Says I, "My dear Sheelah, we'll soon end the fray,
For no longer in sweet Tipperary I'll stay."

When the girls all found I was going to leave them,

They swore that from death the world could not save

them;

ין

"O we'll leave all our friends, though ever so many If you'll let us go with you, swaite Dennis Delany With my whack about, &c.

To the road then I went, and I trudged it along,
And, by way of being silent, I lilted a song ;

66

Hey for Dublin!" says I, "where I'll see the fine lasses,

Get married, and drink, and ne'er mind how time passes." But when I arrived, and found every lady

Short-waisted-thinks I, They are married already,

66

By my shoul, now," says I, " marriage here is the fashion,

To breed young recruits for defence of the nation."
With my whack about, &c.

To the grand panorama, that every one talks of,
Away then I goes and immediately walks off;
But I were astonished, as much as e'er man was,
To see a sea-fight on an ocean of canvass.

But some were a-weeping, and some were a-wailing,
Where Dublin once stood to see ships now a-sailing;
But what in my mind made it still seem the stranger,
Though I stood in the midst, I stood out of all danger.
With my whack about, &c.

Then to see a fine play, which I ne'er saw before,
To Crow Street I went, without three or four more;

And
up stairs I walk'd, for to see things the better,
And bought a play-bill, though I knew not a letter.

But the crowd was so great, and the players so funny,
I laugh'd more, I'm sure, than the worth of my money;
But the boys went all mad, and I maddest of any,
When all the musicians play'd Dennis Delany.
With their whack about, &c.

WHAT TONGUE CAN SPEAK THE GLOWING ᎻᎬᎪᎡᎢ .

WHAT tongue can speak the glowing heart,
What pencil paint the glistening eye,

When your command came to depart
From scenes of triumph, hope, and joy?

Cross'd in life-by villains plunder'd,
More than yet you've given belief;
Fortune's bolts have o'er me thunder'd,
Till my very heart is deaf.

Hard lives the willow by the strand,
To every pelting surge a prey;
Nor will it leave its native land,
Till every root is torn away.

So I, like the poor passive willow,
Cling unto my native shore,

Till the next returning billow

Cast me down for evermore.

An! who hath seen the desolation
Of the earthquake's dismal reign,
E'er can hope the renovation

Of his peaceful home again?

So I, distracted and forlorn,

Look back upon my youthful prime; And forward to the happy morn

That frees me from the hand of time.

I'LL BID MY HEART BE STILL.

I'LL bid my heart be still,

And check each struggling sigh,

And there's none e'er shall know

My soul's cherish'd wo,

When the first tears of sorrow are dry.

They bid me cease to weep,

For glory gilds his name;

But the deeper I mourn,

Since he cannot return

To enjoy the bright noon of his fame.

While minstrels wake the lay,

For peace and freedom won,
Like my lost lover's knell

The tones seem to swell,
And I hear but his death dirge alone.

My cheek has lost its hue,

My eye grows faint and dim,

But 'tis sweeter to fade

In grief's gloomy shade,

Than to bloom for another than him.

THE AULD HIGHLANDMAN.

AIR-" Killiecrankie."

HERSELL pe auchty years and twa,
Te twenty-tird o' May, man;
She twell amang te Heelan hills,
Ayont the reefer Spey, man.
Tat year tey foucht the Sherra-muir,
She first peheld te licht, man;
Tey shot my father in tat stoure-
A plaguit, vexin spite, man.

I've feucht in Scotland here at hame,
In France and Shermanie, man ;
And cot tree tespurt pluddy oons,
Beyond te 'Lantic sea, man:

But wae licht on te nasty cun,
Tat ever she pe porn, man;
Phile koot klymore te tristle caird,
Her leaves pe never torn, man.

Ae tay I shot, and shot, and shot,
Phane'er it cam my turn, man;

Put a' te force tat I could gie,
Te powter wadna purn, man.

A filty loun cam wi' his cun,
Resolvt to too me harm, man;

And wi' te tirk upon her nose
Ke me a pluddy arm, man.

I flang my cun wi' a' my micht,
And felt his nepour teit, man ;
Tan drew my swort, and at a straik
Hewt aff te haf o's heit, man.
Be vain to tell o' a my tricks;
My oons pe nae tiscrace, man;
Ter no pe yin pehint my back,
Ter, a' pefor my face, man.

GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY.

This song was written for, and published as the concluding song of, Smith's Scottish Minstrel; a work the music of which is singular for its sweetness and true Scottish simplicity. The song, with a little variation, forms an appropriate conclusion to these simple lyrical effusions.

THE year is wearing to the wane,

An' day is fading west awa',

Loud raves the torrent an' the rain,

And dark the cloud comes down the shaw;

But let the tempest tout an' blaw

Upon his loudest winter horn,

Good night, an' joy be wi' you a',
We'll maybe meet again the morn!

O, we hae wander'd far and wide

O'er Scotia's hills, o'er firth an' fell,
An' mony a simple flower we've cull'd,

An' trimm'd them wi' the heather-bell!
We've ranged the dingle an' the dell,

The hamlet an' the baron's ha',