IT

Forsayke ye Powers

Yer gletthering bowers Me pæun now inspire—

And ye shall view

Me sthrike wid you Ould Oireland’s biggist lyre!

Sarkastic Timb!

In moind or limb,

What man wud stand forninst ye ?

The Cuisthre soon Wud change his chune Nor raise à sthra against ye !

Thy neetive land Extinds her hand

+ Acrost the weeves up darting—

* The Morning Z'reeman, a paper edited and owned by the Hon, W. Anglin, M. P., and published in St. John N B.

cm 108

Till crown wid gowld The hayro bowld Who blessed her by departing.

In laify June

You bowld gossoon You tuk the road till glory ;

You turned yer coat

And changed yer note From Liberal to Tory !

Ye rogue ’twas you The puff that blew That raised the grate Cathaydral, Its heighth shubloime, Its walls of loime, Its conchure poly haydral !

Ye counthree’s crade Wud fall indade Till something less that Layro,

ou:

Were you till sink Or faibly shrink Ye litherary hayro!

In his story of the ‘ Minnehaha Mines,” our author cleverly hits off the rivers of Maine and New-Brunswick, and as the lines may be accounted among the best things he has done in the way of comic versification, no apology need be made for their introduction here. They are inscribed to : —