"Mother!" the loving one, Blushing, exclaimed, "Let not your innocent Lizzy be blamed.

VII.

"Yesterday, going to aunt Jones's to tea, Mother, dear mother, I FORGOT THE DOOR-KEY!

And as the night was cold, And the way steep, Mrs. Jones kept me to Breakfast and sleep."

VIII.

Whether her Pa and Ma Fully believed her, That we shall never know, Stern they received her; And for the work of that Cruel, though short, night, Sent her to bed without Tea for a fortnight.

IX.

MORAL

Hey diddle diddlety, Cat and the Fiddlety, Maidens of England take caution by she!

Let love and suicide Never tempt you aside, And always remember to take the door-key.

LYRA HIBERNICA

THE POEMS OF THE MOLONY OF KILBALLYMOLONY.

THE PIMLICO PAVILION.

Ye pathrons of janius, Minerva and Vanius, Who sit on Parna.s.sus, that mountain of snow, Descind from your station and make observation Of the Prince's pavilion in sweet Pimlico.

This garden, by jakurs, is forty poor acres, (The garner he tould me, and sure ought to know;) And yet greatly bigger, in size and in figure, Than the Phanix itself, seems the Park Pimlico.

O 'tis there that the spoort is, when the Queen and the Court is Walking magnanimous all of a row, Forgetful what state is among the pataties And the pine-apple gardens of sweet Pimlico.

There in blossoms odorous the birds sing a chorus, Of "G.o.d save the Queen" as they hop to and fro; And you sit on the binches and hark to the finches, Singing melodious in sweet Pimlico.

There shuiting their phanthasies, they pluck polyanthuses That round in the gardens resplindently grow, Wid roses and jessimins, and other sweet specimins, Would charm bould Linnayus in sweet Pimlico.

You see when you inther, and stand in the cinther, Where the roses, and necturns, and collyflowers blow, A hill so tremindous, it tops the top-windows Of the elegant houses of famed Pimlico.

And when you've ascinded that precipice splindid You see on its summit a wondtherful show-- A lovely Swish building, all painting and gilding, The famous Pavilion of sweet Pimlico.

Prince Albert, of Flandthers, that Prince of Commandthers, (On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow,) With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavilion, Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet Pimlico.

There's lines from John Milton the chamber all gilt on, And pictures beneath them that's shaped like a bow; I was greatly astounded to think that that Roundhead Should find an admission to famed Pimlico.

O lovely's each fresco, and most picturesque O; And while round the chamber astonished I go, I think Dan Maclise's it baits all the pieces Surrounding the cottage of famed Pimlico.

Eastlake has the chimney, (a good one to limn he,) And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below; While bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other enchanthers, Are painted by Landseer in sweet Pimlico.

And nature smiles opposite, Stanfield he copies it; O'er Claude or Poussang sure 'tis he that may crow: But Sir Ross's best faiture is small mini-ature-- He shouldn't paint frescoes in famed Pimlico.

There's Leslie and Uwins has rather small doings; There's Dyce, as brave masther as England can show; And the flowers and the sthrawherries, sure he no dauber is, That painted the panels of famed Pimlico.

In the pictures from Walther Scott, never a fault there's got, Sure the marble's as natural as thrue Scaglio; And the Chamber Pompayen is sweet to take tay in, And ait b.u.t.ther'd m.u.f.fins in sweet Pimlico.

There's landscapes by Gruner, both solar and lunar, Them two little Doyles too, deserve a bravo; Wid de piece by young Townsend, (for janins abounds in't;) And that's why he's shuited to paint Pimlico.

That picture of Severn's is worthy of rever'nce, But some I won't mintion is rather so so; For sweet philoso'phy, or crumpets and coffee, O where's a Pavilion like sweet Pimlico?

O to praise this Pavilion would puzzle Quintilian, Daymosthenes, Brougham, or young Cicero; So heavenly G.o.ddess, d'ye pardon my modesty, And silence, my lyre! about sweet Pimlico.

THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

With ganial foire Thransfuse me loyre, Ye sacred nympths of Pindus, The whoile I sing That wondthrous thing, The Palace made o' windows!

Say, Paxton, truth, Thou wondthrous youth, What sthroke of art celistial, What power was lint You to invint This combineetion cristial.

O would before That Thomas Moore, Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, Thim aigles sthrong Of G.o.dlike song, Cast oi on that cast oiron!

And saw thim walls, And glittering halls, Thim rising slendther columns, Which I poor pote, Could not denote, No, not in twinty vollums.

My Muse's words Is like the bird's That roosts beneath the panes there; Her wing she spoils 'Gainst them bright toiles, And cracks her silly brains there.

This Palace tall, This Cristial Hall, Which Imperors might covet, Stands in High Park Like Noah's Ark, A rainbow bint above it.

The towers and fanes, In other scaynes, The fame of this will undo, Saint Paul's big doom, Saint Payther's Room, And Dublin's proud Rotundo.

'Tis here that roams, As well becomes Her dignitee and stations, Victoria Great, And houlds in state The Congress of the Nations.

Her subjects pours From distant sh.o.r.es, Her Injians and Canajians; And also we, Her kingdoms three, Attind with our allagiance.

Here come likewise Her bould allies, Both Asian and Europian; From East and West They send their best To fill her Coornucopean.

I seen (thank Grace!) This wonthrous place (His n.o.ble Honor Misther H. Cole it was That gave the pa.s.s, And let me see what is there).

With conscious proide I stud insoide And look'd the World's Great Fair in, Until me sight Was dazzled quite, And couldn't see for staring.

There's holy saints And window paints, By Maydiayval Pugin; Alhamborough Jones Did paint the tones Of yellow and gambouge in.

There's fountains there And crosses fair; There's water-G.o.ds with urrns: There's organs three, To play, d'ye see?

"G.o.d save the Queen," by turrns.