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An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,

The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other;

An' two or three times he endeavored to spake,

But the sthrong manly voice used to falther and break;

But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride,

He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide.

"An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart,

For, sooner or later, the dearest must part;

And God knows it's betther than wandering in fear

On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,

To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast,

From thought, labor, and sorrow, forever shall rest.

Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,

Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour,

For I wish, when my head's lyin' under the raven,

No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!"

Then toward the judge Shamus bent down his head,

An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said.

The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,

An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;

But why are the men standin' idle so late?

An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street?

What come they to talk of? what come they to see?

An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?

O, Shamus O'brien! pray fervent and fast,

May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last;

Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,

When, sthrong, proud an' great as you are, you must die.

At last they threw open the big prison-gate,

An' out came the sheriffs and sodgers in state,

An' a cart in the middle an' Shamus was in it,

Not paler, but prouder than ever that minute.

An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'brien,

Wid prayin' and blessin' and all the girls cryin',

A wild wailin' sound kem on by degrees,

Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees.

On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,

An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on;

An' at every side swellin' around of the cart,

A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.

Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,

An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;

An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground,

An' Shamus O'brien throws one last look around.

Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still,

Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill;

An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,

For the gripe iv the life-strangling chord to prepare;

An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.

But the good priest done mora^ for his hands he unbound

An' with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground;

Bang! bang go the carbines, and clash go the sabres;

He's not down! he's alive still! now stand to him neighbors!

Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,—

By the heavens, he's free!—than thunder more loud,

By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken—

One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.

The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that,

An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat;

To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin,

An' the devil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.

Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,

But if you want hangin, it's yerself you must hang.

Well, a week after this time without firing a cannon, .

A sharp Yankee shooner sailed out of the Shannon,

And the captain left word he was going to Cork,

But the divil a bit, he was bound for New York.

The very next spring, a bright morning in May,

Just six months after the great hangin' day,

A letter was brought to the town of Kildare,

An' on the outside was written out fair

"To ould Misthress O'Brien in Ireland or elsewhere."

An' the inside began, "My dear good old mother,

I'm safe—and I'm happy—and not wishing to bother

You in the readin' (with the help of the priest)

I send you inclosed in this letter at least

Enough to pay him and fetch you away

To ths land of the free and the brave, Amerikay.

Here you'll be happy, and never nade cryin'

So long as you're mother of Shamus O'Brien.

An' give me love to swate Biddy and tell her beware

Of that spalpeen who calls himself Lord of Kildare.

An' just tell the judge, I don't now care a rap,

For him or his wig, or his dirty black cap,

An' as for dragoons, them paid men of slaughter,

Just say that I love them as the divil loves holy water.

An' now my good mother, one word of advice:

Fill your bag with pittatyes and whisky and rice,

An' when you start from oXild Ireland take passage at Cork

An' come straight over to the town of New York,

An' there ax the mayor the best way to go

To the State of Cincinnati in the town of Ohio,

For 'tis there you will find me without much tryin'

At the Harp and the Eagle kept by Shamus O'Brien."

j. s. LE FANU.

BROTHER WATKINS.

We have the subjoined discourse, delivered by a Southern divine who had removed to a new field of labor. To his new flock, on the first day of his ministration, he gave some reminiscences of his former charge, as follows:

"My beloved brethering, before I take my text I must tell you about my parting with my old congregation. On the morning of last Sabbath, I went into the meeting-house to preach my farewell discourse. Just in front of me sot the old fathers and mothers in Israel; the tears coursed down their furrowed cheeks; their tottering forms and quivering lips breathed out a sad—Fare ye well, Brother Watkinsah! Behind them sot the middle aged men and matrons; health and vigor beamed from every countenance; and as they looked up I could see in their dreamy eyes—Fare ye well, Brother Watkins ah! Behind them sot the boys and girls that I had baptized and gathered into the Sabbath-school. Many times had. they been rude and boisterous, but now their merry laugh was hushed, and In the silence I could hear—Fare ye well, Brother Watkinsah! Around on the back seats and in the aisles, stood and sot the colored brethering, with their black faces and honest hearts, and as I looked upon them I could see—Fare ye well, Brother Wat kinsah! When I had finished my discourse, and shaken hands with the brethering—ah! I passed out to take a last look at the old church—ah I The broken steps, the flopping blinds, and mpss-covered roof, suggested only— Fare ye well, Brother Watkinsah! I mounted my old gray mare, with my earthly possessions in my saddle-bags, and as I passed down the street the servant-girls stood in the doors, and with their brooms waved me a—Fare ye well, Brother Watkinsah! As I passed out of the village the low wind blew softly through the waving branches of the trees, and moaned—Fare ye well, Brother Watkinsah! I came down to the creek, and as the old mare stopped to drink I could hear the water rippling over the pebbles a—Fare ye well. Brother Watkinsah! And even the little fishes, as their bright fins glistened in the sunlight, I thought, gathered around to say, as best they could—Fare ye well, Brother Watkinsah! I was slowly passing up the hill, meditating upon the sad vicissitudes and mutations of lite, when suddenly out bounded a big hog from a fence corner, with aboo! aboo! and I came to the ground, with my saddle bags by my side. As I lay in the dust of the road, my old gray mare ran up the hill, and as she turned the top she waved her tail back at me, seemingly to say—Fare ye well, Brother Watkinsah! I tell you, my brethering, it is affecting times to part with a congregation you have been with for over thirty years—ah!"

JOHN B. GOUOH.

TEARS, IDLE TEARS.

FROM "THE PRINCESS."

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the under world;

Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge,—

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret,—
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

OLD CHUMS.

Is it you, Jack? Old boy, is it really you?

I shouldn't have known you but that I was told You might be expected;—pray how do you do?

But what, under heaven, has made you so old?

Your hair! why, you've only a little gray fuzz!

And your beard's white! but that can be beautifully dyed; And your legs aren't but just half as long as they was;

And then—stars and garters! your vest is so wide!

Is this your hand? Lord, how I envied you that
In the time of our courting,—so soft, and so small,

And now it is callous inside, and so fat,—

Well, you beat the very old deuce, that Is all.

Turn round! let me look at you! isn't it odd

How strange in a few years a fellow's chum grows!

Your eye is shrunk up like a bean in a pod,
And what are these lines branching out from your nose?

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