THE WAR-SHIP OF PEACE.

The Americans exhibited much sympathy toward Ireland when the famine raged there in 1847. A touching instance was then given how the better feelings of our nature may employ even the enginery of destruction to serve the cause of humanity: an American frigate (the Jamestown, I believe) was dismantled of all her warlike appliances, and placed at the disposal of the charitable to carry provisions.

SWEET Land of Song! thy harp doth hang
Upon the willows now,

While famine's blight and fever's pang
Stamp misery on thy brow;

Yet take thy harp, and raise thy voice,
Though faint and low it be,
And let thy sinking heart rejoice
In friends still left to thee!

Look out-look out-across the sea
That girds thy emerald shore,
A ship-of-war is bound for thee,
But with no warlike store;
Her thunder sleeps-'tis Mercy's breath
That wafts her o'er the sea;
She goes not forth to deal out death,
But bears new life to thee!

Thy wasted hand can scarcely strike
The chords of grateful praise;
Thy plaintive tone is now unlike
Thy voice of former days;
Yet, even in sorrow, tuneful still,
Let Erin's voice proclaim
In bardie praise, on every hill,
Columbia's glorious name!

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

The brief period which succeeds the autumnal close, called "The Indian summer "-a reflex, as it were, of the early portion of the year, strikes a stranger in America as peculiarly beautiful, and quite charmed me.

WHEN Summer's verdant beauty flies,
And autumn glows with richer dyes,
A softer charm beyond them lies-
It is the Indian summer.
Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze
Bereave of beauty all the trees,
The balmy spring renewal sees

In the sweet Indian summer.

Och hone! but why should I spake

Of your forehead and eyes,
When your nose it defies

Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme?

Though there's one Burke, he says, that would call it snublime,

And then for your cheek!

Throth, 'twould take him a week

Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather.
Then your lips! oh, machree!

In their beautiful glow,

They a patthern might be

For the cherries to grow.

Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know,

For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago;
But at this time o' day,

'Pon my conscience I'll say

Such cherries might tempt a man's father!
Och hone! weirasthrue!

I'm alone in this world without you.

And when you're at mass
My devotion you crass,
For 'tis thinking of you
I am, Molly Carew,

sthreet;

Throth, you'd open your eyes,

And you'd die with surprise,

To think 'twasn't you was come to it! And faith, Katty Naile,

And her cow, I go bail,

Would jump if I'd say,

in May,

THE HAPPIEST TIME IS NOW.

TALK not to me of future bliss!
Talk not to me of joys gone by!
For us, the happiest hour is this,
When love bids time to fly :
The future-doubt may overcast,
To shadow Hope's young brow;
Oblivion's veil may shroud the past-
The happiest time is now !

Though flowers in spicy vases thrown
Some odor yet exhale,

Their fragrance, ere the bloom was flown,
Breathed sweeter on the gale:
Like faded flowers, each parted bliss
Let memory keep-but how
Can joy that's past be like to this?
The happiest time is now!

Unmark'd our course before us lies
O'er time's eternal tide;
And soon the sparkling ripple dies
We raise, as on we glide;

Our barks the brightest bubbles fling
Forever from the prow;
Then let us gayly sail, and sing,
"The happiest time is now!"

PADDY'S PASTORAL RHAPSODY.

WHEN Molly, th' other day, sir,
Was makin' of the hay, sir,
I ask'd her for to be my bride,
And Molly she began to chide;
Says she, "You are too young, dear Pat."
Says I, "My jew'l, I'll mend o' that."
"You are too poor," says she, beside,
When to convince her, then, I tried,
That wealth is an invintion

The wise should never mintion,

And flesh is grass, and flowers will fade,
And it's better be wed than die an owld maid.

The purty little sparrows

Have neither ploughs nor harrows,
Yet they live at aise, and are contint,
Bekase, you see, they pay no rint;
They have no care nor flustherin',
About diggin' or industherin';

No foolish pride their comfort hurts-
For they eat the flax, and wear no shirts-
For wealth is an invintion, &c., &c.

Sure Nature clothes the hills, dear,
Without any tailor's bills, dear;

And the bees they sip their sweets, my sowl,
Though they never had a sugar-bowl,
The dew it feeds the rose of June-
But 'tis not with a silver spoon :
Then let us patthern take from those,
The birds and bees, and lovely rose,
For wealth is an invintion, &c., &c.

Here's a cup to you, my darlin',
Though I'm not worth a farthin',
I'll pledge my coat to drink your health,
And then I'll envy no man's wealth;
For when I'm drunk I think I'm rich,
I've a feather bed in every ditch,

I dhrame o' you, my heart's delight,

And how could I pass a pleasanter night? For wealth is an invintion, &c., &c.

THE LOW-BACK'D CAR.

