O'Ryan gave his pipe a whiff,—
"Them tidin's is thransportin',
But may I ax your saintship if
There's any kind of sportin'?”
St. Patrick said, "A Lion's there,

Two Bears, a Bull, and Cancer"-
"Bedad," says Mick, "the huntin's rare;
St. Pathrick, I'm your man, sir."

So, to conclude my song aright,
For fear I'd tire your patience,
You'll see O'Ryan any night
Amid the constellations.

And Venus follows in his track

Till Mars grows jealous really,

But faith, he fears the Irish knack
Of handling the shillaly.

CHARLES G. HALPINE (MILES O'REILLY).

SELLING THE FARM.

Well! why don't you say it, husband? I know what you want to say; You want to talk about selling the farm, for the mortgage we cannot

pay.

I know that we cannot pay it; I have thought of it o'er and o'er; For the wheat has failed on the corner lot, where wheat never failed

before,

And everything here's gone backward since Willie went off to sea, To pay the mortgage and save the farm, the homestead, for you and

me.

I know it was best to give it; it was right that the debts be paid,— The debts that our thoughtless Willie, in the hours of his weakness

made;

And Will would have paid it fairly, you know it as well as I,

If the ship had not gone down that night when no other ship was

nigh.

But, somehow, I didn't quit hoping, and ever I've tried to pray— (But I know if our Will was alive on earth, he'd surely been here

to-day).

I thought that the merciful Father would somehow care for the lad, Because he was trying to better the past, and because he was all we had.

But now I am well-nigh hopeless, since hope for my boy has fled, For selling the farm means giving him up, and knowing for sure he's dead.

Oh, Thomas! how can we leave it, the home we have always known? We won it away from the forest, and made it so much our own. First day we kept house together was the day that you brought me here

And no other place in the wide, wide world will ever be half so dear. Of course you remember it, Thomas,-I need not ask you, I know, For this is the month, and this is the day,—it was twenty-six years

ago.

And don't you remember it, Thomas, the winter the barn was made,
How we were so proud and happy, for all our debts were paid?
The crops were good that summer, and everything worked like a
charm,

We felt so rich and contented, to think we had paid for the farm.
And now to think we must leave it, when here I was hoping to die;
It seems as if it was breaking my heart, but the fount of my tears is
dry.

There's a man up there in the village that's wanting to buy, you say;
Well, Thomas, he'll have to have it; but why does he come to-day?
But there, it is wrong to grieve you, for you have enough to bear,
And in all of our petty troubles you always have borne your share;
I am but a sorry helpmeet since I have so childish grown:
There, there, go on to the village; let me have it out alone.

Poor Thomas, he's grwoing feeble, he steps so weary and slow;
There is not much in his looks to-day like twenty-six years ago.
But I know that his heart is youthful as it was when we first were
wed,

And his love is as strong as ever for me, and for Willie, our boy that's

dead.

Oh, Willie, my baby Willie! I never shall see him more:

I shall never hear his footsteps as he comes through the open door. "How are you, dear little mother?" were always the words he'd say; It seems as if I would give the world to hear it again to-day.

I knew when my boy was coming, be it ever so early or late,

He was always a whistling "Home, Sweet Home," as he opened the

garden gate.

And many and many a moment, since the night the ship went down, Have I started up at a whistle like his, out there on the road from

town;

And in many a night of sorrow, in the silence early and late,

Have I held my breath at a footstep that seemed to pause at the gate.

I hope that he cannot see us, wherever his soul may be;

It would grieve him to know the trouble that's come to father and

me.

Out there is the tree he planted the day he was twelve years old; The sunlight is glinting through it, and turning its leaves to gold;

And often when I was lonely, and no one near at hand,

I have talked to it hours together, as if it could understand;
And sometimes I used to fancy whenever I spoke of my boy,
It was waving its leaves together, like clapping its hands for joy.

It may be the man that will own it, that's coming to buy to-day, Will be chopping it down, or digging it up, and burning it out of the

way.

And there are the pansies yonder, and the roses he helped to tend: Why, every bush on the dear old place is as dear as a tried old friend

And now we must go and leave them,-but there they come from town;

I haven't had time to smooth my hair, or even to change my gown.
I can see them both quite plainly, although it is getting late,
And the stranger's whistling "Home, Sweet Home," as he comes up
from the gate.

I'll go out into the kitchen now, for I don't want to look on his face! What right has he to be whistling that, unless he has bought the place?

Why, can that be Thomas coming? he usually steps so slow;

There's something come into his footsteps like twenty-six years ago.

There's something that sounds like gladness, and the man that he used to be

Before our Willie went out from home to die on the stormy sea. What, Thomas! Why are you smiling, and holding my hands so tight?

Why don't you tell me quickly-must we go from the farm to-night?
What's that? "You bring me tidings, and tidings of wonderful joy?"
It cannot be very joyous, unless it is news of my boy.
Oh, Thomas! You cannot mean it! Here, let me look in your
Now, tell me again it is Willie that's wanting to buy the place.

face

WORDS AND THEIR USES.

BETH DAY.

A SATIRE ON SLANG PHRASES.

RESPECTED WIFE: From these few lines my whereabouts thee'll

learn

Moreover, I impart to thee my serious concern:

The language of this people is a riddle unto me,

And words, with them, are figments of a reckless mockery!

For instance: As I left the cars, an imp with smutty face,

Said "Shine."

grace!"

"Nay, I'll not shine," I said, "except with inward

"Is 'inward grace' a liquid or a paste?" asked this young Turk; "Hi Daddy! What is inward grace'?

work?"

་

How does the old thing

"Friend," said I to Jehu, whose breath suggested gin,
"Can thee convey me straightway to a reputable inn?"
His answer's gross irrelevance I shall not soon forget-
Instead of simply yea or nay, he gruffly said, "You bet!"

"Nay, nay, I shall not bet," said I, "for that would be a sin-Why don't thee answer plainly: Can thee take me to an inn? Thy vehicle is doubtless meant to carry folk about in-

Then why prevaricate?" Said he, perversely, "Now yer shoutin'!"

"Nay, verily, I shouted not!" quoth I, "my speech is mild; But thine-I grieve to say it-with falsehood is defiled.

Thee ought to be admonished to rid thy heart of guile."

"See here! my lively moke,” said he, “you sling on too much style!"

"I've had these plain drab garments some twenty years and more,”

said I,

"And when thee says I 'sling on style,' thee tells a wilful lie!" At that he pranced around as if "a bee were in his bonnet," And, with hostile demonstrations, inquired if I was "on it!"

"On what? Till thee explains thyself, I cannot tell," I said; He swore that something was "too thin;” moreover it was "played!” But all his jargon was surpassed, in wild absurdity,

By threats, profanely emphasized, to "put a head" on me!

"No son of Belial," said I, "that miracle can do!"

Whereat he fell upon me with blows and curses, too,

But failed to work that miracle-if such was his design

For instead of putting on a head, he strove to smite off mine!

Thee knows I cultivate the peaceful habit of our sect,

But this man's conduct wrought on me a singular effect;

For when he slapped my broad-brim off, and asked "How's that for high?"

It roused the Adam in me, and I smote him hip and thigh!

The throng then gave a specimen of calumny broke loose.

And said I'd "snatched him bald-headed," and likewise "cooked his

goose;"

Although, I solemnly affirm, I did not pull his hair,

Nor did I cook his poultry-for he had no poultry there!

They called me Bully boy," although I've seen nigh threescore

year;

And said that I was "lightning" when I "got up on my ear!"

And when I asked if lightning climbed its ear, or dressed in drab, "You know how 'tis yourself!" said one inconsequential blab!