tirely thrown away. As a fresh wound shrinks back. from the hand that would apply a remedy, but by de grees submits to, and even requires, the means of cure; so a mind under the first impression of misfortune shuns and rejects all arguments of consolation, but at length, if applied with tenderness, calmly and wil Fingly acquiesces in them. Her affliction was by time mellowed into a kind of constitutional melancholy and she still retained the title to which the exquisite ness of her feelings had given her so indisputable a claim. At the period of her father's disappearance: Kate Kearney was fifteen. There is no proof, or even report, that she was at that time distinguished for a levity which has been attributed to her by the present panegyrist of her beauty, who has also ascribed cruelty and inconstancy to her. On the contrary, the cir eumstances which we have related, stamp upon her a character which can never die: filial tenderness is inconsistent with the disgusting levity of a flirt, and it is impossible that she who adored her kindred, could be cruel to her kind.

Three years rolled ony and the fair mourner still had! her misery imprinted on her soul. There appeared in the neighbourhood, an old woman, who was generally reputed to be a witch; she had done many things of a wonderful description; and to this woman Kate: Kearney, who believed that her father was taken away: by supernatural means, was resolved to apply. The story goes on thes. Our heroine was told by the old: oracle that her father was yet living, but that the divi nity of the lake, the hoary Killarn, had taken him to his dominions, in order to reward him for his virtues upon earth; and that he could again be beheld by his daughter if she visited the bottom of the lake.. She accordingly prepared herself, and after several masses plunged into the water. In a short time she rose: above the surface, and told those who were waiting in 6 silent

"

ilent expectation, that she had been with her father, from whom she was determined to part no more. She immediately disappeared, and was never seen again.

For a long time after this the part of the lake which the name of Kate Kearney has immortalized, was distinguished by certain solemn ceremonials, that showed the admiration and the superstition of the clans which inhabited its banks..

ON A GRAVE YOUNG LADY WHO WAS SEEN TO LAUGH AT CHURCH.

[From the same, Sept. 2.]

You ask me how Chloe, just now in her prime,

Throws off the most cumbersome burden of time.-
Two points she pursues, and in equal proportion:-
Much spent in diversion, and some in devotion ;-
And she always takes care they shall both be inverted
At diversion devout, at devotion diverted.

UPON a voyage bound, to Kingdom come,
Lay gasping, groaning, an old bed-rid beldame;
A Monk, and Satan, in th' adjoining room,

"

Had a warm argument, (this happens seldom ;)
Not, like two hangmen, for her gown and cowl,
But, which of them should have the woman's soul
As for the woman," says the Prince of Darkness,
"I would not give three farthings for her carcase.
Take that, Sir Monk, and do with 't what you will vi
But, for her soul, that goes with me to hell;
My claims are many." Satan then went on,
Thousands of sins he reckon'd one by one;
Stated, Virginitytwice twenty score,

The dame had barter'd, ten times o'er and o'er ;
Of married women-husbands led astray

By assignations made, both night and day;

th

Big-bellied maids deliver'd 'fore the time,
By means of forc'd abortions, (horrid crime!)
With many other sins of blackest hue,

Which well he urg'd-to give the Devil his due.
The Monk, undaunted at this load of sin,
Replied, with confident malicious grin,
"Sir Satan, by your leave, keep off your paw,
The woman's soul is safe, by Papal law;
For, though its sins took up an hour confessing,
It has receiv'd its passport in my blessing!"
In such-like arguments they long disputed,
For each was far too proud to be confuted;
At last, cries Satan, trusting to his luck,

"Let's throw the dice"-the Monk the bargain struck.
Chance now decides who shall take up the stake;
Why don't all litigants this method take?

Satan first seiz'd upon the fatal box,
Shook well the dice, and eke Itis fiery locks;
Then muttering low some diabolic word,
He threw three damning sizes on the board ;
Retorting then the Monk's malicious grin,
"Do you pretend, Sir Monk, from me to win?
Where's now your passport, and your Papal law,
To save this sinner from my powerful paw?"

"'Tis my time now," returns the wily Priest
And he, (for miracles had not then ceas'd,)
Grasping the box, with eyes turn'd up to heaven,
Rattled and threw a conqu'ring triple seven.
All unbelievers were at this surpris'd,

The Devil was dup'd, the Monk was canoniz'd;
His name, St. Guillim, to the Church was given,
In memory of his conqu'ring triple seven..
Where, on a pannel in the western aile,
You see the Tripartite portray'd in oil,
The Devil, leaning on his bended elbows,
Looks like a drunken sailor in the bilboes,
The winner-saint, dress'd in his frock and cowl,
Hugs in his arms the woman's lucky soul;
While she lies, all along, as stiff as stone,
With a brown, dirty, greasy nightcap on.

* 59 D 19. V 192

THE

THE BET-A PETER-PINDARIČ.

[From the British Press, Sept. 6.]

Epicuri de grege PORCUM

THE dinner o'er,

Most folks have seen

Some wags, I ween,

Who'll make, of orange-peel, a sow or boar,
It happen'd once a bet was made,
"Twixt two of skill unequal in the trade,
That he, who had but rarely tried,
Would most excel-and was defied:
Each took a half of orange-peel,

And work'd away upon't with steel.

HoA

The one, expert, produc'd his pig with quick despatch,
The other cut his peel in many a shred and patch.
With pride exulting now, the Pigman cried-"I've won!****
Not so," his rival said, "not so, be justice done ;
Not so, I say, though you look big,

And all the rest may titter-
Town, indeed, you've made your Figa

But I have made a Litter !""

TO A MISER.

[From the Morning Chronicle, Sept. 6.]"

MEN say you are wealthy, but falsely, I'm sure,
And thus I can prove it, my friend-

You have not a penny to give to the poor,
Nor have you a penny to spend.

SIMPLE PAT.

[From the same.]

IN London, poor Pat, having spent harvest wages,
Soon felt, to his grief, how an empty paunch rages
And, puzzled in pate how to conjure a dinner,
On loan begg'd a passenger for a thirteener;
The stranger ey'd Pat, and express'd some surprise,
That a person he never had seen 'twixt the eyes,

From

From him quite unknown should a loan ask of money.
"Fait now that's just the raison," cries Pat, "my dear
honey;

Becaise you ne'er saw me, I tought you'd be willing;
For no one that knows me will lend me a shilling !”

EPIGRAM.

[From the same.].

DAMUS, an Author cold and weak,

Thinks as a Critic he's divine;

Likely enough-We often make.
Good vinegar of sorry wine!

LINES FOR A BUST OF THE RIGHT HON.
CHARLES JAMES FOX.

[From the same, Sept. 7.]

THE sage, the statesman, and the patriot's mind,
To matchless eloquence and taste he join'd;
No narrow views for transient fame and sway,
To reign the idol of a fleeting day;

No mean expedients, and no tricks of state,
Sunk and debas'd him to the vulgar great.
Alike he scorn'd the demagogue's wild schemes,
His artful projects, or Utopian dreams;
To court the mob he never would descend,
Yet prov'd through life their firm consistent friend
His gen'rous temper ne'er a foe opprest,
His manly candour rivals e'er confest;

In many a storm he freedom's cause maintain'd;
When falling succour'd, and when weak sustain'd
With voice prophetic, ev'ry ill-foretold
Of haughty counsels, or the thirst of gold,.
Which made an empire Albion's sway disown,
And rais'd fierce Gallia to her guilty throne.