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6 I vow,

Sally, you looked so plaguy handsome to-day that I wanted to eat you up.”—“Pshaw, git along you,” says she. My hand had crept aloug, somehow upon its fingers, and began to scrape acquaintance with hers. She sent it home again with a desperate jerk. “ Try it agin”-no better luck. “Why Miss Jones, you're gettin' upstropulous—a little old maidish, I guess." -“ Hands off is fair play, Mr. Beedle.”

It is a good sign to find a girl sulky. I knew where the shoe pinched. It was that 'ere Patty Bean business. So I went to work to persuade her that I had never had any notion after Patty, and to prove it I fell to running her down at a great rate. Sally could not help chiming in with me, and I rather guess Miss Patty suffered a few. I now not only got hold of her hand without opposition, but managed to slip an arm round her waist. But there was no satisfying me--so I must go to poking out my lips after a buss. I guess I rued it. She fetched me a slap on the face that made me see stars, and my ears rung like a brass kettle for a quarter of an hour. I was forced to laugh at the joke, though out of the wrong side of my mouth, which gave my face something the look of a grid-iron.

The battle now began in the regular way. “Ah, Sally, give me a kiss and have done with it.”—“No I won't, so there, nor tech to.”—“I'll take it whether or no.”—“Do it, if you dare.” And at it we went, rough and tumble. An odd destruction of starch now commenced. The bow of my cravat was squat up in half a shake. At the next bout, smash went shirt collar, and at the same time, some of the head fastenings gave way, and down came Sally's hair in a flood like a mill-dam broke loose, carrying away half a dozen combs. One dig of Sally's elbow, and my blooming ruffles wilted down into a dish-cloth. But she had no time to boast. Soon her neck tackling began to shiver; it parted at the throat, and whorah, came a whole school of blue and white beads scampering and running races every which way about the floor.

By the hokey, if Sally Jones isn't real grit, there's no snakes. She fought fair, however, I must own, and neither tried to bite or scratch ; and when she could fight no longer, for want of breath, she yielded handsomely.

The upshot of the matter is, I fell in love with Sally Jones, head over ears. Every Sunday night, rain or shine, finds me rapping at Squire Jones's door, and twenty times have I been within a hair's breadth of popping the question. But now I have made a final resolve ; and if I live tisl next Sunday night, and I don't get choked in the trial, Sally Jones will hear thunder!

THE BARD.

“Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait !

Though fann'd by conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor even thy virtues, tyrant! shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears."
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride

Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

He wound, with toilsome march, his long array. Stout Gloucester stood aghast in speechless trance : To arms !” cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lanca.

On a rock whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming ffood,

Robed in the sable garb of wo, With haggard eyes the poet stood : (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air,! And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre :“ Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave,

Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
O'er thee, o king! their hundred arms they wave,

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

“Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

That hush'd the stormy main ;
Brave Urien sleep's upon his craggy bed :

Mountains ! ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud topt head.

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale ;
Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail ;

The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art !

Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,

Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-No more I weep. They do not sleep;

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,

I see them sit :—they linger yet,

Avengers of their native land:
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line:"-

" • Weave the warp, and weave the woof, . The winding-sheet of Edward's race ;

• Give ample room and verge enough
• The characters of hell to trace.
• Mark the year, and mark the night,

• When Severn shall re-echo with affright,
• The shrieks of death through Berkeley's roofs that ring,

Shrieks of an agonized king!
*She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,

• That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, • From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs

. The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait ! * Amazement in his van, with flight combined, * And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind !

" 'Mighty victor, mighty lord ! • Low on his funeral couch he lies!

No pitying heart, no eye, afford “A tear to grace his obsequies ! 'Is the sable warrior fled ?• Thy son is gone:-he rests among the dead. • The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born ? Gone to salute the rising morn. _Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm *In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes ;

* Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, * That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

" . Fill high the sparkling bowl, •The rich repast prepare ;

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : • Close by the regal chair,

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl • A baleful smile upon the baffled guest. • Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse ?

'Long years of havoc urge their destined course, * And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. • Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,

With many a foul and midnight murder fed ! * Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,

* And spare the meek usurper's hoary head !
* Above, below,--the rose of snow

• Twined with her blushing foe was spread :

• The bristled boar in infant gore .Wallows beneath the thorny shade. • Now, brothers ! bending o'er the accursed loom, *Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

"• Edward, lo! to sudden fate ( Weave we the woof—the thread is spun)

• Half of thy heart we consecrate.• The web is wove; the work is done.' --Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblest, unpitied, here to mourn : In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes ! But oh! what solemn scenes, on Snowdon's height

Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll' Visions of glory; spare my aching sight;

Ye unborn ages! crowd not on my soul :No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail : All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail !

“ Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old
In bearded majesty appear :
In the midst a form divine !--
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line ;
Her lion port, her awe-commanding race,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.-
What strings symphonious tremble in the air !

What strains of vocal transport round her play! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin ! hear;

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colourd winga.

“The verse adorn again

Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dress'd.

In buskin'd measures move

Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast,

A voice as of the cherub-choir,
Gales from blooming Eden bear;
And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

That lost in long futurity expire,
Fond impious man ! think’st thou yon sanguine clor

Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nation with redoubled ray.

Enough for me :—with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign :
Be thine despair, and sceptred care ;

To triumph and to die are mine."
He spoke,-and, headlong from the mountain's height,
Deep in the roaring tide, he plunged to endless night.

MANSION-HOUSE.

What a noise, what a row, all the folks are crushing here,

Stand aside, his worship now is coming to the bench;
To get a seat, and be in time, what numbers now are rushing here,

Get off my toe, leave go my arm, or your neck I'll quickly wrench!
• Pray, who's that man that's handcuff'd there?' • That, sir, is a prisoner.'

• What has he done that he should be brought up in such a way?' .He's robbed a house, for which he'll find Jack Ketch will stretch his wizen, or

If not that, if he has luck, he'll go to Botany Bay.'

Spoken.)-Make way, make way there, I say don't you see the inagistrates are coming to the bench. Which is the bench ? Why, that arm.chair. Hats off, hats off! I can't take my hat off. Why not? Why not? why, because I have got a cold, and my wig is in pawn. Now then, bring on the first charge. What’s ’against that man? The bar's against me. Silence, sir? What's that man brought up for? Why, please your worship, here's one Christopher Chubb taken up for disorderly conduct. I say I didn't do any thing. Silence ! He assaulted a gentleman and a lady in a wail. I'll take my oath I never touch'd him. Will you be quiet, sir ! No, sir; I can't sir. Where's your other witness ? Here, sir—the prisoner came up to me in a very obstropolous sort of a vay, and said I must sing him a song, and I said I couldn't, your worship ; and then he came up to my parter, O'Holloran. Where's he ? Faith! here I am, your worship ; I took the prisoner, he was lying on all fours down the hairy of an house. Ulloa ! says I, what are you doing there? when he tries to hit me a kick, so I parodied off the blows, and I took him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out—come, my honest man, says I, don't be after kicking up a bobbery at three o'clock at night in this way, when he calls me an obnoxious epitaph! and said he hoped I might be hang’d, and I said I hoped not at his expense, and then he asked me for my authority, and I showed hina my lantern, your wor. ship; but he made light of it. Where's the lady? Here I am, your worship. What's your name ? Maria Fumbustle. How were you assaulted ? Why, I was at a snug tea party at

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