And Bet, to shew her gen'rous mind,
Cut, and then threw away the rind;
While prudent Sarah, sure to please,
Like a clean maiden, scrap'd the cheese.
This done, young Pimlico replied-
"Sally, I now declare my bride:
With Nan I can't my welfare put,
For she has prov'd a dirty slut:
And Betsy, who has par'd the rind,
Would give my fortune to the wind ;
Sally the happy medium chose,
And I with Sally will repose:

She's prudent, cleanly; and the man
Who fixes on a nuptial plan

Can never err, if he will choose

A wife by cheese-before he ties the noose."

ENTERTAINING SCENE.

WE extract from the "Irish Cottagers" an entertaining scene in court, the consequence of a house warming, where spirits were illegally sold.

Bench. Call the first case.

Clerk. Mr. Gilber Finem against Nicholas Moran, of Drumadeclough, farmer, for selling spirits without a licence, on Monday night, December 2nd.

Bench. State your complaint, Mr. Finem?

Gauger. I have received information that Nicholas Moran sold some gallons of whiskey in his house, last Monday night, without a license.

Bench. Moran, what have you to say to this?

Nick. Plaze your Worship, I defy man, woman, or child, to say that I handled a penny that same night or sperits.

Gauger. Will your Worship ask him what his wife was selling that night, and scoring with chalk on the leg of the table? Bench. Answer that question, Moran.

Nick. I'll make your Worship sensible, and I'll tell the truth; and Mr. Bruce, God bless him! knows that I wouldn't tell a lie for the whole world. Molly was noting down, just for her satisfaction, on the leg of a table, the number of dishes of tay that Judy Flynn, and the rest of the woman-kind were after sweetening, bekase, you see, they were sitting up with us that night on account of the children being bad with the measles ; and, by the same token, one of them is mighty bad entirely to

day. I'll give my oath that I sold nothing (and 'twasn't I, but my wife, all the time) but tay. Not a drop of sper its crossed the threshold of my door that day; and why should it, when the law is again it? I'll swear to that.

Bench. You are not required to criminate yourself by an admission, nor can you defend yourself in this way; if the court were to allow you to take what you call a clearing oath, you would be unquestionably perjured in that case. How could you unprincipled man that you are, swear that no whiskey crossed your door that day, when you know that it did, or, perhaps, the day before?

Nick. No, plaze your Worship, nor any other day this month past, I'll take my bodily oath of that.

Gauger. The whiskey was seen going into his house for sale. Bench. Where's your witnesses, Mr. Finem ?

Gauger. I can't persuade him to appear.

Bench. Then he shall be fined £10. (To the Clerk.) Let the fine be entered. You are an incorrigible fellow, Nick; but perhaps we may have you by and by. Call the next case.

Clerk. James Cassidy against Brian Foley, for using a malicious and slanderous expression against him, in Nick Moran's house, on Monday night the 2nd December, and also for an assault.

Bench. Cassidy, take the book; now state what you have to complain of.

Cassidy. Plaze your Worship, there was a small party of betewkst fifty and forty-nine,-I wont prove to more than fortynine, barring the childer are to be counted.

Bench. Don't mind unnecessary particulars; come to the point.

Cassidy. There was, as I was observing, betewkst forty-nine or fifty of us in the two rooms, very pleasant and neighbourlike together, taking a tumbler of punch, to sarve Nick Moran's new house, I mean the new old house, bekase he had to buy windys, and to put up a chimley.

Bench. What do you mean by serving Nick Moran's house? Cassidy. Giving him the whiskey.

Bench. Do you mean that you paid him for the whiskey? Cassidy. No, plaze your honour, by no means; it was for the punch only we paid; that is, we owe him for it.

Bench. By virtue of your oath, did you understand that the punch there was to be paid for?

Cassidy. Every sup your Honour, barring what Nick drank himself, and why not? sure we're on honour to pay, now that the score stick is broke..

Bench. (To the Gauger.) This will prove your case. make out a conviction for Nick Moran.

Clerk,

Cassidy. Bad luck to this tongue, 'twasn't to bring Nick Moran (my own wife's half sister's son) into trouble, I was intending; quite the contrary, your Worships: I have no more to say. (retiring.)

Bench. Stay, you have not told one word of your own affair yet. What's your complaint against Foley.

Cassidy. Sure enough. Why then, plaze your Honour, I'd rather not be axed about Foley's business! it's enough to be an informer, in spite of one's self too, wance in a day. Foley riz the skrimmage, that's all.

Bench. Oh, since you have nothing more to say, we dismiss the case, with costs against you; sixpence the summons, one shilling the

Cassidy. Will I have to pay for the summons, your Honour? Bench. Certainly, if you have nothing to prove against the person you have summoned.

Cassidy. Why, then, your worship, if that's the case, I'll tell you all about it, from the first to the last, and I'll be on my

oath

Bench. You're on your oath already.

Cassidy. Well, then, I'll be on my oath again, and leave it to my dying hour, that Brien Foley used a slanderous and terrible word against my character, that is not fit to be repeated before your Honours and the people.

Bench. Come, sir, don't keep us here all day. What did he say?

Cassidy. Why, then, saving your presence, he called me before one hundred people

Bench. You said just now there were only between forty-nine and fifty (whatever number that may be) present; take care.

Cassidy. You're right: I stand corrected, your Worship. Well, then, before fifty of the neighbours he called me-but wouldn't it be dacent, plaze your Worship, to send the women out of court, the young girls any way; the old ones an't so deli. cate? To this suggestion, so very creditable to Jemmy Cassidy's The court was delicacy, the worthy magistrates assented. accordingly cleared of all females; and, after the confusion which this had occasioned had subsided, the complainant stated that Foley, after having called him nearly twenty times a gimlet-eyed rascal, (Cassidy squinted a little,) and a rogue and a liar, which he didn't much mind, as Foley had the cross sup in him, at last called him a Golumpus. Here there was an indication of merriment in the court, in which, to say the truth, the Bench was

constrained to participate; and this did not diminish when Mr. Bruce drily informed poor Cassidy, that Golumpus was not an actionable word, humorously asserting that it was compounded of Goliah, the giant, and Olympus, the mountain, and therefore must mean a Man Mountain: so, added his Worship, instead of making little of you, as you had imagined, the defendant has really been making the most of you. We are however to consider the assault.

Cassidy. I don't care about that, since my character is cleared.

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

THE Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho lov'd and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,-
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung;
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute,

To sounds which echo farther west
Than your sires' Islands of the bless'd.'

The mountains look on Marathon

And Marathon looks on the sea;

Musing there an hour alone,

I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persian's grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow,

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis:
And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men in nations :-all were his.
He counted them at break of day-
And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore

The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?

"Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though link'd within a fetter'd race; To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here?

For Greeks-a blush; for Greece-a tear!

Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd?
Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead?
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylæ!

What! silent still,-and silent all!
Ah! no-the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, 'Let one living head, But one arise,-we come, we come! "Tis but the living who are dumb.'

In vain-in vain! strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,

And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call
How answers each bold bacchanal.

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget

The nobler and the manlier one.
You have the letters Cadmus gave-
Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

We will not think of themes like these!

It made Anacreon's songs divine:

He served-but served Polycrates

A tyrant-but our masters then
Were still at least our countrymen.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
On Suli's rocks and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.