far away, by night and day, I toil'd to win a golden treasure; and golden gains repaid my pains in fair and shining measure. I sought again my native land, thy father welcomed me, love; I poured my gold into his hand, and my guerdon found in thee, love!... Sing Gilla ma chree, sit down by me, we now are joined, and ne'er shall sever; this hearth's our own, our hearts are one, and peace is ours for ever!

76.-OLD TIMES.-Griffin.

Old times! old times! the gay old times! when I was young and free,
And heard the merry Easter chimes under the sally tree;
My Sunday palm beside me placed, my cross upon my hand;
A heart at rest within my breast, and sunshine on the land!
It is not that my fortunes flee, nor that my cheek is pale;
I mourn whene'er I think of thee, my darling native vale!
A wiser head I have, I know, than when I loitered there;
But in my wisdom there is woe, and in my knowledge, care.
I've lived to know my share of joy, to feel my share of pain;
To learn that friendship's self can cloy—to love, and love in vain;
To feel a pang, and wear a smile-to tire of other climes-
To like my own unhappy isle, and sing the gay old times!

And sure the land is nothing changed-the birds are singing still;
The flowers are springing where we ranged—there's sunshine on the hill;
The sally waving o'er my head still sweetly shades my frame;
-But ah, those happy days are fled...and I am not the same!

Oh, come again, ye merry times! sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm;
And let me hear those Easter chimes, and wear my Sunday palm.
-If I could cry away mine eyes, my tears would flow in vain;
If I could waste my heart in sighs, they'll never come again!

77.-HARK! HARK! THE SOFT BUGLE.-Grifin.

Hark! hark! the soft bugle sounds over the wood,
And thrills in the silence of even,

Till faint, and more faint, in the far solitude,

It dies on the portals of heaven!

But Echo springs up from her home in the rock,
And seizes the perishing strain ;

And sends the gay challenge, with shadowy mock,
From mountain to mountain again!

Oh, thus let my love, like a sound of delight,
Be around thee while shines the glad day,
And leave thee, unpain'd, in the silence of night,
And die like sweet music away.

While hope, with her warm light, thy glancing eye fills,
Oh, say,
"Like that echoing strain—

Though the sound of his love has died over the hills,
It will waken in heaven again!"

78.-'TIS FOLLY'S SHOP, WHO'LL BUY?-Moore.

Who'll buy?—'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?—we've toys to suit all ranks

and ages;

Besides our usual fools' supply, we've lots of playthings, too, for sages.
For reasoners, here's a juggler's cup, that fullest seems when nothing's in it;
And nine-pins set, like systems, up, to be knock'd down the following
minute.

Gay caps we here of foolscap make, for bards to wear in dog-day weather;
Or bards the bells alone may take, and leave to wits the cap and feather.
Teetotums we've for patriots got, who court the mob with antics humble;
Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot, a glorious spin, and then—a tumble.
Here, wealthy misers to inter, we've shrouds of neat post-obit paper;
While, for their heirs, we've quicksilver, that, fast as they can wish, will

caper.

For aldermen we've dials true, that tell no hour but that of dinner; For courtly parsons sermons new, that suit alike both saint and sinner.

No time we've now to name our terms, but, whatsoe'er the whims that

seize you,

This oldest of all mortal firms, Folly and Co., will try to please you.

Or, should you wish a darker hue of goods than we can recommend you, Why then (as we with lawyers do) to Knavery's shop next door we'll send

you.

79.-WHO'LL BUY MY LOVE-KNOTS ?-Moore.

'Hymen, late, his love-knots selling, called at many a maiden's dwelling; none could doubt, who saw or knew them, Hymen's call was welcome to them. "Who'll buy my love-knots? Who'll buy my love-knots ?" Soon as that sweet cry resounded, how his baskets were surrounded! 2 Maids, who now first dreamt of trying these gay knots of Hymen's tying; dames, who long had sat to watch him passing by, but ne'er could catch

him ;—“ Who'll buy my love-knots? Who'll buy my love-knots ?"—all at that sweet cry assembled; some laugh'd, some blush'd, and others trembled. "Here are knots," said Hymen, taking some loose flowers, "of Love's own making; here are gold ones-you may trust 'em"-(these, of course, found ready custom). "Come, buy my love-knots! Come, buy my love-knots! Some are labell'd 'Knots to tie men-Love the makerBought of Hymen."" 4 Scarce their bargains were completed, when the nymphs all cried, "We're cheated! See these flowers-they're drooping sadly; this gold-knot, too, ties but badly-Who'd buy such love-knots? Who'd buy such love-knots? Even this tie, with Love's name round it— -all a sham-he never bound it." 5 Love, who saw the whole proceeding, would have laugh'd, but for good-breeding; while old Hymen, who was used to cries like that these dames gave loose to-"Take back our love-knots! Take back our love-knots!" coolly said, "There's no returning wares on Hymen's hands-Good morning."

