"Begin," says Harry, "Ay, ay," says Mary; Let's lead up Paddington-pound "Oh, no," says Hugh, "Oh, no," says Sue, Let's dance St. Ledger round; Then every lad did take His hat off to his lass; And every maid did curtsey, curtsey, Curtsey on the grass.

"You're out," says Nick, "You lie," says Dick, "For the fiddler play'd it wrong;" "And so," says Sue, "And so," says Hugh, "And so says every one;" The fiddler then began To play it o'er again, And every maid did foot it, foot it, Foot it unto the men.

"Let's kiss," says Fan, "Ay, ay," says Nan, And so says every she;

"How many?" says Nat, "Why, three," says Pat, "For that's a maiden's fee !"

But instead of kisses three,
They gave them half a score;
The men, then, out of kindness, kind-

ness,

Gave 'em as many more.

Then, after an hour,
They went to a bower,

To play for ale and cake,
And kisses, too,
Being in the cue,

For the lasses held the stake:
The women then began

To quarrel with the men,
And told 'em to take their kisses back,
And give them their own again.

Oh, thus they all stay'd
Until it was late,

And tired the fiddler quite,
With fiddling and playing
Without any paying,
From morning until night.
They told the fiddler, then,
They'd pay him for his play,
And every one paid twopence, two-

pence,

Twopence, and toddled away.

"Good night," says Bess, "Good night," says Jess, "Good night," says Harry to Holl; "Good night," says Hugh, "Good night," says Sue, "Good night," says Nimble Nell; Some ran, some walk'd, some stay'd, Some tarried by the way, And bound themselves by kisses twelve, To meet next holiday!

THE HEART BOW'D DOWN BY
WEIGHT OF WOE.

THE heart bow'd down by weight of

woe, To weakest hope will cling; To thought and impulse while they flow,

That can no comfort bring,

With those exciting scenes will blend
O'er pleasures pathway thrown,
But mem'ry is the only friend
That grief can call his own.

The mind will in its worst despair,
Still ponder o'er the past,

On moments of delight that were,
Too beautiful to last;
To long departed years extend

Its visions with them flown:
For memory is the only friend
That grief can call its own.

KATHLEEN O'MORE.

My love, still I think that I see her once more,

But alas! she has left me her loss to

deplore;

My own little Kathleen,
My poor lost Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'More!

Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue,

Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new ;

So pretty was Kathleen,
My sweet little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'More!

She milk'd the dun cow that ne'er offer'd to stir,

Though wicked it was, it was gentle to her,

So kind was my Kathleen,
My poor little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'More!

She sat at the door one cold afternoon, To hear the wind blow, and to look at the moon,

So pensive was Kathleen,
My poor little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'More!

Cold was the night breeze that sigh'd round her bower,

It chill'd my poor Kathleen, she droop'd from that hour,

And I lost my poor Kathleen,
My own little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'More!

The bird all birds that I love the best,

Is the robin, that in the church-yard builds his nest,

For he seems to watch Kathleen,
Hops lightly on Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'More'