Of gowns I had full half a score,
I thought the stock could never fail;
Nice borders still to each I wore,
With flounces, a yard deep or more,
All gathering round the tail;

And then I had my big straw bonnet,
That flapped and fluttered in the wind,
And there were heaps of ribands on it,
Tied up
in knots of every kind:
I was a tidy girl to see,

My mistress took a pride in me.

'One evening I got leave to go,
Under the care of our old cook,
To see the showmen and the show,
And all the tents, at that strange fair
That's known and talked of every where-
The merry fair of Donnybrook:
That fair was then, as it is now,
The place for boozing and a row.

The cook and I dressed very fine,
And we were to be home at nine.
We went and heard the merryman,
And Mr. Punch, and Mr. Clown,

And I laughed loud at all they said,
I thought with laughing I'd drop down.
The cook at last to growl began,
She talked of going home to bed:
But she was very, very dry,
And, in good earnest, so was I;
She pointed to a great big tent,
And off we both together went.
We settled near a table's end,
Where she by chance had found a friend;
A sprightly pleasant nice young man-
God rest his soul! 'twas John M'Cann,

Oh! Heavens be with you, John M'Cann!
It's then you were a neat young man→
I never, never can forget

That pleasant evening when we met:
The cook had known him in her range

Of friends; they talked of some they'd seen,

And I, not willing to seem strange,

Dropped in at times a word between;
And John he listened still to me,

And listened with so sweet a smile-
And his eyes looked so roguishly,
That I kept blushing all the while;
Indeed I felt my cheeks quite hot,
But
yet I didn't quit the spot.

Now how it was I cannot say,
But he a liking took to me,
For, as we moved to go away,

He turned and talked quite seriously;

Up did he get from off his seat,

And, as he stood upon his feet,

By the two hands he held me fast,

And swore, before a month went past,

We man and wife should be ;

The cook she laughed-I nothing said,
But tittered, and held down my head.
And faith! before a month went by,
His words they turned out true,
For man and wife were John and I,
And gay as any other two:
A little gathering I had made,
A little more my mistress gave,
And John a cooper was by trade,

And every week a pound could save;
And at that time, as markets went,
A pound was not so quickly spent.
'A week before our wedding-day,
Poor John a little room had got;
Our friends who saw it used to say

That none could wish a cozier spot:
'Twas two pair front, in Aungier Street,

Near where the coachmen have their stand

Why should I boast ?-but, on my life,
There was no struggling tradesman's wife,

In town or country through the land,
Could show a place so neat;

For lots of furniture we had, Nice pictures too for every wall,

And I was proud, and John was glad, To hear our taste admired by all :And then it was not very dear,

The rent was but five pounds a year.

Oh! we were both so happy there!

And we grew happier every day;
Upon my mind there was no care-
The table for our meals was spread;
When these were done some book I read,
Or sat and sewed, as humour led,
While John at work was far away;

And then some friend that chance might bring
Sat with me, and we both talked on,
Sometimes of many a foolish thing;
We prattled till the day was gone,
For I was giddy, young, and wild,
And simple as the simplest child.
A woman lived next room-her name
Was Mistress Kitty Donohoe-
When first into the house I came
I often met her on the stairs,
But didn't like her showy airs;
But she was sprightly company,
And forced her idle chat on me
For all that I could say or do
On a child's errand she'd come in,
To get a needle or a pin,

Or ask what was the day about;

And then she'd fret and blame the weather

And sometimes slyly she'd pull out

A little flask of rum or gin,

And force me just to take a taste-
Indeed I always drank in haste,
For still my mind was full of care
Lest John should come and get us there
Tippling away together-

VOL. I.-No. 9.

But fond of Mistress Donohoe,
And fonder of the drop, I grew.

< Of visitors she had a train

Their names 'twould take an hour to tell;
There was Miss Mary-Anne Magrane,

And Mrs. Young and Mrs. Lawson,
And Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Dawson;
And Mrs. White, from Stocking Lane-
As good a soul as e'er broke bread;
At least, so Mrs. Lawson said;
I never knew the lady well,

But with her came Miss Jenny BeH,
And one whose name has left my head.
Miss Degan hurried from the Coombe,

And from the Rock ran Miss Devine-
Sometimes they over-thronged her room,

And then she showed them into mine:
Off went the bottle to the shop,
For all these ladies' loved the drop.

With this gay set quite great I grew,
And John's poor pound so tight was drawn,
That half the week it wouldn't do,

And then I took his things to pawn.
Trick followed trick-ill brought on ill-
I saw not where my guilt began;
Misfortune to misfortune led-

I had some little beauty still;
And, in a weak and wicked hour,
When money over me had power,
I vilely wronged my husband's bed-
Oh! I was false to John M'Cann.

And this went on twelve years and more;
A fit of illness came at last,

And then my conscience it was sore-
It keenly pained me for the past.
Oh! then that sickness just began,
Indeed I thought I should have died;
Poor John brought in a holy man,
Father Fitzhenry was his name,
And this old priest he often came
And prayed at my bed-side;
'Twould do you good his face to see-
He looked all peace and piety.

To this good priest I told my shame—
I told him of my sinful life;
He called me by my proper name-
A wicked and a worthless wife.
Oh! the sad lesson that he gave!
Why, till I'm rotting in the grave,
I won't-I can't forget what then
He then spoke of-but through life again
My thoughts, my wishes, never ran
On any but on John McCann.