80.-THE JOURNEY ONWARDS.-Moore.

As slow our ship her foamy track against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still look'd back to that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loth we part from all we love, from all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, as on we rove, to those we've left behind us!

And when in other climes, we meet some isle or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery wild and sweet, and nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss if Heaven had but assigned us
To live and die in scenes like this, with some we've left behind us!

As travellers oft look back at eve when eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave still faint behind them glowing,-
So, when the close of pleasure's day to gloom hath near consign'd us,
We turn to catch one fading ray of joy that's left behind us.

81.-OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.-Moore.

1 Oft, in the stilly night, ere Slumber's chain has bound me, fond Memory brings the light of other days around me: the smiles, the tears, of boyhood's years; the words of love then spoken; the eyes that shone,— now dimm'd and gone; the cheerful hearts,- -now broken!... Thus, in the stilly night, ere Slumber's chain hath bound me, sad Memory brings the light of other days around me. 2 When I remember all the friends so link'd together, I've seen around me fall, like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one who treads alone some banquet-hall deserted,-whose lights

are fled, whose garlands dead, and all but he departed!... Thus, in the stilly night, ere Slumber's chain has bound me, sad Memory brings the light of other days around me.

82.-MY MOPSA IS LITTLE.-Moore.

My Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown,

But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down,
And, for blushing, no rose can come near her;
In short, she has woven such nets round my heart,
That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part-
Unless I can find one that's dearer.

Her voice hath a music that dwells on the ear,
And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear,
That I'm dazzled whenever I meet her;

Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net,

And her lips, oh! their sweetness I ne'er shall forget-
Till I light upon lips that are sweeter.

But 'tis not her beauty that charms me alone,
'Tis her mind; 'tis that language whose eloquent tone
From the depths of the grave could revive one:
In short, here I swear, that if death were her doom,
I would instantly join my dead love in the tomb-
Unless I could meet with a live one.

83.-CANADIAN BOAT-SONG.-Moore.

2

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, we'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, the Rapids are near, and the daylight's past. Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl; but when the wind blows off the shore, oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, the Rapids are near, and the daylight's past. 3 Utawas' tide! this trembling moon shall see us float over thy surges soon. of this green isle! hear our prayers, oh, grant us cool heavens and favour. ing airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, the Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

N

Saint

84.-THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.-Lover.

A baby was sleeping; its mother was weeping, for her husband was far on the wild raging sea; and the tempest was swelling round the fisherman's dwelling, as she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me." 2 Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered, and smiled in her face, as she bended her knee; "Oh! bless'd be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning; for I know that the angels are whispering with thee! 3 And while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy sleeping, oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me, and say thou wouldst rather they'd watch o'er thy father! for I know that the angels are whispering with thee!" 4 The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning, and the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; and closely caressing her child, with a blessing, said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

85.-MY MOTHER DEAR.-Lover.

There was a place in childhood that I remember well,
And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did tell,
And gentle words and fond embrace were given with joy to me,
When I was in that happy place-upon my mother's knee.
When fairy tales were ended, "Good night," she softly said,
And kiss'd and laid me down to sleep, within my tiny bed;
And holy words she taught me there-methinks I yet can see
Her angel eyes, as close I knelt beside my mother's knee.
In the sickness of my childhood; the perils of my prime;
The sorrows of my riper years; the cares of every time;

When doubt and danger weigh'd me down-then, pleading, all for me,
It was a fervent prayer to Heaven that bent my mother's knee.

86.-A SIGH FOR KNOCKMANY.-Carleton.

Take, proud ambition, take thy fill of pleasures won through toil or crime; Go, learning, climb thy rugged hill, and give thy name to future time: Philosophy, be keen to see whate'er is just, or false, or vain,

Take each thy meed, but, oh! give me to range my mountain glens again.

Pure was the breeze that fann'd my cheek, as o'er Knockmany's brow I went; When every lonely dell could speak in airy music, vision sent:

False world! I hate thy cares and thee, I hate the treacherous haunts of

men;

Give back my early heart to me, give back to me my mountain glen.