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[The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit;

The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lea; But Lucy likes Jamie ;—she turned and she lookit,

She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless,

And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn; For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return.]

WILLIAM LAIDLAW.

A Litany for Doneraile.

Alas! how dismal is my tale!—
I lost my watch in Doneraile;
My Dublin watch, my chain and seal,
Pilfered at once in Doneraile.

May fire and brimstone never fail
To fall in showers on Doneraile ;
May all the leading fiends assail
The thieving town of Doneraile.

As lightnings flash across the vale,
So down to hell with Doneraile;
The fate of Pompey at Pharsale,
Be that the curse of Doneraile.

May beef or mutton, lamb or veal,
Be never found in Doneraile;
But garlic soup, and scurvy kail,
Be still the food for Doneraile.

And forward as the creeping snail
Th' industry be of Doneraile;
May Heaven a chosen curse entail
On rigid, rotten Doneraile.

May sun and moon forever fail
To beam their lights in Doneraile;

May every pestilential gale
Blast that cursed spot called Doneraile.

May no sweet cuckoo, thrush, or quail,
Be ever heard in Doneraile;
May patriots, kings, and commonweal,
Despise and harass Doneraile.

May every Post, Gazette, and Mail
Sad tidings bring of Doneraile;
May loudest thunders ring a peal,
To blind and deafen Doneraile.

May vengence fall at head and tail,
From north to south, at Doneraile;
May profit light, and tardy sale,
Still damp the trade of Doneraile.

May Fame resound a dismal tale,
Whene'er she lights on Doneraile;
May Egypt's plagues at once prevail,
To thin the knaves of Doneraile.

May frost and snow, and sleet and hail,
Benumb each joint in Doneraile;
May wolves and bloodhounds trace and trai!
The cursed crew of Doneraile.

May Oscar, with his fiery flail,
To atoms thresh all Doneraile;
May every mischief, fresh and stale,
Abide, henceforth, in Doneraile.

May all, from Belfast to Kinsale,
Scoff, curse, and damn you, Doneraile ;
May neither flour nor oatenmeal
Be found or known in Doneraile.

May want and wo each joy curtail
That e'er was known in Doneraile;
May no one coffin want a nail,
That wraps a rogue in Doneraile.

May all the thieves that rob and steal,
The gallows meet in Doneraile;
May all the sons of Granaweal
Blush at the thieves of Doneraile.

May mischief big as Norway whale
O’erwhelm the knaves of Doneraile;
May curses, wholesale and retail,
Pour with full force on Doneraile.

May every transport wont to sail,
A convict bring from Doneraile;
May every churn and milking-pal
Fall dry to staves in Doneraile.
May cold and hunger still congeal
The stagnant blood of Doneraile;
May every hour new woes reveal,
That hell reserves for Doneraile.

May every chosen ill prevail
O’er all the imps of Doneraile;
May no one wish or prayer avail
To soothe the woes of Doneraile.

May th' Inquisition straight impale
The rapparees of Doneraile;
May Charon's boat triumphant sail,
Completely manned from Doneraile.

Ohl may my couplets never fail
To find a curse for Doneraile;
And may grim Pluto's inner jail
For ever groan with Doneraile.

PATRICK O'Keily. a Riddle.

T was in heaven pronounced, and 't was muttered in hell,
And ec ho caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed.
'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder,
Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder.
’T was allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death,
Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned.
Without it the soldier, the seanian, may roam;
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.
'T will not soften the heart; but, though deaf be the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear,
Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower,
Ahl breathe on it softly—it dies in an hour.

CATHERINE FANSHAWE.

The Philosopher's Scales.

A Monk, when his rites sacerdotal were o'er,
In the depths of his cell with its stone-covered floor,
Resigning to thought his chimerical brain,
Once formed the contrivance we now shall explain;
But whether by magic's or alchemy's powers
We know not; indeed, 't is no business of ours.

Perhaps it was only by patience and care,
At last, that he brought his invention to bear.

In youth 't was projected, but years stole away,
And ere 't was complete he was wrinkled and gray;
But success is secure, unless energy fails;
And at length he produced the Philoscpher's Scales.

What were they?" you ask. You shall presently see;
These scales were not made to weigh sugar and tea.
O no; for such properties wondrous had they,
That qualities, feelings, and thoughts they could weigh
Together with articles small or immense,
From mountains or planets to atoms of sense.

Naught was there so bulky but there it would lay,
And naught so ethereal but there it would stay,
And naught so reluctant but in it must go:
All which some examples more clearly will show.

The first thing he weighed was the head of Voltaire,
Which retained all the wit that had ever been there.
As a weight, he threw in a torn scrap of a leaf,
Containing the prayer of the penitent thief;
When the skull rose aloft with so sudden a spell
That it bounced like a ball on the roof of the cell.

One time he put in Alexander the Great,
With a garment that Dorcas had made for a weight;
And though clad in armor from sandals to crown,
The hero rose up, and the garment went down.

A long row of alms-houses, amply endowed
By a well-esteemed Pharisee, busy and proud,
Next loaded one scale; while the other was pressed
By those mites the poor widow dropped into the chest;
Up flew the endowment, not weighing an ounce,
And down, down the farthing-worth came with a bounce

By further experiments (no matter how)
He found that ten chariots weighed less than one plough;

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