Says Paddy, "That same I am glad that you say,
For drames always go quite the contrary way;
So widdy kape draming that same till you die,
When you drame Mike's in bed, why, you'll find it is I!
And it's plased that I am, sure to say so's no sin,
For 'tis all for good luck," says sly Paddy O'Lynn.
"Arrah! widdy, my darling, you've plagued me enough,
And sure then 'tis time that you left off such stuff,
For your sake I've been fighting, and broken my head,
And I think after this, it is time we were wed."
Then Paddy so sly, threw his arms round her waist,
And his lips put to her's, of their sweetness to taste;
And he look'd in her eyes that were sparkling so bright,
And he hugg'd her swate form--faith, then, sure he
did right.

"Now Paddy, be quiet, to take you I'm loath,
Sure, I've now had two husbands, and done for them
both;"
[I'll win,
"Then have me for the third, and p'rhaps this time
For the third time is different," says Paddy O'Lynn.

OH, YES, DEAR LOVE SO TENDERLY.

Oн, yes, dear love, so tenderly,
So blindly I adore thee,
Dominion, wealth, fame, victory
Fade, worthless, all before thee.
Though other beauties swell my train,
With languid eyes I view them;
All former joys have fled-in vain
I study to renew them.

Time was the charms of pomp and power,
Ambition's thirst, would seize me;
Time was, the battle's thrilling hour,
And victory's wreaths could please me.

S

But, oh! dear love so tenderly
So blindly I adore thee;
Dominion, wealth, fame, victory,
Fade, worthless, now before thee.

HOWL NOT, YE WINDS.

HowL not, ye winds, o'er the tomb of the brave;
Roar not, ye waves, at the foot of the mountain;
Breathe, Spirit of peace, oh! breathe o'er each grave;
And soft be the flow of each murmuring fountain.
Let the valiant who fell in defence of their land,
Repose in the quiet they died in defending;
And dear be the spot that beheld their bold band
To death, but to honour, in glory descending.

Oh! theirs is the rest who repose 'neath the sod
That nourished the arm which preserved it in dan-

ger;

And theirs is the hope to repose with their God,
That ages renew in the prayer of the stranger.

CONTENT AND A PIPE.

CONTENTED I sit with my pint and my pipe,
Puffing sorrow and care far away,

And surely the brow of grief nothing can wipe
Like smoking and moist'ning our clay;

For, though liquor can banish man's reason afar, "Tis only a fool or a sot,

Who with reason or sense would be ever at war,
And don't know when enough he has got ;
For, though at my simile many may joke,
Man is but a pipe-and his life but smoke.

Yes, a man and a pipe are much nearer a-kin
Than has as yet been understood,

For, until with breath they are both filled within,
Pray tell me for what are they good?

They, one and the other, composed are of clay,
And, if rightly I tell nature's plan,

Take but the breath from them both quite away,
The pipe dies-and so does the man:
For, though at my simile many may joke,
Man is but a pipe-and his life but smoke.

Thus I'm told by my pipe that to die is man's lot,
And, sooner or later, he must;

For, when to the end of life's journey he's got,
Like a pipe that's smoked out-heis dust:
So you, who would wish in your hearts to be gay,
Encourage not strife, care, or sorrow,
Make much of your pipe of tobacco to day,
For you may be smoked out to-morrow:
For, though at my simile many may joke,
Man is but a pipe-and his life but smoke.

HEY the bonnie, ho the bonnie,
Hey the bonnie breast-knots;
Blythe and merry were they a'

When they put on the breast-knots.
There was a bridal in this town,
And till't the lasses a' were boun',
Wi' mankie facing on their gown,

And some o' them had breast-knots;
Singing, hey the bonnie, ho the bonnie,
Hey the bonnie breast-knots;
Blythe and merry were they a',
When they put on the breast-knots.

At nine o'clock the lads convene,
Some clad in blue, some clad in green,
Wi' shinin' buckles in their sheen

And flowers on their waistcoats;
Out cam' the wives a' wi' a phrase,
And wish'd the lassies happy days;
And muckle thought they o' their claes,
Especially the breast-knots--

Singing, hey the bonnie, &c,
The bride she was baith young and fair;
Her neck outshone her pearlins rare;
A satin snood bound up her hair,

And flowers among her breast-knots.
The bridegroom gazed-but mair, I ween,
He prized the glance of love's blue e'en,
That made him proud o' his sweet Jean,
When she got on her breast-knots.

Singing, hey the bonnie, &c.

THE WEALTH OF THE COTTAGE IS LOVE.

A BLESSING unknown to ambition and pride,
That fortune can never abate,

To wealth and to splendour though often denied
Yet on poverty deigns to await:

That blessing, ye pow'rs! still be it my lot,
The choicest best gift from above,

Deep fix'd in my heart shall be never forgot,
That the wealth of the cottage is love.

Whate'er my condition, why should I repine?
By poverty never distress'd;

Exulting I felt what a treasure was mine.
A treasure enshrin'd in my breast.
That blessing, ye pow'rs! still be it my lot,
The choicest best gift from above,

Still fix'd in my heart shall be never forgot,
That the wealth of the cottage is love.

BUY A BROOM.

BUY a broom! buy a broom!

Large broom! small broom! buy, buy a broom;
No lady should e'er be without one;

They're the handiest things in the world,
When insects are buzzing about one,

Or dust through the casement has curl'd

And what are the insects that flirt with the flowers
To those that flirt daily round beauty's bowers?
Or the dust on the polish'd piano that lies,

To that which love throws into ladies' eyes!
Buy a broom! &c.

Come, gentlemen, too, while I'm selling,
Come, to purchase, in crowds you should rush,
For in times such as these there's no telling,
How soon 'twill be prudent to brush.

You'll pardon the hint, 'twas in kindness I spoke,
I've meaning beyond such a very old joke;
There's few in the world, I believe you will say,
But have something or other they'd fain sweep away.
Buy a broom, &c.

DRAW THE SWORD, SCOTLAND.
DRAW the sword, Scotland! Scotland! Scotland!
Over hill and mountain hath pass'd the war sign,
The Pibroch is pealing! pealing! pealing!
Who heeds not the summons is nae son o' thine.
The clans they are gathering, gathering, gathering,
The clans they are gathering by loch and by lea;
The banners they are flying, flying, flying,

The banners they are flying that lead to victory.
Draw the sword Scotland! Scotland! Scotland!
Charge, as you've charged in the days lang syne;
Sound to the onset, the onset, the onset;
He who but falters is nae son o' thine.