their cross questions sure no one could know
If the child was too fast-or the clock was too slow.

Now the first faction fight in owld Ireland, they say,
Was all on account of Saint Patrick's birthday,
Some fought for the eighth-for the ninth more would die,
And who wouldn't see right, sure they blacken'd his eye!
At last, both the factions so positive grew

That each kept a birthday-so Pat then had two,
Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins,
Said "No one could have two birthdays but a twins."

Says he, "Boys, don't be fighting for eight or for nine,
Don't be always dividing-but sometimes combine ;*
Combine eight with nine, and seventeent is the mark,
So let that be his birthday."- "Amen," says the clerk.
"If he wasn't a twins, sure our hist'ry will show-

That, at least, he's worth any two saints that we know!
Then they all got blind drunk-which completed their bliss,
And we keep up the practice from that day to this.

* This is a very homely way of saying what Moore has more elaborately turned into polished verse:

""Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate

Your web of discord wove,

And while your tyrants join'd, in hate,

You never joined in love."

The 17th of March is St. Patrick's Day.

The name of Charles Lever holds a very distinguished place in the lively literature of the present day, and of popularity he has obtained a large share. This is not to be wondered at, when we consider how joyously he dashes into his scenes of fun, and, by felicitous description, imparts his joy to others. And, though merriment is the staple of his writings, his works have an occasional tone of romance not a little fascinating. He describes some scenes of darker interest with no small power; while his pathetic influence is sufficient to enlist our sympathies. Whoever read "St. Patrick's Eve" without feeling hazy about the eyes, has stronger nerves than mine. Some captious critics have attempted to decry Charles Lever, and, among other things, have accused him of sameness;-to be sure, an eternal round of pleasantry is offensive to some stupid people: the sour Athenians hated Aristides for being always called just. Let such critics have a basket of oyster-shells, by all means-the oysters I would share with pleasanter fellows. Charles Lever has enriched some of his stories with admirable comic songs, many of which will be found in this collection.