But if you would ask me, as I think it like, If in the rebellion I carried a pike, An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the 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, it's my 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 the 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, don't say the word!

The crathur is young, have mercy, my lord; He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin'; You don't know him, my lord--O, don't give him to ruin!

He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted; Don't part us forever, we that's 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 that O'BRIEN was shaken, When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken; An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother, The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other; An' two or three times he endeavoured to spake, But the sthrong, manly voice used to falther and break; But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride, He conquered and masthered his grief's 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 thought, labour, and sorrow, forever 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 towards the judge SHAMUS bent down his head, An' that minute the solemn death-sentince 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' whiskey was sellin', and cussamuck too, An' ould men and young women enjoying the view.

An' ould TIM MULVANY, he med the remark, There wasn't sich a sight since the time of NOAH'S ark, An' be gorry, 'twas thrue for him, for devil sich a scruge, Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge, For thousands were gathered there, if there was one, Waitin' till such time as the hangin' 'id come on.

At last they threw open the big prison-gate, An' out came the sheriffs and 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' and blessin', and all the girls cryin', A wild wailin' sound 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; An' at every side swellin' around of the cart, A wild, 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 last look round.

Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still, Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turn chill; An' the rope bin' ready, his neck was made bare, For the gripe iv the life-strangling chord to prepare; An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer, But the good priest done more, for his hands he unbound, And with one daring spring JIM has leaped on the ground; Bang! bang! goes 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 the heavens, 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.

The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, An' Father MALONE lost his new Sunday hat; To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin, An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.

Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang.

He has mounted his horse, and soon he will be In America, darlint, the land of the free.

"WHICH AM DE MIGHTIEST, DE PEN OR DE SWORD?"

The "Colored Debating Society" of Mount Vernon, Ohio, had some very interesting meetings. The object of the argument on a particular evening was the settlement, at once and forever, of the question.

Mr. Larkins said about as follows: "Mr. Chaarman, what's de use ob a swoard unless you's gwyne to waar? Who's hyar dat's gwyne to waar? I isn't, Mr. Morehouse isn't, Mrs. Morehouse isn't, Mr. Newsome isn't; I'll bet no feller wot speaks on the swoard side is any ideer ob gwyne to waar. Den, what's de use ob de swoard? I don't tink dar's much show for argument in de matter."

Mr. Lewman said: "What's de use ob de pen 'less you knows how to write? How's dat? Dat's what I wants to know. Look at de chillun ob Isr'l--wasn't but one man in de whole crowd gwine up from Egyp' to de Promis' Lan' cood write, an' he didn't write much. [A voice in the audience, "Who wrote de ten comman'ments, anyhow, you bet." Cheers from the pen side.] Wrote 'em? wrote 'em? Not much; guess not; not on stone, honey. Might p'r'aps cut 'em wid a chisel. Broke 'em all, anyhow, 'fore he got down de hill. Den when he cut a new set, de chillun ob Isr'l broke 'em all again. Say he did write 'em, what good was it? So his pen no 'count nohow. No, saar. De _swoard's_ what fotched 'em into de Promis' Lan', saar. Why, saar, it's ridiculous.

Tink, saar, ob David a-cuttin' off Goliah's head wid a _pen_, saar!

De ideer's altogedder too 'posterous, saar. De _swoard_, saar, de _swoard_ mus' win de argument, saar."

Dr. Crane said: "I tink Mr. Lewman a leetle too fas'. He's a-speakin'

ob de times in de dim pas', when de mind ob man was crude, an' de han'

ob man was in de ruff state, an' not tone down to de refinement ob cibilized times. Dey wasn't educated up to de use ob de pen. Deir han's was only fit for de ruff use ob de swoard. Now, as de modern poet says, our swoards rust in deir cubbards, an' peas, sweet peas, cover de lan'. An' what has wrot all dis change? _De pen._ Do I take a swoard now to get me a peck ob sweet taters, a pair ob chickens, a pair ob shoes? No, saar. I jess take my pen an' write an order for 'em. Do I want money? I don't git it by de edge ob de swoard; I writes a check. I want a suit ob clothes, for instance--a stroke ob de pen, de mighty pen, de clothes is on de way. I'se done."

Mr. Newsome said: "Wid all due 'spect to de learned gemman dat's jus'

spoke, we mus' all agree dat for smoovin' tings off an' a-levelin'

tings down, dere's notting equals de swoard."

Mr. Hunnicut said: "I agrees entirely wid Mr. Newsome; an' in answer to what Dr. Crane says, I would jess ask what's de use ob drawin' a check unless you's got de money in de bank, or a-drawin' de order on de store unless de store truss you? S'pose de store do truss, ain't it easier to sen' a boy as to write a order? If you got no boy handy, telegraf. No use for a pen--not a bit. Who ebber heard of Mr. Hill's pen? n.o.body, saar. But his swoard, saar--de swoard ob ole Bunker Hill, saar--is known to ebbery chile in de lan'. If it hadden been for de swoard ob ole Bunker Hill, saar, whaar'd we n.i.g.g.e.rs be to-night, saar? whaar, saar? Not hyar, saar. In Georgia, saar, or wuss, saar. No cullud man, saar, should ebber go back, saar, on de swoard, saar."

Mr. Hunnicut's remarks seemed to carry a good deal of weight with the audience. After speeches by a number of others, the subject was handed over to the "committee," who carried it out and "sot on it." In due time they returned with the followin' decision:

"De committee decide dat de swoard has de most pints an' de best backin', an' dat de pen is de most beneficial, an' dat de whole ting is about a stan'-off."

