Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've tazed me enough,

Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff;
And I've made myself drinkin' your health quite a baste,
So I think after that, I may talk to the priest."

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm 'round her neck,

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,

And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips;-don't you think he was right? "Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more. That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd me before." "Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More.

MOLLY BAWN.

Он, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,
Lonely waiting here for you;
The stars above are brightly shining,
Because they've nothing else to do.
The flowers late were open keeping,
To try a rival blush with you,

But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping,
With their rosy faces washed with dew.

Oh, Molly Bawn-oh, Molly Bawn.

The pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,
And the pretty stars were made to shine;
The pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,
And maybe you were made for mine..
The wicked watch-dog here is snarling,
He takes me for a thief, you see;
He knows I'd steal you, Molly, Darling,
And then "transported" I would be.

Oh, Molly Bawn-oh, Molly Bawn.

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.

A BABY was sleeping,

Its mother was weeping,

For her husband was far on the wild, raging sea,
And the tempest was swelling,

Round the fisherman's dwelling

And she cried: "Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me!"

Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumber'd

And smiled in her face as she bended her knee; "Oh! blest be that warning,

My child's sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.

"And while they are keeping

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me-
And say thou wouldst rather

They'd watch o'er thy father,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee."

The dawn of the morning

Saw Dermot returning,

And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see;
And closely caressing

Her child with a blessing,

Said: "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.”

THE FAIRY BOY.

[When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish peasant believes the healthy infant has been stolen by the fairies, and a sickly elf left in its place.]

A MOTHER came, when stars were paling,

Wailing 'round a lonely spring;
Thus she cried while tears were falling,
Calling on the fairy King:
Why with spells my child caressing,
Courting him with fairy joy;
Why destroy a mother's blessing,

Wherefore steal my baby boy?

"O'er the mountain, through the wild wood,
Where his childhood loved to play;
Where the flowers are freshly springing,
There I wander, day by day.

"There I wander, growing fonder

Of the child that made my joy;

On the echoes wildly calling,

To restore my fairy boy.

But in vain my plaintive calling,
Tears are falling all in vain;

He now sports with fairy pleasure,
He's the treasure of their train!
"Fare thee well, my child, forever,
In this world I've lost my joy;
But in the next we ne'er shall sever,
There I'll find my angel boy!"

T

REV. FRANCIS MAHONY

(FATHER PROUT).

HERE are, indeed, few pseudonyms in the

broad extent of English literature that have attained greater celebrity than that of "Father Prout," the classic sage of Watergrasshill, near Blarney. Even the renowned names of Sir Morgan O'Dougherty and Barry Cornwall pale before that synonym of wit, waggery, and linguistic lore, so often appended to the spiciest articles that ever adorned the pages of Frazer's Magazine.

The city of St. Finbar, on the "banks of the Lee," reckons this literary genius among the number of its illustrious sons. In that delightful old capital of Munster he was born in the year 1804, of parents who were neither rich nor poor, but could boast of a long line of ancestors whose martial renown haloes the vicinity of Dromore Castle, the cunabulum of the sept of the O'Mahonys, in the Kingdom of Kerry. "By the pleasant waters of the river Lee" Francis Sylvester Mahony grew to the estate of a gossoon, and went to school, where, it is said, "he picked up with equal facility the Munster brogue and the rudiments of an education." At the early age of twelve years,