WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM was born at Bally

6

shannon in the northwest of Ireland in 1828, and descended from an old Anglo-Irish family. In his youth he was influenced strongly by the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,' and was for many years editor of Fraser. In 1874 he married Miss Helen Paterson, the artist. He has published "Poems," 1850; "The Music Master, and Day and Night Songs," 1854; "Lawrence Bloomfield in Ireland: a Modern Poem, in Twelve Chapters," 1864; "Songs, Poems, and Ballads," 1877; "Evil MayDay," 1883; "Ashley Manor" (Drama), 1883; "Black-berries Picked Off Many Bushes," 1884.

LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.

H. F. R.

OH, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! If fifty girls were round you I'd hardly see the rest. Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will,

Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,

How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock.

Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower,

Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up,

Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a

china cup,

Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine;

It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before,

No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor;

But Mary kept the belt of love, and O but she was gay!

She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,

The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet;

The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,

But blessed his luck to not be deaf when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung, Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;

But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands,

And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

'Tis you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town;

The higher I exhalt you, the lower I'm cast down, If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright,

And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

O might we live together in a lofty palace hall, Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains

fall!

O might we live together in a cottage mean and small,

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress. Its far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less.

The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low;

But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!

THE DIRTY OLD MAN.

A LAY OF LEADENHALL.

IN a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man;
Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan.
For forty long years, as the neighbors declared,
His house never once had been cleaned or
repaired.

'Twas a scandal and shame to the business-like street,

One terrible blot in a ledger so neat:

The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse, And the rest of the mansion a thousand times

worse.

Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain,
Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain;
The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass,
And the panes from being broken were known to
be glass.

On a rickety signboard no learning could spell
The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell;
But for house and for man a new title took growth,
Like a fungus-the Dirt gave a name to them
both.

Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,
The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust,
Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;
'Twas a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof.

There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man
Lives busy and dirty as ever he can;
With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,

For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace.

From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,

His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;
The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding-

Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding.

Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair, Have entered his shop-less to buy than to stare; And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful,

The Dirty Man's manners were truely delightful.

Upstairs they don't venture, in dirt and in gloom—
Mayn't peep at the door of the wonderful room
Such stories are told of, not half of them true;
The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through.

That room-forty years since, folk settled and decked it.

The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected.

The handsome young host he is gallant and gay, For his love and his friends will be with him today.

With solid and dainty the table is drest,

The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best;

Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear,

For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear.

Full forty years since, turned the key in that door. 'Tis a room deaf and dumb 'mid the city's uproar. The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread,

May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead.

Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come

and go;

The seats are in order, the dishes a-row;

But the banquet was wealth to the rat and the

mouse

Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House.

Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust; The flowers fall'n to powder, the wine swathed in crust;

A nosegay was laid before one special chair,
And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there.
The old man has plaid out his parts in the scene.
Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean.
Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban
To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.

NANNY'S SAILOR LAD.

Now fare-you-well! my bonny ship,
For I am for the shore.

The wave may flow, the breeze may blow,
They'll carry me no more.

And all as I came walking And singing up the sand, I met a pretty maiden,

I took her by the hand.

But still she would not raise her head,
A word she would not speak,
And tears were on her eyelids,
Dripping down her cheek.

Now grieve you for your father?
Or husband might it be?
Or is it for a sweetheart
That's roving on the sea?

It is not for my father,

I have no husband dear, But oh! I had a sailor lad And he is lost, I fear.

Three long years

I am grieving for his sake, And when the stormy wind blows loud, I lie all night awake.

I caught her in my arms.

And she lifted up her eyes,

I kissed her ten times over
In the midst of her surprise.

Cheer up, cheer up, my Nanny,
And speak again to me;
O dry your tears, my darling,
For I'll go no more to sea.

I have a love, a true true love,

And I have a golden store,

The wave may flow, the breeze may blow, They'll carry me no more!

THE BRIGHT LITTLE GIRL.

HER blue eyes they beam and they twinkle, Her lips have made smiling more fair; On cheek and on brow there's no wrinkle, But thousands of curls in her hair.

She's little,-you don't wish her taller; Just half through the teens is her age; And baby or lady to call her,

Were something to puzzle a sage.

Her walk is far better than dancing;
She speaks as another might sing;
And all by an innocent chancing,

Like lambkins and birds in the spring.

Unskilled in the airs of the city,

She's perfect in natural grace; She's gentle, and truthful, and witty, And ne'er spends a thought on her face.

Her face, with the fine glow that's in it,
As fresh as an apple-tree bloom-
And O! when she comes, in a minute,
Like sunbeams she brightens the room.

As taking in mind as in feature,

How many will sigh for her sake! I wonder, the sweet little creature, What sort of a wife she would make.

DANGER.

I STROVE for wicked peace, but might not win; The bonds would bite afresh, one moment slack. "Then burst them!" instantly I felt

begin Damnation. Falling through a chasm of black, I swiftly sunk thousands of miles therein. Soul grew incorporate with gross weight of sin, Death clung about my feet: let none dare track My journey. But a far Voice called me back. I breathe this world's infatuating air, And tremble as I walk. Most men are boldPerchance through madness. O that I could hold One path, nor wander to the fen, nor dare Between the precipice and the wild beast's lair! For penalties are established from of old.

SOPHRONIA YOUNG KINNE.

OPHRONIA YOUNG KINNE, was born January 1st, 1818 in a suburban village near Syracuse, N. Y. Her grandfather, John Young, Esq., was the first settler of that place, in 1788, and her father, Rev. Seth Young, one of the early pioneer preachers of the Methodist Episcopal Church. He traveled extensively through central and northern New York when the country was an almost unbroken wilderness. The family were lineal descendents of Rev. Christopher Youngs, vicar of Reyden and Southwold, England. . He was chaplain of Windsor in Queen Elizabeth's reign. His son, Rev. John Youngs, was the first minister of the gospel at Southhold, Long Island, where he settled with his followers from England in 1638.

In early childhood there was developed in Miss Young a religious element that has been the governing principle of her life. Taught by example the sweet amenities of life in Christian parents, and occupying the center of a circle of six loving sisters and two brothers. Her inner being was thus strengthened and matured into a consecrated life. Her education was gained in the district school of her native village, with the exception of a term at Cazenovia Seminary. She then engaged in teaching for some time until her marriage to Elbridge Kinne. To the old ancestral homestead of that family, she came in the early years of womanhood and has given, what was her joy to bestow, the loving service of a devoted Christian mother. In the hearts of her children and friends will always remain the cherished memory of a home life made ideal by both father and mother in the exercise of the highest Christian graces. Not until the children had gone out of it in later years did she find time to pen the thoughts that have always made her inner life transcendent.

She is a lover of nature and always mindful of her voice. At times she gives the reins to fancy and indulges in charming creations that are much admired. She writes for the love of it and although solicited has rarely given her poems for publication. Mr. and Mrs. Kinne celebrated their golden anniversary October 17th, 1887. C. Y. W.

SHADOWS.

OVER the clover math,

Down in the dell,

Fol'wing the mountain path

Where sunbeams dwell,