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Where blind-worms crawling in the grass

Disgusted all the nation,
He gave them a rise, which opened their eyes

To a sense of their situation.

No wonder that those Irish lads

Should be so gay and frisky,
For sure St. Pat he taught them that,

As well as making whiskey;
No wonder that the saint himself

Should understand distilling,
Since his mother kept a shebeen-shop

In the town of Enniskillen.

O, was I but so fortunate

As to be back in Munster, 'T is I'd be bound that from that ground

I never more would once stir.
For there St. Patrick planted turf,

And plenty of the praties,
With pigs galore, ma gra, ma 'store,

And cabbages—and ladies.
So, success attend St. Patrick's fist,

For he 's a saint so clever;
O, he gave the snakes and toads a twist
And bothered them forever!


The Cloud.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; Long had I watched the glory moving on,

O'er the still radiance of the lake below:
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,

E'en in its very motion there was rest,
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,



Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll

Right onward to the golden gates of heaven,
While to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

John Wilson.

The Bucket.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view !-
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew !
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it;
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure;
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure--
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell!
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it,
As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips !
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.

And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!


The Soul's Defiance.

I said to sorrow's awful storm,

That beat against my breast,
Rage on!—thou may'st destroy this form,

And lay it low at rest;
But still the spirit that now brooks

Thy tempest, raging high,
Undaunted on its fury looks,

With steadfast eye.

I said to penury's meagre train,

Come on! your threats I brave;
My last poor life-drop you may drain,

And crush me to the grave;
Yet still the spirit that endures

Shall mock your force the while,
And meet cach cold, cold grasp of yours

With bitter smile.

I said to cold neglect and scorn,

Pass on! I heed you not;
Ye may pursue me till my form

And being are forgot;
Yet still the spirit which you see

Undaunted by your wiles,
Draws from its own nobility

Its high-born smiles.



I said to friendship's menaced blow,

Strike deep! my heart shall bear;
Thou canst but add one bitter woe

To those already there;
Yet still the spirit that sustains

This last severe distress,
Shall smile upon its keenest pains,

And scorn redress.

I said to death's uplifted dart,

Aim sure! oh, why delay ?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart-

A weak, reluctant prey ;
For still the spirit, firm and free,

Unruffed by this last dismay,
Wrapt in its own eternity,
Shall pass away.


The Mitherless Bairn.

WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?
”T is the puir doited loonie,—the mitherless bairn.

The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed;
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
And litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there,
O’hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair;
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an’stern,
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn.

Yon sister that seng o'er his saftly rocked bed
Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid;

The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn,
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth,
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth;
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn.

O, speak him na harshly,---he trembles the while,
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile;
In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn,
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn.



My life is like the summer rose

That opens to the morning sky,
But, ere the shades of evening close,

Is scattered on the ground—to die!
Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see, —
But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf

That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail-its date is brief,

Restless—and soon to pass away!
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The winds bewail the leafless tree, -
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

My life is like the prints which feet

Have left on Tampa's desert strand;
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand;

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