"Sure you must be froze

With the sleet and hail, sir; So will you have some punch, Or will you have some ale, sir?"

Presently a maid

Enters with the liquor, (Half a pint of ale

Frothing in a beaker).

Gods! I didn't know

What my beating heart meant
Hebe's self I thought

Entered the apartment.
As she came she smiled,
And the smile bewitching,
On my word and honour,
Lighted all the kitchen!

With a curtsey neat

Greeting the new-comer, Lovely, smiling Peg

Offers me the rummer; But my trembling hand Up the beaker tilted, And the glass of ale Every drop I spilt it: Spilt it every drop

(Dames, who read my volumes,

Pardon such a word,)

On my what-d'ye-call'ems!

Witnessing the sight

Of that dire disaster,

Out began to laugh

Missis, maid, and master;

Such a merry peal,

Specially Miss Peg's was,

(As the glass of ale

Trickling down my legs was),

That the joyful sound

Of that ringing laughter

Echoed in my ears

Many a long day after.

Such a silver peal!

In the meadows listening, You who've heard the bells Ringing to a christening; You who ever heard

Caradori pretty,

Smiling like an angel,
Singing "Giovinetti,"
Fancy Peggy's laugh,

Sweet, and clear, and cheerful, At my pantaloons

With half a pint of beer full!

When the laugh was done,
Peg. the pretty hussy,
Moved about the room
Wonderfully busy;
Now she looks to see

If the kettle keep hot,
Now she rubs the spoons,

Now she cleans the teapot; Now she sets the cups

Trimly and secure,

Now she scours a pot,

And so it was I drew her.

Thus it was I drew her,
Scouring of a kettle,
(Faith! her blushing cheeks,
Redden'd on the metal!)

Ah! but 'tis in vain

That I try to sketch it; The pot perhaps is like,

But Peggy's face is wretched.

No: the best of lead,

And of Indian-rubber,

Never could depict

That sweet kettle-scrubber!

See her as she moves!

Scarce the ground she touches,

Airy as a fay,

Graceful as a duchess.

Bare her rounded arm,

Bare her little leg is,

Vestris never show'd

Ankles like to Peggy's: Braided is her hair,

Soft her look and modest, Slim her little waist Comfortably boddiced.

This I do declare,

Happy is the laddy

Who the heart can share

Of Peg of Limavaddy;

Married if she were,

Blest would be the daddy
Of the children fair

Of Peg of Limavaddy;
Beauty is not rare

In the land of Paddy,
Fair beyond compare
Is Peg of Limavaddy.

Citizen or squire

Tory, Whig, or Radi-
Ical would all desire

Peg of Limavaddy.

Had I Homer's fire,

Or that of Sergeant Taddy,

Meetly I'd admire

Peg of Limavaddy.

And till I expire,

Or till I grow mad, I
Will sing unto my lyre
Peg of Limavaddy!

Samuel Lover.

Among the successful song-writers of the Victorian Age must be mentioned Samuel Lover (1797-1868). This highly talented man, a native of Dublin, was a poet, musician, painter and novelist. He occasionally gave public entertainments, reciting his own sketches. of Irish life, and singing his own songs, and always succeeded in delighting his audience, not only in Ireland and England, but in America. Lover's principal songs are, the Angels' Whisper, the low-backed Car, Molly Bawn, the Land of the West, and the Four-leaved Shamrock.

THE LAND OF THE WEST.

Oh, come to the West, love-oh, come there with me;
"Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs from the sea,
Where fair Plenty smiles from her emerald throne;
Oh, come to the West, and I'll make thee mine own!
I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee the best,
And you'll say there's no land like the land of the West!

The South has its roses and bright skies of blue,
But ours are more sweet with love's own changeful hue

Half sunshine, half tears, like the girl I love best;
Oh! what is the South to the beautiful West!

Then come to the West, and the rose on thy mouth
Will be sweeter to me than the flow'rs of the South!

The North has its snow-tow'rs of dazzling array,
All sparkling with gems in the ne'er-setting day;
There the Storm-king may dwell in the halls he loves best,
But the soft-breathing zephyr he plays in the West.
Then come there with me, where no cold wind doth blow,
And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the snow.

The Sun in the gorgeous East chaseth the night
When he riseth, refresh'd, in his glory and might!
But where doth he go when he seeks his sweet rest?
Oh! doth he not haste to the beautiful West?
Then come there with me; 'tis the land I love best,
'Tis the land of my sires! 'tis my own darling West.

W. Carleton.

William Carleton (1798-1869), the well-known author of Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry, has, like Thackeray, interspersed his prose-works with occasional verses and short poems. His most remarkable poetical effort is called Sir Turlough, or, the Churchyard Bride, a poem which has some resemblance to Goethe's Bride of Corinth, and is founded on an ancient and curious Irish superstition. It is believed, among the Irish peasantry, that if a man at a funeral loiters in the churchyard after the departure of the other mourners, he meets with a lady of surpassing beauty, who casts such a spell over him, that he pledges himself by a kiss to meet her again in the same place on that day month. With this embrace, however, a deadly poison diffuses itself through his whole frame, and from that moment he begins to waste away, so that when the appointed day arrives, it is his dead body that is borne to the trysting-place. In Carleton's poem the constantly recurring chorus: "Killeevy, O Killeevy!” is intended to represent the keen, or wailing of the hired mourners, as it is still practised in some remote districts of Ireland.

SIR TURLOUGH, OR, THE CHURCHYARD BRIDE.

The bride she bound her golden hair,

Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And her step was light as the breezy air,
When it bends the morning flowers so fair
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

The bridegroom is come with youthful brow,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!

To receive from his Eva her virgin vow.
"Why tarries the bride of my bosom now?"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

A cry! a cry! 'twas her maidens spoke,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!

"Your bride is asleep she has not awoke;
And the sleep she sleeps will never be broke,"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

Sir Turlough sank down with a heavy moan,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And his cheek became like the marble stone
"Oh, the pulse of my heart is for ever gone!"
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

The keen is loud, it comes again,
Killeevy, Ó Killeevy!

And rises sad from the funeral train,
As in sorrow it winds along the plain,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

There is a voice that but one can hear,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And it softly pours from behind the bier
Its notes of death on Sir Turlough's ear,

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

The keen is loud, but that voice is low,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And it sings its song of sorrow slow,
And names young Turlough's name with woe,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.

Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!

And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed,
The fairest corpse among the dead

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.