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But he died at my feet on a cold winter

day,

And I play'd a lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go-poor, forsaken, and blind,

Can I find one to guide me so faithful and kind?

To my sweet native village, so far, far away,

I can never return with my poor dog Tray.

SHELLS OF THE OCEAN.

J. W. LAKE.

ONE summer eve, with pensive thought,
I wander'd on the sea-beat shore,
Where oft in heedless infant sport
I gather'd shells in days before.
The plashing waves like music fell
Responsive to my fancy wild;
A dream came o'er me like a spell,
I thought I was again a child.
I stoop'd upon the pebbly strand
To cull the toys that round me lay
But as I took them in my hand

I threw them one by one away.

Oh, thus, I said, in ev'ry stage
By toys our fancy is beguiled,
We gather shells from youth to age,

And then we leave them like a child.

THE MAIDS OF MERRY IRELAND.
R. WYNNE.

OH, the maids of merry Ireland, so beautiful and fair,

With eyes like diamonds sparkling, and richly flowing hair;

Their hearts are light and cheerful, and their spirits ever gay,

The maids of merry Ireland, how beau tiful are they!

They are like the lovely flowers in summer time that bloom,

On the sportive breezes shedding their choice and sweet perfume,

Our eyes and hearts delighting with their varied array,

The maids of merry Ireland, how beautiful are they !

They smile when we are happy, when we are sad they sigh;

When anguish wrings our bosoms, the tear they gently dry;

Oh, happy is the nation that owns their tender sway,

The maids of Merry Ireland, how beautiful are they!

Then ever like true patriots may we join both heart and hand,

To protect the lovely maidens of this our fatherland;

And that Heaven may ever bless them we all devoutly pray,

Oh, the maids of merry Ireland, how beautiful are they !

BEN BOLT.

[American.]

OH! don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,

Sweet Alice, with hair so brown; She wept with delight when you gave her a smile,

And trembled with fear at your frown. In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt,

In a corner obscure and alone,

They have fitted a slab of granite so grey, And poor Alice lies under the stone. They have fitted, &c.

Oh! don't you remember the wood, Ben Bolt,

Near the green sunny slope of the hill; Where oft we have sung 'neath its widespreading shades,

And kept time to the click of the mill. The mill has gone to decay, Ben Bolt, And a quiet now reigns all around; See the old rustic porch, with its roses so sweet,

Lies scatter'd and fall'n to the ground.
See the old, &c.

Oh! don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,

And the master so kind and so true; And the little nook by the clear running

brook,

Where we gather'd the flowers as they grew !

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On the master's grave grows the grass, Ben Bolt,

And the running little brook is now

dry;

And of all the friends who were school. mates then,

There remain, Ben, but you and I.

And of all, &c.

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

REV. FRANCIS MAHONY

Irish Air.

WITH deep affection and recollection
I often think of the Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would, in days of
childhood,

Fling round my cradle their magic
spells.

On this I ponder, where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee !

With thy bells of Shandon
That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee!

I have heard bells chiming full many a clime in,

Tolling sublime, in cathedral shrine, While at a glib rate, brass tongues would vibrate

But all their music spoke nought to thine!

For memory dwelling on each proud swelling

Of thy belfry knelling its hold notes free,

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