WHEN first I saw sweet Peggy
'Twas on a market-day,

A low-back'd car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay;

But when that hay was blooming grass,
And deck'd with flowers of spring,
No flower was there

That could compare

To the blooming girl I sing,

As she sat in her low-back'd car

The man at the turnpike bar

Never ask'd for the toll

But just rubbed his owld poll,

And look'd after the low-back'd car!

In battle's wild commotion,

The proud and mighty Mars,

With hostile scythes, demands his tithes Of Death, in warlike cars;

35

But Peggy-peaceful goddess—
Has darts in her bright eye,
That knock men down
In the market town,

As right and left they fly

While she sits in her low-back'd car,
Than battle more dangerous far,

For the docthor's art
Cannot cure the heart

That is hit from that low-back'd car.

Sweet Peggy, round her car, sir,

Has sthrings of ducks and geese.
But the scores of hearts she slaughthers
By far outnumber these;
While she among her poulthry sits,
Just like a turtle dove,

Well worth the cage,
I do engage,

Of the blooming God of Love!
As she sits in her low-back'd car,
The lovers come near and far,
And envy the chicken
That Peggy is pickin'

As she sits in the low-back'd car.

I'd rather own that car, sir,

With Peggy by my side,

Than a coach and four, and goold galore,*
And a lady for my bride;
For the lady would sit forninst † me,
On a cushion made with taste,
While Peggy would sit beside me,
With my arm around her waist,

As we dhrove in the low-back'd car,
To be married by Father Maher-
Oh, my heart would beat high
At her glance and her sigh-
Though it beat in a low-back'd car.

WIDOW MACHREE.

WIDOW Machree, it's no wonder you frown,

Och hone! Widow Machree;

Faith it ruins your looks, that same dirty black

FATHER-LAND AND MOTHER-TONGUE.

OUR Father-land! and wouldst thou know Why we should call it "Father-land?

It is, that Adam, here below,

Was made of earth by Nature's hand;
And he, our father, made of earth,
Hath peopled earth on every hand,
And we, in memory of his birth,
Do call our country, "Father-land."

At first in Eden's bowers, they say,
No sound of speech had Adam caught,
But whistled like a bird all day-
And maybe 'twas for want of thought:
But Nature, with resistless laws,

Made Adam soon surpass the birds,
She gave him lovely Eve-because
If he'd a wife-they must have words.

And so the Native-land I hold,

By male descent is proudly mine; The language, as the tale hath told, Was given in the female line.

And thus we see on either hand,

We name our blessings whence they've sprung,

We call our country FATHER-land,

We call our language MOTHER-tongue.

The wicked wateh-dog here is snarling-
He takes me for a thief, you see;
For he knows I'd steal you, Molly darling-
And then transported I should be.

'TIS SWEET TO REMEMBER.

OH! 'tis sweet to remember how brightly
The days o'er us swiftly have flown,
When the hearts that we prize beat as lightly,
And fed upon hopes like our own;
When with grief we were scarcely acquainted,
While joy was our own bosom friend;
Oh! days-wing'd too swiftly with pleasure,
Ye are past and our dream's at an end.

The walks, were we've roam'd without tiring,
The songs that together we've sung-
The jest, to whose merry inspiring

Our mingling of laughter hath rung-
Oh! trifles like these become precious,
Embalm'd in the mem'ry of years:
The smiles of the past-so remember'd―
How often they waken our tears!

THE JAUNTING CAR.

A FULL and faithful account I'll sing

Of the wonderful things that in Ireland are; And first I would fain to your notice bring

That magic contrivance, a Jaunting Car. For its magic is great, as I'll soon impart,

And naught can compare to it near or far; Would you find the soft side of a lady's heart, Just sit by her side on a Jaunting Car : The lordly brougham, the ducal coach, My lady's chariot, less speedy are To make their way to church, they say, Than a nice little drive on a Jaunting Car.

The Greeks and Romans fine cars display'd,

If to history you'll let me go back so far; But, the wretches, in these it was war they made,

While 'tis love that is made on a Jaunting Car. But in love, as in war, you may kill your man, And if you're inclined to proceed so far, Just call him out, and go ride about

A mile and a half on a Jaunting Car. Let lovers praise the moon's soft rays, The falling dew or the rising star, The streamlet's side at the even-tide,

But give me the side of a Jaunting Car.

Ere Cupid was taught to take steps with art,
(Little staggering bob, as most babies are,)
His mother she bought him a little go-cart-
'Twas the earliest form of the Jaunting Car.
And the walking gift it can soon impart
To all who to Cupid inclinèd are,
If you would walk off with a lady's heart,
Just take her a drive on a Jaunting Car.
The cushions soft as the tale that's told,
The shafts as certain as Cupid's are,
The springs go bump-and your heart goes

jump,

At the thumping vows on a Jaunting Car.