Will kicked out the doctor; but when ill indeed,
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed;
So, calling his host, he said: "Sir, do you know,
I'm the fat single gentleman six months ago?
"Look'e, landlord, I think," argued Will, with a grin, "That with honest intentions you first took me in: But from the first night—and to say it I'm bold— I've been so hanged hot, that I'm sure I caught cold."
Quoth the landlord: "Till now I had ne'er a dispute;
I've let lodgings ten years; I'm a baker to boot;
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven;
And your bed is immediately overmy oven."
"The oven!" says Will. Says the host: "Why this passion?
In that excellent bed died three people of fashion. Why so crusty, good sir ?" "Zounds!" cries Will, in a taking,
"Who wouldn't be crusty with half a year's baking?"
Will paid for his rooms; cried the host, with a sneer, "Well, I see you've been going away half a year." "Friend, we can't well agree; yet no quarrel," Will said;
"But I'd rather not perish while you make your bread."
THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love exalted youth:
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend;
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life!
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man ?—a patriot ?-look around;
Oh! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home!
SHALL they bury me in the deep,
Where wind-forgetting waters sleep?
Shall they dig a grave for me
Under the green-wood tree?
Or on the wild heath,
Where the wilder breath
Of the storm doth blow?
Oh, no! oh, no!
Shall they bury me in the palace tombs,
Or under the shade of cathedral domes ?
Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore;
Yet not there-nor in Greece, though I love it more.
In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find?
Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind?
Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound,
Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground?
Just as they fall they are buried so-
Oh, no! oh, no!
No! on an Irish green hill-side,
On an opening lawn-but not too wide;
For I love the drip of the wetted trees—
I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze,
To freshen the turf-put no tombstone there,
But green sods decked with daisies fair;
Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew
The matted grass-roots may trickle through.
Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind,
"HE SERVED HIS COUNTRY, AND LOVED HIS KIND.'
Oh! 'twere merry unto the grave to go,
If one were sure to be buried so.
THE BELLS OF SHANDON.
REV. F. MAHONY. (Father Prout.)
WITH deep affection
And recollection
I often think of
Those Shandon bells,
Whose sound so wild would,
In the 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 thunder rolling
From the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the
gorgeous turrets
Of Notre Dame;
But thy sounds were 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 kiosk, oh!
In Saint Sophia
The Turkman gets,
And loud in air
Calls men to prayer
From the tapering summit
Of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom
I freely grant them :
But there is an anthem
More dear to me-
'Tis the bells of Shandon
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.
Two Angels, one of Life, and one of Death,
Passed o'er the village as the morning broke;
The dawn was on their faces: and beneath
The sombre houses capped with plumes of smoke.
Their attitude and aspect were the same;
Alike their features and their robes of white;
And one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame, And one with asphodels, like flakes of light.
pause on their celestial way:
Then said I, with deep fear and doubt oppressed, "Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray The place where thy beloved are at rest.”
And he who wore the crown of asphodels,
Descending at my door, began to knock :
And my soul sank within me, as in wells
The waters sink before an earthquake's shock.
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