Tom Wilson rides on the right hand side,
Given her steam at every stride;

An' he touches the whistle, low an' clear,
For Lulu Gray on the hill, to hear-

"Lu-lu! Loo-loo! Loo-oo!"

So it goes on all day an' all night

'Till the old folks have voted the thing a bore; Old maids and bachelors say it ain't right For folks to do courtin'- with such a roar.

But the engineers their kisses will blow
From a whistle valve to the girls they know,
An' stokers the name of their sweethearts tell,
With the "too-too-too" and the swaying bell

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY.

SHAKESPEARE.

To be or not to be-that is the question!
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them. To die-to sleep;—
No more? and, by a sleep, to say we end

The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished! To die—to sleep :

To sleep! perchance to dream! Ay; there's the rub; For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause!

There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin?

Who would fardels bear,

Το groan and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death,-
That undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns-puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

FATHER PROUT.

With deep affection and recollection

I often think of those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, in days of childhood, Fling 'round my cradle their magic spells.

On this I ponder, where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
With thy bells of Shandon

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,

Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine;

While at a glibe rate brass tongues would vibrate.
But all their music spoke naught like thine;
For memory dwelling on each proud swelling
Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling "old Adrian's Mole" in, Their thunders rolling from the Vatican, And cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame; But thy sounds are sweeter than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly!

Oh! the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and kiosko
In St. Sophia the Turkman gets,
And loud in air calls men to prayer

From the tapering summits of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom, I freely grant them,
But there's an anthem more dear to me,
'Tis the bells of Shandon

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee!

HYMN TO THE NIGHT.

LONGFELLOW.

I heard the trailing garments of the night
Sweep through her marble halls!

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence by its spell of might,
Stoop o'er me from above;

The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,

That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,
Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;

The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,-
From those deep cisterns flows.

O, holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of care,
And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend with broad-winged flight,

The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night.

SCENE FROM HAMLET.

Enter the KING, QUEEN, HAMLET, LORDS, and ATTENDANTS.

King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death The memory be green; and that it us befitted

To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom
To be contracted in one brow of woe;

Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature,
That we with wisest sorrow think on him,
Together with remembrance of ourselves.

Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen,

The imperial jointress of this warlike state,
Have we, as 'twere, with a defeated joy,-
Taken to wife: nor have we herein barred
Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone
With this affair along :--For all, our thanks.
But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son,-
Ham. A little more than kin, and less than kind.
[Aside,
King. How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
Ham. Not so, my lord, I am too much i' the sun.
Queen. Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not, for ever, with thy vailed lids,

Seek for thy noble father in the dust:

Thou know'st, 'tis common; all that live, must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.

Iam. Ay, madam, it is common.
Queen.

If it be,

Why seems it so particular with thee?

Ham. Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems. 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

Nor customery suits of solemn black,

Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected 'havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly: These, indeed, seem;
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within, which passeth show;
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.
King. 'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature
Hamlet,

To give these mourning duties to your father:
But, you must know, your father lost a father;