Shep. Lord, what is she that can so turn and wind? Echo.

Wind.

Shep. If she be wind, what stills her when she blows? Echo.

Blows.

Shep. But if she bang again, still should I bang her? Echo.

Shep. Is there no way to moderate her anger?

Bang her.

Echo.

Hang her.

Echo.

Shep. Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tell What woman is and how to guard her well. Guard her well.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

A WELL there is in the west country,

And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the west country
But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,
And behind doth an ash-tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne,
Joyfully he drew nigh,

For from cock-crow he had been travelling,

And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,

For thirsty and hot was he,

And he sat down upon the bank

Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by

At the well to fill his pail ;

On the well-side he rested it,
And he bade the stranger hail.

'Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?' quoth he,

( For an' if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drank this day,
That ever thou didst in thy life.

'Or hast thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been?

For an' if she have, I'll venture my life

She has drank of the well of St. Keyne.'

'I have left a good woman who never was here,' The stranger he made reply,

'But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why?'

'St. Keyne,' quoth the Cornish-man, 'many a time Drank of this crystal well,

And before the angels summon'd her,

She laid on the water a spell.

'If the husband of this gifted well
Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man thenceforth is he,

For he shall be master for life.

'But if the wife should drink of it first,

God help the husband then!'

The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.

'You drank of the well I warrant betimes?'

He to the Cornish-man said:

But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake,
And sheepishly shook his head.

'I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch;

But i' faith she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church.'

SAINT PATRICK.

DR. MAGINN.

William Maginn, LL.D., the 'Modern Rabelais' and 'Sir Morgan O'Doherty' of Blackwood and Fraser, and who is immortalized in the Noctes Ambrosiana, was one of the most fertile and versatile writers of modern days. Born at Cork 1793, died 1842. A FIG for St. Dennis of France,

He's a trumpery fellow to brag on;
A fig for St. George and his lance,
Which spitted a heathenish dragon.

And the Saints of the Welshman or Scot,
Are a couple of pitiful pipers,
Both of whom may just travel to pot,,
Compared with the patron of swipers,-
St. Patrick of Ireland, my dear!.

He came to the Emerald Isle

On a lump of a paving-stone mounted;
The steamboat he beat to a mile,

Which mighty good sailing was counted.
Says he,The salt-water, I think,
Has made me most bloodily thirsty,
So bring me a flagon of drink

To keep down the mullegrubs, burst ye!
Of drink that is fit for a saint!

He preach'd then with wonderful force,
The ignorant natives a-teaching;

With a pint he wash'd down his discourse,
'For,' says he, 'I detest your dry preaching.'
The people, with wonderment struck,
At a pastor so pious and civil,

Exclaim'd, 'We're for you my old buck,
And we pitch our blind gods to the devil,
Who dwells in hot water below.'

This ended, our worshipful spoon
Went to visit an elegant fellow,
Whose practice each cool afternoon,

Was to get most delightfully mellow.

That day, with a black jack of beer,
It chanced he was treating a party;
Says the Saint, 'This good day, do you hear,
I drank nothing to speak of, my hearty;
So give me a pull at the pot.'

The pewter he lifted in sport
(Believe me I tell you no fable),
A gallon he drank from the quart,
And then planted it full on the table.
'A miracle!' every one said,

And they all took a haul at the stingo;
They were capital hands at the trade,
And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo!
The pot still froth'd over the brim.

Next day, quoth his host, "'Tis a fast,
But I've nought in my larder but mutton;
And on Fridays who 'd make such repast,
Except an unchristian-like glutton?'
Says Pat, Cease your nonsense, I beg,
What you tell me is nothing but gammon;
Take my compliments down to the leg,

And bid it come hither a salmon !'

And the leg most politely complied.

You've heard, I suppose, long ago,

How the snakes in a manner most antic,

He march'd to the county Mayo,

And trundled them into th' Atlantic.