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"It's double Gloucester," said Jack Ginger; "prime, bought at the corner -Heaven pay the cheesemonger, for I sha'n't- but, as he is a gentleman, I give you his health.”.

"I don't think," said Joe Macgillicuddy, "that I ought to demean myself to drink the health of a cheesemonger; but I'll not stop the bottle."

And, to do Joe justice, he did not, Then we attacked the cheese, and in an incredibly short period we battered in a breach of an angle of 45 degrees, in a manner that would have done honor to any engineer that directed the guns at San Sebastian.

With cheese came, and with cheese went, celery. It is unnecessary to repeat what a number of puns were made on that most pun-provoking of plants.

"Clear the decks," said Jack Ginger to Jerry Gallagher. "Gentlemen, I did not think of getting pastry, or puddings, or desert, or ices, or jellies, or blancmange, or anything of the sort, for men of sense like you."

We all unanimously expressed our indignation at being supposed even for a moment guilty of any such weakness; but a general suspicion seemed to arise. among us that a dram might not be rejected with the same marked scorn. Jack Ginger accordingly uncorked one of Bob Burke's bottles. Whop! went the cork, and the potteen soon was seen meandering round the table.

"For my part," said Antony Harrison, "I take this dram because I ate pork, and fear it might disagree with me."

"I take it," said Bob Burke, "chiefly by reason of the fish."

"I take it," said Joe Macgillicuddy, "because the day was warm, and it is very close in these chambers."

"I take it," said Tom Meggot, "because I have been very chilly all the day."

"I take it," said Humpy Harlow, "because it is such strange weather that one does not know what to do."

"I take it," said Jack Ginger, "because the rest of the company takes it."

"And I take it," said I, winding up the conversation, "because I like it."

So we all took it for one reason or another and there was an end of that. "Be off, Jerry Gallagher," said Jack

"I give to you, your heirs and assigns, all that and those which remains in the pots of half-and-half-item, for your own dinners what is left of the solids and when you have pared the bones clean you may give them to the poor. Charity covers a multitude of sins. Brush away like a shoeblack and levant."


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Why, thin, God bless your honor," said Jerry Gallagher, "it's a small liggacy he would have that would dippind for his daily bread for what is left behind any of ye in the way of drinkand this blessed hour there's not as much as would blind the left eye of a midge in one of them pots and may it do you all good, if it a'n't the blessing of heaven to see you eating. By my sowl, he that has to pick a bone after you won't be much troubled with the mate. Howsomever—"

"No more prate," said Jack Ginger. "Here's twopence for you to buy some beer-but, no," he continued, drawing his empty hand from that breeches

pocket into which he had most needlessly put it"no," said he, "Jerryget it on credit wherever you can, and bid them score it to me."

"If they will"—said Jerry.

"Shut the door," said Jack Ginger, in a peremptory tone, and Jerry retreated.

"That Jerry," said Jack, "is an uncommonly honest fellow, only he is the ddest rogue in London. But all this is wasting time- and time is life. Dinner is over, and the business of the evening is about to begin. So, bumpers, gentlemen, and get rid of this wine as fast as we can."


I GIVE my soldier-boy a blade,

In fair Damascus fashioned well; Who first the glittering falchion swayed, Who first beneath its fury fell,

I know not, but I hope to know

That for no mean or hireling trade, To guard no feeling base or low, I give my soldier-boy a blade.

Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood In which its tempering work was done,

As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,

Be thou, whene'er it sees the sun; For country's claim at honor's call, For outraged friend, insulted maid, At Mercy's voice to bid it fall,

I give my soldier-boy a blade.

The eye which marked its peerless edge, The hand that weighed its balanced


Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,

Are gone with all their flame and


And still the gleaming sword remains;
So, when in dust I low am laid,
Remember by those heart-felt strains,
I gave my soldier-boy a blade.


JERRY MAHONY, arrah, my jewel! come, let us be off to the fair,
For the Donovans all in their glory most certainly mean to be there;
Says they, "The whole Mahony faction we'll banish 'em out clear and clean,"
But it never was yet in their breeches their bullaboo words to maintain.

