Tell him I'm well, and mavourneen Daisy (The baby yer honor), is better again.

For when he wint off so sick was the crayther,
She niver hilt up her blue eyes till his face;
And when I'd be cryin he'd look at me wild like,
And ax "would I wish for the counthry's disgrace."

So he left her in danger, an me sorely gravin,
And followed the flag wid an Irishman's joy;
And its often I drame of the big drums a batin,
And a bullet gone straight to the heart of my boy.

Tell him to sind us a bit of his money,

For the rint and the docther's bill, due in a wake, An, shure there's a tear on yer eyelashes honey,

I' faith I've no right with such fradom to spake.

I'm over much thrifling, I'll not give ye trouble,
I'll find some one willin-oh what can it be?
What's that in the newspaper folded up double?
Yer honor, don't hide it, but rade it to me.

Dead! Patrick O'Conner! oh God its some ither,
Shot dead! shure 'tis a wake scarce gone by,
An the kiss on the chake of his sorrowin mother,
It hasn't had time yet yer honor to dhry.

Dead! dead! O God, am I crazy?

Shure its brakin my heart ye are telling me so, An what en the world will I do wid poor Daisy? O what can I do? where can I go?

This room is so dark-I'm not seein yer honor,
I think I'll go home-And a sob hard and dry,
Rose up from the bosom of Mary O'Conner,
But never a tear drop welled up to her eye.

M. A. Denison.

From Atalanta in Calydon.

Before the beginning of years

There came to the making of man, Time, with a gift of tears;

Grief, with a glass that ran; Pleasure, with pain for leaven; Summer, with flowers that fell; Remembrance fallen from Heaven, And madness risen from hell; Strength without hands to smite; Love that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light,

And life, the shadow of death.

And the high gods took in hand
Fire, and the falling of tears,
And a measure of sliding sand

From under the feet of the years;

And froth and drift of the sea;

And dust of the laboring earth;

And bodies of things to be

In the houses of death and of birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after,

And death beneath and above,

For a day and a night and a morrow,

That his strength might endure for a spau With travail and heavy sorrow,

The holy spirit of man.

From the winds of the north and the south

They gathered as unto strife;

They breathed upon his mouth,
They filled his body with life;
Eyesight and speech they wrought
For the veils of the soul therein,

A time for labor and thought,

A time to serve and to sin;
They gave him light in his ways,
And love and a space for delight,
And beauty and length of days,

And night, and sleep in the night.
His speech is a burning fire;

With his lips he travaileth;

In his heart is a blind desire,

In his eyes foreknowledge of death;
He weaves, and is clothed with derision;
Sows, and he shall not reap;

His life is a watch or a vision

Between a sleep and a sleep.

Algernon Chas. Swinburn

Darius Green and his Flying Machine.

If ever there lived a Yankee lad,

Wise or otherwise, good or bad,

Who, seeing the birds fly, did n't jump

With flapping arms from stake or stump,
Or spreading the tail

Of his coat for a sail,

Take a soaring leap from post or rail,

That he had riveted his attention

Upon his wonderful invention,

Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings, And working his face as he worked the wings, And with every turn of gimlet and screw Turning and screwing his mouth round too, Till his nose seemed bent

To catch the scent,

Around some corner, of new-baked pies,
And his wrinkled cheeks and squinting eyes
Grew puckered into a queer grimace,
That made him look very droll in the face,
And also very wise.

And wise he must have been, to do more
Than ever a genius did before,
Excepting Dædalus of yore,

And his son Icarus, who wore

Upon their backs

Those wings of wax

He had read of in the the old almanacks.

Darius was clearly of the opinion,

That the air is also man's dominion,
And that, with paddle, or fin or pinion,
We soon or late

Shall navigate

The azure as now we sail the sea.

The thing looks simple enough to me;

And if you doubt it,

Hear how Darius reasoned about it.

"The birds can fly,

An' why can't I?

Must we give in,"

Says he with a grin,

"That the bluebird an' phoebe
Are smarter 'n we be?

Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller

An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler?
Doos the little chatterin', sassy wren,

No bigger 'n my thumb, know more than men?
Jest show me that?

Ur prove 't the bat

Hez got more brains than 's in my hat,
An' I'll back down, an' not till then ?"

He argued further: "Nor I can't see
What's th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee,
Fur to git a livin' with, more 'n to me;-
Ain't my business

Important 's his 'n is?

That Icarus

Made a perty muss,

Him an' his daddy Dædalus.

They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax
Would 'nt stand sun-heat an' hard whacks.

I'll make mine o' luther,

Ur suthin' ur other."

And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned: "But I ain't goin' to show my hand

To nummies that never can understand
The fust idee that's big an' grand."
So he kept his secret from all the rest,
Safely buttoned within his vest;

And in the loft above the shed

Himself he locks, with thimble and thread,

And wax and hammer and buckles and screws,
And all such things as geniuses use;
Two bats for patterns, curious fellows!.
A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows;