"My lord, if you ask me, if ever a time I have thought any treason, or done any crime That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear, Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow, Before G.o.d and the world I would answer you, _No!_'

But--if you would ask me, as I think it like, If in the rebellion I carried a pike, An' fought for me counthry from op'ning to close, An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, I answer you, _Yes_; and I tell you again, Though I stand here to perish, I glory that _then_ In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry, An' that _now_ for _her_ sake I am ready to die."

Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright, An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light; By my sowl, it's himself was a crabbed ould chap!

In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.

Then Shamus' mother in the crowd standin' by, Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry: "O, judge! darlin', don't, O, O, don't say the word!

The crathur is young, O, have mercy, my lord; He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin';-- You don't know him, my lord--don't give him to ruin!-- He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted;-- Don't part us for ever, that's been so long parted.

Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord, An' G.o.d will forgive you--O, don't say the word!"

That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken, When he saw he was not quite forgot or forsaken; An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother, The big tears kem runnin' one afther th' other; An' two or three times he endeavoured to spake, But the sthrong manly voice seem'd to falther and break; But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride, He conquered and masthered his griefs swelling tide, "An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart For, sooner or later, the dearest _must_ part; And G.o.d knows it's betther than wandering in fear On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer, To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast From labour, and sorrow, for ever shall rest.

Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more, Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour; For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven, No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!"

Then facin' the judge Shamus bent down his head, An' that minute the solemn death-sintance was said.

The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high, An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;-- But why are the men standin' idle so late?

An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street?

What come they to talk of? what come they to see?

An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?-- O, Shamus...o...b..ien! pray fervent and fast, May the saints take your soul, for _this_ day is your _last_; Pray fast, an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh, When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die.-- An' fasther an' fasther, the crowd gathered there, Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair; An' whisky was sellin', an' cussamuck too, An' the men and the women enjoying the view.

An' ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark, There was no sich a sight since the time of Noah's ark; An' be gorra, 'twas thrue too, for never sich scruge, Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge.

For thousands were gathered there, if there was one, All waitin' such time as the hangin' kem on.

At last they threw open the big prison-gate, An' out came the sheriffs an' sodgers in state, An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus was in it, Not _paler_, but _prouder_ than ever, that minute, An' as soon as the people saw Shamus...o...b..ien, Wid prayin' an' blessin', and all the girls cryin', The wild wailin' sound it kem on by degrees, Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees.

On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone, An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on; At every side swellin' around of the cart, A sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.

Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand, An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand; An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground, An' Shamus...o...b..ien throws one look around.

Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still, Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turn chill, An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare, For the gripe iv the life-strangling cord to prepare; An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.

But the priest has done _more_, for his hands he unbound, And with one daring spring Jim has leaped to the ground; Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash goes the sabres; He's not down! he's alive still! now stand to him, neighbours.

Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,-- By heaven he's free!--than thunder more loud, By one _shout_ from the people the heavens were shaken-- _One_ shout that the dead of the world might awaken.

Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang; To-night he'll be sleeping in Atherloe Glin, An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.-- The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat; An' the sheriffs were both of them punished severely, An' fined like the divil for bein' done fairly.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

Sawtan i' the law court Wis once, sae I've heard tell-- "Oh! but hame is hamely!"

Quo' Sawtan to himsel.'

THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR.

BY W.M. THACKERAY.

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world and its toils and its cares, I've a snug little kingdom up four pairs of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure; And the view I behold on a sunshiny day Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd), Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed; A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa, that basks by the fire; And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp; By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp; A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn: 'Tis a murderous knife to toast m.u.f.fins upon.

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times; As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, There's one that I love and I cherish the best: For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.

Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when f.a.n.n.y sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, A thrill must have pa.s.s'd through your wither'd old arms!

I look'd and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair; I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!

A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; Saint f.a.n.n.y, my patroness sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, In the silence of night as I sit here alone-- I sit here, alone, but we yet are a pair-- My f.a.n.n.y I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.

She comes from the past and revisits my room; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.

THE ALMA.

September 20th,

1854. BY WILLIAM C. BENNET.

Yes--clash, ye pealing steeples!

Ye grim-mouthed cannon, roar!

Tell what each heart is feeling, From sh.o.r.e to throbbing sh.o.r.e!

What every shouting city, What every home would say, The triumph and the rapture That swell our hearts to-day.

And did they say, O England, That now thy blood was cold, That from thee had departed The might thou hadst of old!

Tell them no deed more stirring Than this thy sons have done, Than this, no n.o.bler triumph, Their conquering arms have won.

The mighty fleet bore seaward; We hushed our hearts in fear, In awe of what each moment Might utter to our ear; For the air grew thick with murmurs That stilled the hearer's breath, With sounds that told of battle, Of victory and of death.