A Memorable Messert. WE dined. A fish from the river beneath, Where we had wandered, happy and mute; In the early time it is often thus; But my sweet love chatted when came the fruit. Flavor of sunburnt nectarine, "Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!" "Och!" says Rory," that same I'm delighted to hear, For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. Och! jewel, keep dhraming that same till you die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie! And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? And the light that danced through a wineglass thin, | Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. “Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me enough; Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck; And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips-don't you think he was right? "Now Rory, leave off, sir-you'll hug me no more— That's eight times to-day you have kissed me be fore." He was bold as the hawk, and she soft as the dawn;│“Then here goes another," says he, “to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. "Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen would cry, Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye"With your tricks, I don't know, in throth, what I'm about; Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." "Och! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way "Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound." "Faith!" says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground." SAMUEL LOVER. Coming through the Rye. GIN a body meet a body Need a body cry? Ne'er a ane hae I; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e myseľ'; But whaur his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell. |