'T is there's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in,
With the maids a-stitching upon the stair;
The bread and biske', the beer and whiskey,

Would make you frisky if you were there.
'I is there you'd see Peg Murphy's daughter
A washing praties forenent the door,
With Roger Cleary, and Father Healy,

All blood relations to my Lord Donoughmore.

There's statues gracing this noble place in,
All heathen goddesses so fair-
Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus,
All standing naked in the open air.
So now to finish this brave narration,
Which my poor geni' could not entwine;
But were I Homer, or Nebuchadnezzar,

'T is in every feature I would make it shine.

RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKIN.

Helen of Kirkconnel.

I WISH I were where Helen lies,
For night and day on me she cries,
And, like an angel, to the skies

Still seems to beckon me!

For me she lived, for me she sigh'd,
For me she wish'd to be a bride,
For me in life's sweet morn she died
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
As Helen on my arm reclined,
A rival with a ruthless mind

Took deadly aim at me.

My love, to disappoint the foe,

Rush'd in between me and the blow;
And now her corse is lying low,

On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell,
I curse the hand by which she fell,
The fiend who made my heaven a hell,

And tore my love from me!

For if, when all the graces shine,
O, if on earth there 's aught divine,
My Helen, all these charms were thine,
They centred all in thee!

Ah! what avails it that, amain,

I clove the assassin's head in twain?

O, when I'm sleeping in my grave,
And o'er my head the rank weeds wave,
May He who life and spirit gave

Unite my love and me!

Then from this world of doubts and sighs,
My soul on wings of peace shall rise,

And, joining Helen in the skies,

Forget Kirkconnel-Lee.

Connel and Flora.

JOHN MAYNE

DARK lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main,
Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again;

Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore;
But Connel returns to his Flora no more.

For see, on yon mountain the dark cloud of death
O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath;
While bloody and pale on a far distant shore
He lies, to return to his Flora no more.

Ye light fleeting spirits that glide o'er the steep,
O, would you but waft me across the wild deep,
There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar,
I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more.
ALEXANDER WILSON.

The Soldier.

WHAT dreaming drone was ever blest,
By thinking of the morrow?
To-day be mine-I leave the rest

To all the fools of sorrow;

Give me the mind that mocks at care,

The heart its own defender;

The spirits that are light as air,

And never beat surrender.

On comes the foe-to arms-to arms-
We meet 't is death or glory;
"T is victory in all her charms,
Or fame in Britain's story;

Dear native land! thy fortunes frown,
And ruffians would enslave thee;
Thou land of honor and renown,

Who would not die to save thee?

'T is you, 't is I, that meets the ball;
And me it better pleases

In battle with the brave to fall,
Than die of cold diseases;
Than drivel on in elbow-chair
With saws and tales unheeded,
A tottering thing of aches and care,
Nor longer loved nor needed.

But thou-dark is thy flowing hair,
Thy eye with fire is streaming,
And o'er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air,
Health sits in triumph beaming;

Then, brother soldier, fill the wine,
Fill high the wine to beauty;
Love, friendship, honor, all are thine,

Thy country and thy duty.

The Beggar.

PITY the sorrows of a poor old

man,

WILLIAM SMYTH.

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been the channel of a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,

With tempting aspect drew me from my road,
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial forced me from the door,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

O, take me to your hospitable dome,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold;
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,

If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity could not be repressed.

Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine? 'T is heaven has brought me to the state you see: And your condition may be soon like mine,

The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then like the lark I sprightly hailed the morn;
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife, sweet soother of my care,
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, lingering fell, a victim of despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Then pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

THOMAS Moss.

The Orphan Boy.

STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale;
Ah, sure my looks must pity wake,—

"T is want that makes my cheek so pale;

Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And I am now an orphan boy.