More welcome than the blossom to

the weary dusty bee,

Is your coming, O, my true love
my own Cailin Doun!

THE GREEN LITTLE SHAMROCK OF IRELAND.

ANDREW CHERRY.*

THERE'S a dear little plant that grows in our isle,

"Twas Saint Patrick himself, sure, that

set it;

And the sun of his labor with pleasure did smile,

And with dew from his eye often wet it. It thrives through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland:

And he called it the dear little shamrock of Ireland.

The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,

The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland.

* Born in Limerick, 1780. Wrote "The Bay of Biscay," and "Tom Moody." Was manager of the London theatre in which Edmund Kean made his first appearance.

This dear little plant still grows in our land,

Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin, Whose smiles can bewitch, whose eyes can command,

In each climate that they may appear

in;

And shine through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland;

Just like their own dear little shamrock of Ireland.

The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,

The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland.

This dear little plant that springs from our soil,

When its three little leaves are extended,

Denotes from one stalk we together should toil,

And ourselves by ourselves be befriended;

And still through the bog, through the brake, through the mireland,

From one root should branch, like the shamrock of Ireland.

The sweet little shamrock, the dear little shamrock,

The sweet little, green little, shamrock of Ireland.

THE WIDOW'S MESSAGE TO HER SON. * ELLEN FORRESTER.

"REMEMBER, Dennis, all I bade you say; Tell him we're well and happy, thank the Lord,

But of our troubles, since he went away, You'll mind, avick, and never say a word;

Of cares and troubles, sure, we've

all our share,

The finest summer is n't always fair.

"Tell him the spotted heifer calved in May:

She died, poor thing; but that you

;

need n't mind Nor how the constant rain destroyed the hay:

* Of the County Monaghan-now resident in Man. chester; author of "Simple Strains," (Henderson, London.)

But tell him God to us was ever kind, And when the fever spread the country o'er,

His mercy kept the 'sickness' from our door.

"Be sure you tell him how the neighbors

came

And cut the corn and stored it in the

barn;

"T would be as well to mention them by

name-

Pat Murphy, Ned M'Cabe, and James
M'Carn,

And big Tim Daly from behind the
bill;

But say, agra--Oh, say I missed him still.

"They came with ready hands our toil to share-

"T was then I missed him most-my own right hand;

I felt, although kind hearts were round me there,

The kindest heart beat in a foreign land.

Strong hand! brave heart ! oh, severed far from me

By many a weary league of shore and sea.

"And tell him she was with us--he'll know who:

Mavourneen, has n't she the winsome

eyes,

The darkest, deepest, brightest, bonniest blue,

I ever saw except in summer skies.

And such black hair! it is the blackest hair

That ever rippled over neck so fair.

"Tell him old Pincher fretted many a day,

And moped, poor dog, 't was well he did n't die,

Crouched by the roadside how he watched the way,

Aud sniffed the travellers as they passed him by

Hail, rain, or sunshine, sure 't was all the same,

He listened for the foot that never

came.