It's aisy to see why bould Cæsar should quail
In her presence an' meekly submit to her rule;
Wid a weapon like that in her fist I'll go bail

She could frighten the sowl out of big Finn MacCool!

But, Lord, what poor pigmies the women are now,
Compared with the monsthers they must have been then!
Whin the darlin's in those days would kick up a row,
Holy smoke, but it must have been hot for the men!
Just think how a chap that goes courtin' would start
If his girl was to prod him with that in the shins!
I have often seen needles, but boldly assart
That the needle in front of me there takes the pins!
O, sweet Cleopathera! I am sorry you're dead;
An' whin laving this wontherful needle behind
Had ye thought of bequathin' a spool of your thread
An' yer thimble an’scissors, it would have been kind.

But pace to your ashes, ye plague of great men,
Yer strenth is departed, yer glory is past;

Ye'll never wield sceptre or needle again,
An' a poor little asp did yer bizzness at last!

CORMAC O'LEARY.

THE RED O'NEIL.

HIGH Over Galway's stormy tide, in years that long have flown,

A grim and gloomy castle raised its mass of sombre stone: The sullen flood that by it rolled was not more dark and

drear,

And when its great, black portals swung, the land was full of fear.

Its chieftain was the Red O'Neil, a warrior brave and bold, But hate's fierce longing filled his heart and made it hard

and cold;

And when his plume and banner flew along the restless

seas,

The bitter wailing of his foes rose through the rising breeze.

His keen sword never proved untrue, his lance was sharp

and sure;

His stout ship braved the roughest blast, his horse the wildest moor;

The Saxon maidens shrank in dread when echoed through the hall

His wrathful name, and warriors sprang where swords hung on the wall.

Not long had Red O'Neil's bright sword been bitter to the

Not long his fiery soul had grown unheeding of their woe But now the sanguine flame that glowed along his foray's

path,

Shone with the lurid light that told a never-dying wrath.

Bright as the golden light that gleams among the morning mist,

Was Lady Nora's yellow hair, when by the sunlight kissed; The lustrous glory of her eyes, blue as a clear June sky, Was rich with all the tenderness that gives love sweet reply.

The dainty color of her lips, the fairness of her face,

The clinging of her little hand, her womanhood's pure

grace,

The music of her ringing voice, the gladness of her mien, Had made the Red O'Neil bow low, and claim her as his

queen.

Beyond the stern and barren lands along the foaming sea, Whose tempest-waves swept fiercely up from many a wide degree,

Through plains all rich with bending wheat the rapid river flowed,

And by the forest's dusky aisles its sunlit water glowed.

The far hills looming to the sky shone in the opal haze, And robins sang their merry songs in all the orchard ways; The harvesters were in the field, and herds with tinkling bells,

Stood knee-deep in the fragrant grass that clothed the southward dells.

Then proud with floating banners, and lances keen and

strong,

A brave array of steel-clad knights up from the eastward

throng;

King Henry's Saxon warriors sweep on with ruthless speed,

And death and ruin show the track of every snorting steed.

The Lady Nora's couchant hound, growls as he hears the clash

Of crossing swords, and spears that swift through shining bucklers crash;

Then springs to meet the knight, whose foot falls heavy on the stair,

While his fair mistress stands at bay, draped in dishevelled

hair.

Woe! to the cruel hand that dealt such hard and dastard blow;

For down the broad stone steps, the streams of red blood slowly flow;

And close beside her faithful hound the Lady Nora lies; Death's chill has stilled his loyal heart; death's cold has dimmed her eyes.

They brought the tidings to O'Neil. Out sprang his gleaming blade,

And quick a thousand stalwart men for battle stood arrayed;

Then swift along the river bank the clattering horses sped, Their guides the ruined cottages, and peasants stark and dead.

For years, upon a lonely moor, heaped round with mossy

stones,

Was seen a ghastly gathering of white and crumbling

bones.

It marked the place where Red O'Neil rushed on De Courcy's

spears,

And gave the Saxon maids and wives a heritage of tears. The level lances grimly shone, and plumes were flying

wide,

And then O'Neil's wild warriors charged, a shouting, surging tide;

And back and forth the mad ranks swayed, till in the hot

test fray,

O'Neil and his black charger barred De Courcy's onward

way.

The serried lines fell back, and left a narrow circle clear, And firm each chieftain's strong hand grasped his battlecrimsoned spear;

Then spurring on their fiery steeds, they charge each other home,

And stout De Courcy's shattered mail grows red with bloody foam.

Then fled his knights, and carnage reigned. The dead lay white and still

Along the moor, and in the wood, and on the wind-swept hill.

Not one was left to tell how fierce and fell had been the

fight,

But blazing castles told the tale amid the gloom of night.

The Lady Nora slept in peace, but vengeance in her name Shone on the sea, and lit the land with many a baleful flame;

The terror of the Saxon lords, the chief with keenest steel, And hand as tireless as his hate, was her liege-knight,

O'Neil.

King Henry's warriors could not curb his red, destructive

course,

And for long years his castle's wall braved all their mail

clad force;

He fought them till his hair was white, and weak and slow his breath,

And free, and dreaded by his foes, sank slowly into death.

Oh! would that Erin's cause now had ten thousand souls as

strong,

Swayed, not by hate, but high resolve and scorn of kingly wrong;

Then would the beacon fires of hope light up the purple

sky,

And from the hills, the Emerald flag of Erin's freedom fly! THOS. S. COLLIER.

VIRGINNY!

BY S. N. COOK.

COME in, stranger, and rest a bit, an' let us have a talk — The waggin' o' yer tongue won't weary you nigh as much as it does to walk;

You'll find things topsy-turvy, an' anything but neat,

But the backlog now is blazin', an' throwin' out the heat; It will take the frosts outen yer jints, you can go then feelin' prime;

But the fire can't do that for me - I'm stiff with the frosts o' time.

I tell ye, mister, I'm lonesome, too, for thar's just the dog

an' me,

That's ben runnin' things hyere in the cabin, sence Virginny left Tennessee.

Virginny's my gal, or us' ter be, she's marrid now, an' livin' in style,

I've ben up North to see her; jes ben home but a little while; I tell ye, stranger, I'm lonesomer now than ever I've ben in my life,

'Ceptin' once when Samantha war buried - Samantha, she war my wife.

I wish yer could a' seen Virginny when she war about sixteen.

It don't sound smart for a father to brag — in fact, I think it looks green;

But it wasn't her beauty I war thinkin' about; 'tain't o' that I war gwine to brag;

'Twas the grit o' the_gal, I hed in my mind, an' the love she hed for the flag.

Which flag? Good Lord, my friend, why, we war squar'

an' true,

Or my gal would never hev married that Yank, that wore the Union blue.

You want to hear the story, hey? 'Twan't much of a one, I 'low,

But it made Virginny a lady-wall, she war one, anyhow.— But she hed no book larnin', 'cept what she larnt o' me;