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agin; and myself, seeing at wanst dirty thoughts was in their heads, and that they took me for a poor beggar, coming to crave charity with that says I, Oh! not at all,' says I, 'by no manes, we have plenty o' mate ourselves there below, and we'll dress it,' says I, if you would be plased to lind us the loan of a gridiron,' says I, makin' a low bow. Well, sir, with that, throth they stared at me twice worse nor ever; and, faith I began to think that may be the captain was wrong, and that it was not France at all at all; and so says I, I beg your pardon, Sir,' says I, to a fine ould man, with a head of hair as white as silver, maybe I'm under a mistake,' says I: but I thought I was in France, Sir; an't furriners? says I, Parly voo frongsay?' "We munseer,' says he.

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"Then, would you lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, 'if you plase?'

"Oh, it was thin that they stared at me as if I had seven heads; and, faith, myself began to feel flusthered alike, and onaisy--and so says I, makin' a bow and a scrape agin, 'I know it's a liberty I take, Sir,' said I, but it's only in the regard of bein' cast away, and if you plase, Sir,' says I, Parly voo frongsay?"

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"We munseer,' says he, mighty sharp. "Then, would you lind me the loan of a gridiron?' says I, 'and you'll obleege me.' "Well, Šir, the ould chap began to munseer me; but the devil a bit of a gridiron he'd

gi' me; and so I began to think they wor all neygars, for all their fine manners; and throth my blood begun to rise, and says I, ‘By my sowl, if it was you was in disthress,' says I, 'and if it was to ould Ireland you kem, it's not only the gridiron they'd give you, if you ax'd it, but something to put an it too, and the dhrop o' dhrink into the bargan, and cead mile failte.'

"Well, the word cead mile failte seemed to sthreck his heart, and the ould chap cocked his ear, and so I thought I'd give him another offer, and make him sinsible at last; and so says I, wonst more, quite slowly, that he might undherstand, Parly-voo-frongsay,

munseer?'

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We munseer,' says he.

"Then, lind me the loan of a gridiron,' says I, and bad scram to you.'

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Well, bad win to the bit of it he'd gi'e me, and the owld chap begins bowin' and scrapin', and said something or other about a long tongs*.

Phoo! the divil sweep yourself and your tongs,' says I, 'I don't want a tongs at all at all; but can't you listen to raison,' says I,— Parly voo frongsay?'

66 6 We munseer.'

"Then lind me the loan of a gridiron', says I, ‘and hold your prate.'

* Some mystification of Paddy's touching the French n'entends.

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"Well, what would you think but he shook his ould noddle, as much as to say he wouldn't; and so says I, 'Bad cess to the likes o' that I had ever seen-throth if you wor in my counthry, it's not that-a-way they'd use you; the curse o' the crows an you, you owld sinner,' says I, the divil a longer I'll darken your door."

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"So he seen I was vex'd, and I thought as I was turnin' away, I seen him begin to relint, and that his conscience throubled him; and, says I, turnin' back, Well, I'll give you one chance more, you owld thief-are you a Christhan at all at all? are you a furriner?' says I, 'that all the world call so p'lite. Bad luck to you, do you undherstand your own language! Parly voo frongsay?' says I.

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We munseer,' says he.

“Then thunder and turf,' says I,' will you lind me the loan of a gridiron?"

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Well, Sir, the divil resave the bit of it he'd gi' me—and so with that, 'The curse o' the hungry an you, you owld neygarly villain,' says I; the back o' my hand and the sowl o' my fut to you; that you may want a gridiron yourself yit,' says I; and wherever I go,' high and low, rich and poor, shall hear o' you,' says I; and with that I left them there, Sir, and kem away; and in throth it's often sense, that I thought that it was remarkable."

SAMUEL LOVER,

TO A PRIMROSE IN A CHURCHYARD.

SWEET exile of the hills!
What dost thou here?—
Far from thy native rills,
And fountains clear!
Why is thy young perfume:
Thy starlike bell

Beside the silent tomb
Condemned to dwell?

Oh! surely thou dost love
The tall trees' shade,
The thickly foliage grove,
The dewy glade:

The bank whereon the bee

At noon reposes,

Amid the luxury

Of summer roses!

And, here, no sheltering bower

A curtain weaves

To bend in beauty o'er

Thy tender leaves :
No drooping violet

Expands in glee
Its purple coronet

To welcome thee!

Yet thou dost brightly bloom

When all around

Breathes of sepulchral gloom
And grief profound;—
Like to some sunny gleam
In Life's dark sky,
Or a remembered dream
Of bliss gone by!

THE BLACK POCKET-BOOK.

THE kingdom of Fife has been peculiarly the kingdom of the Scottish gipsies, where they have flourished most, where they have lingered longest. It has been their haunting place, their city of refuge, their Sherwood forest, their Norwood retreat. Here has one hereditary band, in former times prosperous and proud, but now dejected and decayed, risen, flourished, and declined, till "small by degrees and beautifully less," its numbers have dwindled away, leaving only a broken and scattered remnant to preserve its manners, its characteristics, and its usages, undimmed and undegenerated among themselves, the only specimens and representatives of their race.

The

annals of such a people must form a curious history; their chronicles, like their adventures, being peculiar to themselves, are of a strange, and wild, and wonderful description. Like all human narratives, their history is chequered with joy and sorrow, triumph and tribulation, fraud, oppression, and guilt; but to their lot has fallen a double share of all, and, doubly interesting, and doubly exciting must therefore be their story. A few of their unrecorded traditions, as well of a painful as of a pleasing nature, have fallen into my possession. The following is one of humorous character, the

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