I promised before God in heaven
To leave my drinking too :-
I made the promise; but, when given,
I found it would not do.

3 F

Oh! sir, I was but up and well,
When to the drop once more I fell!
My husband saw that all was gone,
And let me for a time go on :
Two growing boys were all we had,
And they in dirty rags were clad.

I pawned their clothes-I pawned my own--
I left poor John quite bare at last;

My figure as a show was shown

(So poor, so naked, I had grown)

'Twas shown as through the streets I passed; And many laughed this end to see

Of all my former finery.

'John bore as much as man could bear,

But got at last quite tired of me;
And, in mere madness and despair,
He bent his course across the sea:
He took my William in his care,

As good a son as son could be;
For he was brought up to the trade,
And a smart hand he soon was made.
'Good workmen may go any where-
They settled at New York, 'tis said;
But they were not a twelvemonth there
When I got word that both were dead;
I think at first some tears I shed-
A tear or two I might let fall,
But the next naggin banished all.

‹ Poor naked Joe, my other child,
Among the blackguards took his round,
Till one fine morning, in the street,
By great good luck he chanced to meet
A Swaddling dame, all smooth and mild,
And in that dame a friend he found;
She took him home, and he was taught
To do as tidy servants ought;

For clothing he was at no cost

Or food-Oh! sir, I'd bless that dame-
But that my boy's poor soul is lost
For Joe, I tell it to his shame,

;

1

At once took to the holy plan-
A prim sly Swaddler he became;
And he could whine and wheedle so,
The servants called him, " Holy Joe;"
And, as he grew to be a man,

If any mentioned but my name,
I'm told he'd redden at the same;

And still he shunned me when I'd call:
'Twas hard--but I deserved it all.

Well! to the worst at last I went-
I've begged for twenty years and more;
Sometimes my heart has felt content,
And sometimes been both sad and sore:
Master! I'd be quite happy now,

If I to yonder shop could go ;

I've but this penny left, I vow

And that wont get the glass, you know.
Do, master dear!'. -I paused in vain,
I could not let her ask again.

THE FATHER OF THE FORTESCUES.-CHAP. II.

FOUR or five years passed away quietly; the young lovers had found, under the friendly roof of Mr. Fortescue, the shelter and the peace which they desired. Two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, bore witness to their mutual fondness, and grew up in loveliness before them. They had but little cause for uneasiness or dissatisfaction-the only alloy, indeed, to their happiness, was the continued stubbornness of Emily's father: he was still harsh and unforgiving; he occasionally passed his daughter in the open road, even as he would a stranger, without raising his eyes to look towards her. Even the house of God, and the presence of the ministers of religion, failed to affect him; he would meet her before the holy altar-he would tread on the very seat where they had been accustomed for years to kneel together; and, if she drew close to him, he turned round to avoid her. This mood was cherished for years; he affected a sort of ill-disguised indifference he worked himself up to an appearance of apathy, which sat strangely on him: the struggle, however, was too palpable-Nature was not to be trifled with: it was evident from his looks and accidental expressions that he was sinking under the burden of his own feelings-that he was drooping beneath utter loneliness this of late became more apparent, and the change was easily accounted for; within the last year he had lost two of his dearest bosom cronies. The state of the country, too, acted as a check upon the intercourse of the neighbours-the seeds of rebellion were moving throughout the landmartial law had been generally proclaimed; it extended to Ferns and its vicinity; and no being regretted its operation more fervently than Guinea Booker. His house had been the gathering-place for idlers, travellers, and story-tellers; and among these he passed many an easy, and many a merry evening: their occupation was gone-no idler dared after dusk to venture from his home; and, in the midst of his gloominess and privation, the old man began to long for the society of even his erring

and disobedient child: all he wanted was a decent opportunity for reconciliation: his pride or stubbornness would not allow him to make the first overture-and it was not likely to come soon from either of the offenders, as they had already given up all hopes of altering his rugged and unforgiving disposition

'This loneliness, in the mean time, preyed upon the old man's spiritshis health was visibly impaired, and it was not in the power of medicine to effect its restoration; he moped about his garden at home, or strayed abroad through the fields in the eveningthe latter he grew fond of visiting in particular. He trod slowly over all the paths that his daughter Emily had been accustomed to range in-he resorted to all her favourite restingplaces-and he often fancied that, if he met her there, he could find it in his heart to clasp her to his bosom, and pronounce the words of forgiveness. In one of these evening rambles he had wandered rather to a distance from home-he had reached the fields that border upon Clone, and beheld, upon the other side of the Barm, the picturesque ruins of Ferns, and the rich green vales of Crory: he turned to a new path-crossed a broken stile-and entered a luxuriant little meadow that lay close upon the lands of his neighbour, Mr. Fortescue. He walked on through the rank high grass, and in a sheltered nook, under the bough of a broad hawthorn, he found one of his lambs resting. It was a favourite-it lay with limbs outstretched, and panting, as if tired by some recent sport or excitement: near it was an object still more remarkable ;-a fine boy, apparently about four or five years old, clad in a loose tartan frock, lay stretched with his hand across the neck of the old farmer's dumb favourite-his fine forehead and yellow locks fanned by the evening breeze-and his left arm, which was stretched upon the grass, partly covered a bunch of newly-gathered cowslips. Old Booker gazed for a moment upon the scene that presented itself before him-it was one that was calculated to sooth and to soften him: he looked upon

were