hough, Shelah M‘Nally, Mister O’Looseskin, and Miss Flannagan with her beautiful mother, you see, and all the rest of us was just in the marrow of the thing all together, with our pipes nately tuned in a charming Oh, O, Oh, O, Oh, 0! when who the divil should pop up straight upon his rump but dead Pat O’Gaffney all alive at the moment. 6 Och, and where am I ?” says he, staring with all his eyes and ears into the bargain. Arrah be asey, Pat,” says I, " you're safe enough now, you're dead these twelve hours ; so don't be troubling yourself at all about it.” But, by Saint Patrick, he wouldn't be believed a word of it, and out of bed he jumped, while Mistress O'Gaffney was fainted in my arms, and myself tumbled backwards out of the room down the ladder all together, one top of t'other, running away with the divil at our heels! So that's what was finished Pat's wake nately, with a

Hurroo whack fililloo,
Smic smaghlaloo !


TAE lonely cottage now deserted stands,

Where Edwin once in happiness did live;
And now forlorn and barren are the lands,

No shelter that, no pasture these, can give.

The bleating lambs no longer now are seen

Attended by their shepherd's fostering care,
Or nibbling grass from off the fertile green,

Or skipping nimbly through the limpid air.

Hard by the cot, a meandering rill

Descended swiftly down the craggy rocks ;
Sweet flowers grew upon the neighb'ring hill,

Where shepherds tended their once happy flocks.

Here, Edwin and his Emma oft would stray,

T' enjoy the coolness of the evening breeze;
Here would they sit, when sultry was the day,

Beneath the shadow of the spreading trees.

Within their cot no discord ever reign'd

No jarring words-no jealousy-no strife;
No querulous bickering e'er profaned

The happy tenor of their peaceful life.

Ah! how transient are all earthly joys !

In prosperity how swift the hours fly; But when adversity the bosom cloys,

Our lives seem lengthen'd to eternity.

Th' ambitious Cromwell long had tried to gain

The regal power, and subvert the law,
When Edwin left his home-ah, luckless swain !

To join the army in the civil war.

The night on which he bade a last adieu

To all on earth he held in love most dear, The ravens croak'd—the forked lightnings flew,

And heaven itself, afflicted, dropp'd a tear.

Around his neck her arms fair Emma flung,

While tears of anguish from her bright eyes fell ; The falt'ring accents died upon her tongue

Her heart was bursting with the word— farewell.'

Meanwhile young Edwin strain'd her to his breast,

Then thrice essay'd to tear himself away; Then thrice return'd and wav'd his sable crest

Then led to battle-rushing hence, the way.

Oh Mars ! thou cruel ruthless god of war,

Horrid thou ragest in th' ensanguin'd fray,
Thy Gorgon head being staind with human gore,

Where fathers sons, and sons their fathers, slay.

One little week had pass’d, when o'er the mead

At daylight's close, (how stern, alas, is fate !) A stranger, mounted on a warlike steed,

With mournful visage knock'd at Emma's gate.

These dreadful tidings, then, replete with woe,

The stranger brought her-how, o'er Naseby's plain The king was routed by the rebel foe,

And Edwin's body found among the slain.

Oh, cruel fortune! oh, accursed lot!

Fair Emma's bliss, alas, for ever's fled ; Frantic she rushes from her lowly cot,

Her bosom bared-unbonneted her head.

Nor heeds she aught the lightning or the rain,

The hoarse-mouthed thunder, or the trackless way; Heedless of all she seeks the fatal plain,

The scene of carnage on that bloody day.

The stormy clouds the raging winds dispellid,

And pale-faced Luna silvered o'er the plain,
When, trembling, she, by stubborn fate impell’d,

Her Edwin's body sought among the slain.

Besmeared with blood, at length, oh, dreadful sight!

Him, on his back, a lifeless corse she found;
His manly features, once her fond delight,

Were there disfigured with a frightful wound.

To heaven, then, she turn'd her mournful eyes,

Then breathed a prayer-embrac'd him then, and sigh'd. * Again we'll meet, my Edwin, in the skies!'

Then grasp'd his hand—then kiss'd his lips, and died.

And now, a cenotaph erected nigh

Their humble cottage, this inscription bears, “Entomb'd at Naseby both these lovers lie,

Cut off, untimely, from this world of cares."


AFTER my sleigh-ride last winter, and the slippery trick I was served by Patty Bean, nobody would suspect me of hankering after the women again in a hurry. To hear me jump and swear, and rail out against the whole feminine gender, you would have taken it for granted that I should never so much as look at one of them again to all eternity. O but I was wicked ! Tear out their eyes, says I ; blame their skins, and torment their hearts ; finally, I took an oath, that if I ever meddled, or had anything to do with them again, I might be hung and choked.

But swearing off from women, and then going into a meeting. house choke full of gals, all shining and glistening in their Sunday clothes and clean faces, is like swearing off from liquor, and going into a grog-shop-—it's all smoke.

