And this went on twelve years and more ;
A fit of illness came at last,

And then my conscience it was sore;
It keenly pain'd me for the past.
Oh! then that sickness just began,
Indeed I thought I should have died;
Poor John brought in a holy man,
Father Fitzhenry was his name,
And this old priest he often came
And pray'd at my bed-side;
'Twould do you good his face to see,
He look'd all peace and piety.

To this good priest I told my shame,
I told him of my sinful life;
He call'd me by my proper name-
A wicked and a worthless wife.
Oh! the sad lesson that he gave !
Why, till I'm rotting in the grave,
I won't-I can't forget what then
He spoke of-but through life again
My thoughts, my wishes, never ran
On any but on John M'Cann.

I promised before God in heaven
To leave my drinking too :

I made the promise; but, when given,
I found it would not do.

Oh! sir, I was but up and well,
When to the drop once more I fell!
My husband saw that all was gone,
And let me for a time go on :
Two growing boys were all we had,
And they in dirty rags were clad.

I

pawn n'd their clothes-1 pawn'd my own

I left poor John quite bare at last;

My figure as a show was shown

(So poor, so naked, I had grown)

'Twas shown as through the streets I pass'd;

And many laugh'd this end to see
Of all my former finery.

John bore as much as man could bear,
But got at last quite tir'd of me;
And, in mere madness and despair,
He bent his course across the sea:
He took my William in his care,
As good a son as son could be;
For he was brought up to the trade,
And a smart hand he soon was made.

'Good workmen may go any where-
They settled at New York, 'tis said;
But they were not a twelvemonth there
When I got word that both were dead;
I think at first some tears I shed-
A tear or two I might let fall,
But the next naggin banish'd all.

'Poor naked Joe, my other child,
Among the blackguards took his round,
Till one fine morning, in the street,
By great good luck he chanced to meet
A swaddling dame, all smooth and mild,
And in that dame a friend he found;
She took him home, and be was taught
To do as tidy servants ought;

For clothing he was at no cost

Or food-Oh! sir, I'd bless that dame

But that my boy's poor soul is lost;
For Joe, I tell it to his shame,

At once took to the holy plan-
A prim sly Swaddler he became ;
And he could whine and wheedle so,
The servants call'd him " 'Holy Joe;"
And, as he grew to be a man,

If any mention'd but my name,
I'm told he'd redden at the same;
And still he shunn'd me when I'd call:
'Twas hard-but I deserved it all.

Well; to the worst at last I went→
I've begg'd for twenty years and more;
Sometimes my heart has felt content.
And sometimes been both sad and sore:

Master—I'd be quite happy now,
If I to yonder shop could go;
I've but this penny left, I vow,

And that wont get the glass, you know.
Do, master, dear!'--I paused in vain,
I could not let her ask again.

O'DONOHUE'S BAGPIPES.

A TALE OF IRISH SUPERSTITION.

In the kingdom of Kerry, where the men are brave and the women chaste, the cows little and the hills many, lived one Mick M'Connell, a dark* man, who played upon the bagpipes; and a most beautiful fine piper he was, without an equal in the whole country, for a thousand miles round. Mick, though blind, knew every nook and corner from Kenmare to Tralee, and had a great advantage over those who could see, for he could travel just as well by night as by day, without ever making a false step, or once missing his road; and that was a great blessing indeed, and only for it poor Mick would have been badly off; for he had neither wife nor child, kit, kin, or relation, to say as much as How dow do you do?' or Do you want any thing, Mick?'

Poor Mick was a wet soul to boot, and was never sober when he could get any thing to drink, and that was always, and all weathers; for he was born in the good old times, when the real gentlemen lived in the country, that hadn't their hearts in a trifle there was nothing then but coshering and patterns, dancing and hunting. Peelers were then unknown, and a gauger daren't show his nose within fifty miles of the Devil's Punch-bowl, and very bad punch it was the last time I tasted it; and if Old Nick can't make better, he might as well stay where he is, and never open a public house within sight of Mangerton mountain.

