More trouble and care,

More grafe and despair;

More wapin' and wailing' and bitter heart-brakin',
More vileness and sin

Wicked Paddy O'Flynn.

Och, Paddy O'Flynn!

Aich tumbler of gin

Is an ocean too dape for a sowl-it betrays ye;
Whin once yez go down

Ye're certain to drown.

If yez float, the say-sarpent is likely to saze ye;

And where are yez thin,
Wretched Paddy O'Flynn?

Och, Paddy O'Flynn!

Stand up and begin

To look like a crature half-dacent and human!

Fath, I'll give yez me hand

Wid a bit of me land,

And I'll lind yez a shpade, and I'll kape the ould woman,

Till yer crops ye get in,
Neighbor Paddy O'Flynn.

Och, Paddy O'Flynn!

There's a heaven to win.

Hooray! smash the glass, shpill the shtuff, so defilin'! How the divils will howl

Whin they see yer poor sowl

Makin' tracks up the sky wid the angels all smilin',
To welcome yez in,

Happy Paddy O'Flynn!

PADDY TO TEDDY.

Och, Teddy McGuire!

Me heart's batin' higher

To be gratin' yez here on American sile.

'Tis tin years, be dad,

Since I saw yez, me lad,

On that sorrowful day whin I left the Grane Isle ;
A friend ye had been

To poor Paddy O'Flynn;

Ye had loved him and lifted him out of the mire,
And me mither died blessin' yez, Teddy McGuire.

Och, Teddy McGuire,

I can spake like the squire;

But the ould tongue is best, when I mate an old friend; Here's a watch in me vest,

Like a birrd in its nest

I've praties in plenty and money to spend.

Come home wid me, thin,

And see Mistress O'Flynn,

And she'll trate yez to somethin' ye're sure to desire; It's a bountiful counthry, dear Teddy McGuire.

Och, Teddy McGuire,
No nade to inquire

If I've been at the whisky-jug. Here is my hand,
As dacent and clane

As the hand of a quane,

And sthrong at the grip; not a man in the land
Could brag of more muscle,

Or bate in a tussle

Wid Paddy O'Flynn; and, troth, ye'll admire
The good clothes I'm wearin' now, Teddy McGuire!

Och, Teddy McGuire !

If ye sthay in the fire

There's no help at all but ye're sure to be roastin'; Lord love yez to-day

That yez dragged me away,

And chated the divil in spite of his boastin'.
Let him rage if he plaze!

I'll not barter me aise,

Nor burn up me soul for the thavish ould liar; I've done wid the whisky-shops, Teddy McGuire.

Look, Teddy McGuire!

There's a church wid a shpire,

And beyant, a white house wid a terrace below;
Bay windows complate-

Now, isn't it nate,

Wid roses all round it beginnin' to blow?
Wid a lawn in the sun

Where the childer can run,

An orchard behind it, a barn and a byre;
And that is me residence, Teddy McGuire!

Och, Teddy McGuire,

Make haste and come nigher;

There's me wife in the portico watching for me.
A swate Yankee girl,

Wid a heart like a pearl,

And a will of her own, as ye're likely to see.
Her father was mad

Whin I courted her, lad;

He'd give her no money, he swore in his ire,
But she loved me and married me, Teddy McGuire.

Thin, Teddy McGuire,

I was workin' for hire,

Wid a beautiful farm and a dairy to tend;
But the ould man relinted

And left us, continted,

A snug little fortune to kape us, me friend.
See the childer come out

Wid a rush and a shout

The swate little cratures!-to welcome their sire
Wid laughter and kisses, dear Teddy McGuire.

Och, Teddy McGuire,

Me blood is on fire,

Me heart it is batin' like waves of the say;

So great is me bliss

To be spakin' like this,

And bringin' yez home to me darlin's this day,

Sure I think whin yez die,

All the angels will cry:

Here's the man that saved Paddy O'Flynn mountin'

higher!

Make room for the swate soul of Teddy McGuire."

AMANDA T. JONES

A BROTHER'S TRIBUTE.

IN MEMORY OF DAVID J. RYAN.

HOU art sleeping, brother, sleeping

In thy lonely battle grave;

Shadows o'er the past are creeping,
Death, the reaper, still is reaping,
Years have swept, and years are sweeping

Many a memory from my keeping,

But I'm waiting still, and weeping
For my beautiful and brave.

When the battle songs were chanted,

And war's stirring tocsin pealed,
By those songs thy heart was haunted,
And thy spirit, proud, undaunted,
Clamored wildly-wildly panted;
"Mother! let my wish be granted;
I will ne'er be mocked and taunted
That I fear to meet our vaunted
Foemen on the bloody field.

"They are thronging, mother! thronging,
To a thousand fields of fame;
Let me go-'tis wrong and wronging
God and thee to crush this longing;
On the muster-roll of glory,
In my country's future story,
On the field of battle gory

I must consecrate my name.

"Mother! gird my sword around me,
Kiss thy soldier-boy 'good-bye."
In her arms she wildly wound thee,
To thy birth-land's cause she bound thee,
With fond prayers and blessings crowned thes
And she sobbed: "When foes surround thee,
If you fall, I'll know they found thee
Where the bravest love to die."

At the altar of their nation,

Stood that mother and her son;

He, the victim of oblation,