BUSY, CURIOUS, THIRSTY FLY

B

USY, curious, thirsty fly,

Drink with me, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip and sip it up.
Make the most of life you may:
Life is short, and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine,
Hastening quick to their decline;
Thine's a summer, mine no more,
Though repeated to threescore.

Threescore summers, when they're gone,
Will appear as short as one.

VINCENT BOURNE.

MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE

Y DEAR and only love, I pray

MY

This noble world of thee
Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchie.
For if confusion have a part,-
Which virtuous souls abhor,-
And hold a synod in thy heart,
I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,

And I will reign alone;

My thoughts shall evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,

That puts it not unto the touch,
To win or lose it all.

But if no faithless action stain

Thy true and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,
And glorious by my sword.

I'll serve thee in such noble ways
As ne'er were known before;

I'll deck and crown thy head with bays,

And love thee more and more.

JAMES GRAHAM, Earl of Montrose.

THE WEARING OF THE GREEN

PADDY dear, and did you hear the news that's going round?
The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;

St. Patrick's Day no more we'll keep; his colors can't be seen: For there's a bloody law again' the wearing of the green.

I met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,
And he said, "How's poor old Ireland, and how does she stand?
She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen:
They are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.

Oh, if the color we must wear is England's cruel red,
Sure Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed.
You may take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
But 'twill take root and flourish there, though under foot 'tis trod.
When law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow,
And when the leaves in summer-time their verdure dare not show,
Then I will change the color I wear in my caubeen;

But till that day, please God, I'll stick to wearing of the green.

But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart,
Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old isle will part:
I've heard a whisper of a country that lies beyond the sea,
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.
O Erin, must we leave you, driven by a tyrant's hand?

Must we ask a mother's blessing from a strange and distant land?
Where the cruel cross of England shall nevermore be seen,

And where, please God, we'll live and die still wearing of the green.

DION BOUCICAULT.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

NOT

or a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sod with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him;

ARNOLD WINKELRIED'S MONUMENT.

Photogravure from a photograph.