JUVENILE PUGILISTS.

S.C. CLEMENS.

"Yes, I've had a good many fights in my time," said old John Parky, tenderly manipulating his dismantled nose, "and it's kind of queer, too, for when I was a boy the old man was always telling me better. He was a good man and hated fighting. When I would come home with my nose bleeding or with my face scratched up, he used to call me out in the woodshed, and in a sorrowful and discouraged way say, 'So, Johnny, you've had another fight, hey? How many times have I got to tell ye how disgraceful and wicked it is for boys to fight? It was only yesterday that I talked to you an hour about the sin of fighting, and here you've been at it again. Who was it with this time? _With Tommy Kelly, hey?_ Don't you know any better than to fight a boy that weighs twenty pounds more than you do, besides being two years older? Ain't you got a spark of sense about ye? I can see plainly that you are determined to break your poor father's heart by your reckless conduct.

What ails your finger? _Tommy bit it?_ Drat the little fool! Didn't ye know enough to keep your finger out of his mouth? _Was trying to jerk his cheek off, hey?_ Won't you never learn to quit foolin' 'round a boy's mouth with yer fingers? You're bound to disgrace us all by such wretched behaviour. You're determined never to be n.o.body. Did you ever hear of Isaac Watts--that wrote, "Let dogs delight to bark and bite"--sticking his fingers in a boy's mouth to get 'em bit, like a fool? I'm clean discouraged with ye. Why didn't ye go for his nose, the way Jonathan Edwards, and George Washington, and Daniel Webster used to do, when they was boys? _Couldn't 'cause he had ye down?_ That's a purty story to tell me. It does beat all that you can't learn how Socrates and William Penn used to gouge when they was under, after the hours and hours I've spent in telling you about those great men! It seems to me sometimes as if I should have to give you up in despair. It's an awful trial to me to have a boy that don't pay any attention to good example, nor to what I say. What! _You pulled out three or four handfuls of his hair?_ H'm! Did he squirm any? Now if you'd a give him one or two in the eye--but as I've told ye many a time, fighting is poor business. Won't you--for your _father's_ sake--_won't you_ promise to try and remember that? H'm! Johnny, how did it--ahem--which licked?"

"'_You licked him?_ Sho! Really? Well, now, I hadn't any idea you could lick that Tommy Kelly! I don't believe John Bunyan, at ten years old, could have done it. Johnny, my boy, you can't think how I hate to have you fighting every day or two. I wouldn't have had him lick _you_ for five, no, not for ten dollars! Now, sonny, go right in and wash up, and tell your mother to put a rag on your finger. And, Johnny, don't let me hear of your fighting again!'"

"I never see anybody so down on fighting as the old man, was, but somehow he never could break me from it."

THE OLD MAN IN THE STYLISH CHURCH.

JOHN H. YATES.

Additional effect may be given to this piece by any one who can impersonate the old man.

Well, wife, I've been to church to-day--been to a stylish one-- And, seein' you can't go from home, I'll tell you what was done; You would have been surprised to see what I saw there to-day; The sisters were fixed up so fine they hardly bowed to pray.

I had on these coa.r.s.e clothes of mine, not much the worse for wear, But then they knew I wasn't one they call a millionaire; So they led the old man to a seat away back by the door-- 'Twas bookless and uncushioned--_a reserved seat for the poor_.

Pretty soon in came a stranger with gold ring and clothing fine; They led him to a cushioned seat far in advance of mine.

I thought that wasn't exactly right to seat him up so near, When he was young, and I was old and very hard to hear.

But then there's no accountin' for what some people do; The finest clothing nowadays oft gets the finest pew, But when we reach the blessed home, all undefiled by sin, We'll see wealth beggin' at the gate, while poverty goes in.

I couldn't hear the sermon, I sat so far away, So, through the hours of service, I could only "watch and pray;"

Watch the doin's of the Christians sitting near me, round about; Pray G.o.d to make them pure within, as they were pure without.

While I sat there, lookin' 'round upon the rich and great, I kept thinkin' of the rich man and the beggar at his gate; How, by all but dogs forsaken, the poor beggar's form grew cold, And the angels bore his spirit to the mansions built of gold.

How, at last, the rich man perished, and his spirit took its flight, From the purple and fine linen to the home of endless night; There he learned, as he stood gazin' at the beggar in the sky, "It isn't all of life to live, nor all of death to die."

I doubt not there were wealthy sires in that religious fold, Who went up from their dwellings like the Pharisee of old, Then returned home from their worship, with a head uplifted high, To spurn the hungry from their door, with naught to satisfy.

Out, out with such professions! they are doin' more to-day To stop the weary sinner from the Gospel's shinin' way Than all the books of infidels; than all that has been tried Since Christ was born at Bethlehem--since Christ was crucified.

How simple are the works of G.o.d, and yet how very grand; The sh.e.l.ls in ocean caverns, the flowers on the land; He gilds the clouds of evenin' with the gold right from his throne, Not for the rich man _only_--not for the poor alone.

Then why should man look down on man because of lack of gold?

Why seat him in the poorest pew because his clothes are old?

A heart with n.o.ble motives--a heart that G.o.d has blest-- May be beatin' Heaven's music 'neath that faded coat and vest.

I'm old--I may be childish--but I love simplicity; I love to see it shinin' in a Christian's piety.

Jesus told us in His sermons in Judea's mountains wild, He that wants to go to Heaven must be like a little child.