Of all the days in the year, it was May-eve that Mick was in the town of Killarney; and, as he met one and another who was right glad to see him, he had a shake hands here,

*Blind.

drank a glass of whiskey there; a tumbler of punch in one place, and a pint of ale in another, until Mick became as noisy as his own pipes, which he always carried with him, and particularly on this day; because he was on his road to visit Mr. Herbert, at Mucruss, whose house stands upon a spot, which, of all places in the world, I'd like to live and die in, if the proprietor would only let me. Mick was in no hurry out of town, because, you see, he didn't know the sun had gone to bed for the night among Mac Gilly Cuddy's Reeks, and only thought of going about his business when told by Mrs. Fitzgerald, the landlady of the Brien Boro, that she couldn't let him have any more whiskey that night, that she must go to bed, and that it was time for all honest people to be in theirs. "Oh! very well, avourneen,” said Mick; and, putting his pipes under his arm, grasped his long staff, and walked away the best way he could; and that was bad enough, for the sorrow a well he could stand. He walked and walked till he couldn't tell where he was walking; and, at length, growing fatigued, he sat down upon a stone, screwed up his pipes, and began playing Stawk Na Varaga Before the tune was half finished, Mick cocked his ear, like an eve-dropper, and heard the sound of horsemen approaching, and, willing to show his abilities, he put elbow-grace to the pipes, and sure enough he made them speak, that you might have heard them at Coombui, if you had been there at the time.

"Cuisleanach,” (that is, piper,) says one of the horsemen, you come with us?"

" will

May be I would, and may be I wouldn't," answered Mick; but somehow or other I don't happen to know your voice. Are you a Kerryman ?"

"What's that to you," said the stranger, "who I am. If you accompany me you'll not be sorry.'

66

That's something," said the piper, "for sorrow a much araguth-chise, poor Mick has seen this many a day, and faith it is now much wanted. I owe three teasterst to Mrs. Fitzgerald, four hogst to Widow Murphy, and—~"

"And never mind," interrupted the horseman, "say whether you'll come or not."

"Why, what's the hurry?" asked Mick; "I'm no midwife. But may be it's a wedden you'd be taken me to."

*Correctly written Staca an Mharaga-The Market Stake.
+ Three sixpences.
+ Shillings.

66

Something like it," replied the stranger.

"Oh then, if that's what you want me for, I can't go; for I'm engaged for Mr. Herbert's to-morrow, the pattern next day, the wake the night after, and-"

"And to-night for us," interrupted the stranger, seizing Mick, and, lifting him up on the horse, gallopped away as if the Puck was at their heels, and never crack-cried till they came to the lake; nor didn't stop there neither, but dashed into it, and went God knows where; for next morning Mick was found asleep under a tree in the Eskamucky Glyn by Tom M'Gordon. 66 Get up, you beast!" said Tom, giving the piper a kick; "an isn't it a burning shame for a Christian soul to be seen in your situation this time o'day, on the king's road?"

"O Lord!" cried Mick, and awaked up.

"Drunk again, last night, Mick?" said Tom.

66

No, in troth, Tom M'Gordon," for he knew him at once, "for a drop didn't cross my lips, barren a few mouthfuls at Mrs. Fitzgerald's. But, Lord bless us all! I've seen last night—”

"Arrah! you seen, Mick?"

66

Yes, Tom, I did; for I was carried to O'Donohue's cave laugh away, but I tell God's truth."

66

'Well, let us hear it."

So Mick began, and told him that he was walking to Mucruss ; that he sat down on the side of the road, and began to play on his pipes; that horsemen came up and carried him away; and that he didn't know where they took him to. They dashed through thick and thin," he continued, "till at last they bid me alight.

"Welcome to O'Donohue's palace, Mick M'Connell,' said a strange voice.

Be easy,' said I, and don't be goen the mursha over me-O'Donohue, indeed!'

Unbelieving piper,' said he, open your eyes and see;' and sure enough I got my sight, the Lord be praised for all things! and where should I find myself but standing in a great hall, much finer than Lord Kenmare's, though that's a very fine one too. 'Cross o' Christ about us,' said I, 'what's all this?'

he.

"The palace of the great and good O'Donohue,' said