I held out and kept firm to my oath three whole Sundaysforenoons, afternoons, and intermissions complete. On the fourth, there were strong symptoms of a change of weather. A chap about my size was seen on the way to the meeting house, with a new patent hat on; his head hung by the ears upon a shirt-collar ; his cravat had a pudding in it, and branched out in front into a double-bow knot. He carried a straight back and a stiff neck, as a man ought to do when he has his best clothes on; and every time he spit, he sprang his body forward like a jack-knife, in order to shoot clear of the ruffles.

Squire Jones's pew is next but two to mine, and when I stand

This put

up to prayers, and take my coat-tail under my arm, and turn my back to the minister, I naturally look right straight at Sally Jones. Now Sally has got a face not to be grinned at in a fog. Indeed, as regards beauty, some folks think she can pull an even yoke with Patty Bean. For my part, I think there is not much boot between them. Any how, they are so high matched that they have hated and despised each other, like rank poison, ever since they were school-girls.

Squire Jones had got his evening fire on, and set himself down to reading the great Bible, when he heard a rap at his door. “ Walk in. Well, John, how der do? Get out Pompey?”—“ Pretty well, I thank ye, Squire, and how do you do ?" " Why so as to be crawling—ye ugly beast, will ye hold your yop? Hail up a chair and sit down, John.”

“ How do you do, Mrs. Jones ?” “0, middlin'; how's yer marm ? Don't forget the mat there, Mr. Beedle." me in mind that I had been off soundings several times in the long muddy lane ; and my boots were in a sweet pickle.

It was now old captain Jones's turn, the grandfather. Being roused from a doze, by the bustle and racket, he opened both his eyes at first with wonder and astonishment. At last he began to halloo so loud that you might hear him a mile ; for he takes it for granted that every body is just exactly as deaf as he is.

“Who is it? I say, who in the world is it?" Mrs. Jones going close to his ear, screamed out, “It's Johnny Beedle.”. “Ho, Johnny Beedle, I remember he was one summer at the siege of Boston.”—“No, no, father, bless your heart, that was his grandfather, that's been dead and gone this twenty year."“ Ho; but where does he come from ?”—“Daown taown."“ And what does he follow for a livin'?" And he did not stop asking questions, after this sort, till all the particulars of the Beedle family were published and proclaimed in Mrs. Jones's last screech. He then sunk back into his doze again.

The dog stretched himself before one handiron; the cat squat down upon the other. Silence came on by degrees like a calm snow storm, till nothing was heard but a cricket under the hearth, keeping tune with a sappy yellow-birch forestick. Sally sat up prim, as if she were pinned to the chair-back-her hands crossed genteelly upon her lap, and her eyes looked straight into the fire. Mammy Jones tried to straighten herself too, and laid her hands across in her lap ; but they would not lie still. It was full twenty-four hours since they had done any work, and they were out of patience with keeping Sunday. Do what she would to keep them quiet, they would bounce up now

and then, and go through the motions in spite of the fourth commandment. For my part, I sat looking very much like a fool. The more I tried to say something, the more my tongue stuck fast. I put my right leg over the left, and said “hem.” Then I changed, and put the left over the right. It was no use—the silence kept coming on thicker and thicker. The drops of sweat began to crawl over me. I got my eye upon my hat, hanging on a peg, on the road to the door-and then I eyed the door. At this moment, the old captain all at once sung out, “ Johnny Beedle!” It sounded like a clap of thunder, and I started right up on end.

"Johnny Beedle, you'll never handle sich a drumstick as your father did, if yer live to the age of Methusaler. He would toss up his drumstick, and while it was whirlin' in the air, take off a gill er rum, and then ketch it as it come down, without losin' a stroke in the tune. What d'ye think of that, ha ? But skull your chair round, close er long side o' me, so yer can hear. Now, what have you come a'ter !'_“I after? O, jest takin' a walk.”'“ Pleasant walkin', I guess.”—“, I mean jest to see how you all do.”—“Ho! That's another lie. You've come a-courtin', Johnny Beedle—you're a’ter our Sal. Say, now, d'ye want to marry, or only to court ?”

This was what I call a choker. Poor Sally made but one jump, and landed in the middle of the kitchen ; and then she skulked in the dark corner, till the old man, after laughing himself into a whooping cough, was put to bed.

Then came apples and cider ; and the ice being broke, plenty chat with Mammy Jones, about the minister and the “sarmon.” I agreed with her to a nicety upon all the points of doctrine ; but I had forgot the text, and all the heads of the discourse but six. Then she teased and tormented me to tell who I accounted the best singer in the gallery that day. But, mum—there was no getting that out of me. “ Praise to the face is often disgrace," says 1, throwing a sly squint at Sally.

At last, Mrs. Jones lighted t’other candle ; and after charging Sally to look well to the fire, she led the way to bed, and the Squire gathered up his shoes and stockings and followed.

Sally and I were left sitting a good yard apart, honest measure. For fear of getting tongue-tied again, I set right in with a steady stream of talk. I told her all the particulars about the weather that was past, and also some pretty 'cute guesses at what it was likely to be in future. At first I gave a hitch up with my chair at every full stop. Then, growing saucy, I repeated it at every comma and semi-colon ; and at last it was hitch, hitch, hitch, and I planted myself fast by her side.

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