There's Darby to head us, and Barney, as civil a man as yet spoke,
'Twould make your mouth water to see him, just giving a bit of a stroke,
There's Corney, the bandy-legged tailor, a boy of the true sort of stuff,
Who'd fight though the black blood was flowing like buttermilk out of his buff.

There's broken-nosed Bat from the mountain, last week he burst out of jail,—
And Murty, the beautiful Tory, who ne'er in a fight turned tail;
Bloody Bill will be there like a darling, and Jerry, och, let him alone,
For giving his blackthorn a flourish, or lifting a lump of a stone.

And Tim, who served in the militia, has his bayonet stuck on a pole; Foxy Dick has his scythe in good order, a neat sort of tool on the whole; A cudgel I see is your weapon, and never I knew it to fail;

But I think that a man is more handy who fights, as I do, with a flail.

We muster a hundred shillelahs, all handled by elegant men,
Who battered the Donovans often, and now will go do it again;
To-day we will teach them some manners, and show that, in spite of their talk,
We still, like our fathers before us, are surely the cocks of the walk.

After cutting out work for the sexton by smashing a dozen or so,
We'll quit in the utmost of splendor, and down to Peg Slattery's go;
In gallons we'll wash down the battle, and drink to the next merry day,
When, mustering again in a body, we all shall go leathering away.

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[John Savage was born at Dublin, December 13, 1828. He received a good education, and studied at the Art School of the Royal Dublin Society. He took an active part in the '48 movement, and escaped to America, where he found employment as proof-reader on the New York Tribune. He soon became a contributor to several popular periodicals. Mr. Savage is the author of "The Struggle for Irish Nationality," "'98 and '48," "Modern Revolutionary History and Literature of Ireland," Fenian Heroes and Martyrs," "Picturesque Ireland," etc. He has also published several volumes of poems of considerable merit. His tragedy of "Sybill" was a great success on the American stage; and some of his poems have been recited to immense audiences on the platforms and lecture-halls throughout the civilized world.]


SCENE- Before Dublin Castle. Night. A clansman of Shane O'Neill's discovers his Chief's head upon a pole.

GOD's wrath upon the Saxon! may they never know the pride
Of dying on the battlefield, their broken spears beside,
When victory gilds the gory shrouds of every fallen brave,

Or death no tales of conquered clans can whisper to his grave.
May every light from Cross of Christ that saves the heart of man

Be hid in clouds of blood before it reach the Saxon clan;

For sure, O God! - and you know all, whose thought for all sufficed —

To expiate these Saxons' sins they'd want another Christ.

Is it thus, O Shane the haughty! Shane the valiant! that we meet-
Have my eyes been lit by Heaven but to guide me to defeat;

Have I no chief or you no clan, to give us both defence,


Or must I, too, be statued here with thy cold eloquence?

Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old Dublin Castle tower,

Thy shaggy hair is wind-tost, and thy brow seems rough with power;
Thy wrathful lips, like sentinels, by foulest treachery stung,
Look rage upon the world of wrong but chain thy fiery tongue.

That tongue whose Ulster accent woke the ghost of Columbkill,
Whose warrior words fenced round with spears the oaks of Derry Hill;

* Shane O'Neill, the most powerful Ulster Chief of his day, had so harassed the English, and scoffed at all their arts of diplomacy, their offers of nobility, and reformatory patronage, that the "Government seems to have determined, either by force or otherwise, the Northern prince must be destroyed." After living for some years the proud, ferocious, and feared ruler of Ulster, he was at last murdered at a feast given to him by the Scotch Macdonnells of Antrim, whose sept he had formerly ravaged. The instigator of this foul treachery and slaughter was one Piers, an English officer and agent of the Lord Deputy. He appropriated O'Neill's head, and received for it one thousand marks from his master. "This ghastly head was gibbeted high upon a pole, and long grinned upon the towers of Dublin Castle."

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