'Sic fules we were to fa' out, Guidwife,

About a mouse.'-'A what!

It's a lee ye tell, an' I say again
It wasna a mouse, 'twas a rat.'

'Wad

ye ca' me a leear to my very face? My faith, but ye craw croose!

I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear 't—

'Twas a mouse.-"'Twas a rat.'-'Twas a mouse.'

Wi' that she struck him ower the pow1—

'Ye dour2 auld doit,3 tak' that—

Gae to your bed, ye canker'd sumph1

'Twas a rat.'-"Twas a mouse!'-"'Twas a rat!'

She sent the brose-caup at his heels

As he hirpled ben the hoose;

Yet he shoved out his head as he steekit the door, And cried, "'Twas a mouse, 'twas a mouse !'

But when the carle' fell asleep

She paid him back for that,

And roar'd into his sleepin' lug,

"'Twas a rat, 'twas a rat, 'twas a rat l'

The deil be wi' me if I think

It was a beast at a'—

Next mornin', when she sweept the floor,

She found wee Johnnie's ba'!

TO FANNY.

THOMAS MOORE.

Many of the humorous effusions of Thomas Moore, 'Ireland's own poet,' are of so local a nature, or so thoroughly identified with passing events which are now forgotten, as to be quite unintelligible to the general reader. A few, however, will bear repetition, and from them we make a small selection.

NEVER mind how the pedagogue proses,
You want not antiquity's stamp,

The lip that's so scented by roses,
Oh! never must smell of the lamp.

Old Chloe, whose withering kisses

Have long set the loves at defiance,
Now done with the science of blisses,
May fly to the blisses of science!

Young Sappho, for want of employments,
Alone o'er her Ovid may melt,
Condemn'd but to read of enjoyments,
Which wiser Corinna had felt.

But for you to be buried in books—
Oh, Fanny! they're pitiful sages;
Who could not in one of your looks
Read more than in millions of pages!

Astronomy finds in your eye

Better light than she studies above,
And music must borrow your sigh

As the melody dearest to love.

In Ethics-'tis you that can check,

In a minute, their doubts and their quarrels ; Oh! show but that mole on your neck,

And 'twill soon put an end to their morals.

Your Arithmetic only can trip

When to kiss and. to count you endeavour; But eloquence glows on your lip

When you swear that you'll love me for ever.

Thus you see what a brilliant alliance
Of arts is assembled in you-

A course of more exquisite science
Man never need wish to go through!

And, oh!—if a fellow like me

May confer a diploma of hearts, With my lip thus I seal your degree, My divine little Mistress of Arts!

A TRAGIC STORY.

FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO.

THERE lived a sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pig-tail wore,
But wonder'd much and sorrow'd more,
Because it hung behind him.

He mused upon this curious case,

And swore he'd change the pig-tail's place,

And have it hanging at his face,

Not dangling there behind him.

Says he, 'The mystery I have found-
I'll turn me round!'-he turn'd him round,
And stamp'd with rage upon the ground,
But still it hung behind him.

Then round and round, and out and in,
All day, the puzzled sage did spin;
In vain; it matter'd not a pin,

The pig-tail hung behind him.

And right and left and round about,
And up and down, and in and out
He turn'd, but still the pig-tail stout,
Hung steadily behind him.

And though his efforts never slack,
And though he twist and twirl and tack,
Alas! still faithful to his back,

The pig-tail hangs behind him.

A LAY OF THE TWADDLE SCHOOL.

The following 'Lyric lilt between L. E. L. and Lady Morgan,' appeared in The Literary Gazette in 1831. At that time Miss Landon and Lady Morgan were in the height of their popularity as authoresses; and the 'lilt' is supposed to be a passage of pens between admirers of the two ladies. Their respective claims to superiority are set forth in rhymes to their names, and the versification is extremely clever.

L. E. L. 'Memento... servare mentem

Ab insolenti temperatam

Lætitia!'

HOR. II. iii.