The eagles and the ravens

We glutted with the foemen;
Their heroes and their cravens,

Their lancers and their bownien.

As for Santa Anna, their blood-red chief,
His head was borne before us;

His wine and beasts supplied our feasts,
And his overthrow our chorus."

The foregoing extracts are all in a warlike strain. We will now give a few specimens of the softer lyrics in which these scalpers indulge. The Irish melodies of Moore are, it appears, not unknown even amongst them; and that they are admired, the following imitation, or rather parody, of one of the most beautiful of them will sufficiently show.

"There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet

As that Mexican vale in whose bosom "lakes" meet.
Oh! the last ray of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart!

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal, and brightest of green;
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill;
Oh, no, it was something more heart-touching still!

"Twas remembrance of all,-Montezuma-his throne-
The power and the glory of Aztek all gone!
Like the leaves of the forest in autumn are strewn,
Were the splendour and hope of that race overthrown.

But the day-star is rising unclouded and bright,
That shall clear and illumine long ages of night,
And restore to that valley the Indian race,
And leave of their white lords no longer a trace.

Sweet" Mexican valley," how calm shall we rest
In thy bosom of shade, when thy sons are all blest!
When 'neath the fig-tree and the vine of each man
They shall sing to the praise of the Almighty one!
When the storm of the war, and its bloodshed, shall cease,
And our hearts, like her lakes, be mingled in peace!"

Interspersed through the papers are various imitations of our poets, especially of Scott, Byron, and Mrs. Hemans. As an apology for the plagiarisms, the editor places over the poet's corner the following motto:

"To the living poets we beg to say, that it not being fair for them to monopolize the best words in the language we write in, to say nothing of the ideas, we take free liberty with them when need is. We will make them amends two years hence when they come to see us in the valleys of Mexico. To the illustrious dead we shall fully explain our reasons when we may chance to meet them in the 'great elsewhere.'

The next specimen is an imitation of Ossian, a bard whose poetry must necessarily possess many charms for them.

"Come, all ye warriors! come with your chief-come! The song riscs like the sun in my soul ! I feel the joys of other times. The

Cherokee was on the land of Arkansas. The strange warriors of the prairie were rich in horses. We said in our souls, why not give the Tarwargans of their abundance? Six of our warriors were found on the great prairie, advancing like the moon among clouds, concealed from the view. Days had passed when they approached the wigwams of the Tarwargans. A narrow plain spreads beneath, covered with grass and aged trees. The blue course of a stream is there. The horses were secured. Their feet were slowly advancing towards the wigwams. Not without eyes were the Tarwargans. The warriors had not been invisible. High hopes of prairie horses and the scalps of the enemy fill their souls. A blast came upon them. The sound of rifles was heard in the air. Three of the warriors fell! The tomahawk descended, and they were left in their shame without scalps. Two warriors fled together. SMOKE (a warrior) fled not he rushed for safety, and laid himself low with his rifle among the briers. Shouts of triumph are heard. The Tarwargans return. The slain are dragged to the dancing-groundoh, grief! oh, revenge! Did you not know the heart of Smoke? Placed in the ground are three stakes; tied are the scalpless dead! Upright they sit. Oh, grief! the derision of the Tarwargans! Cunning warriors are ye, oh, Cherokees! but your scalps are at our feet.'

The following, which the editor assures us is a literal translation from an old song highly popular among the aboriginal tribes of Mexico, is interesting. The poetry of the original is so sublime that the translator, in despair of equalling it in rhyme, has given it us in plain prose.

"Mexitli Tetzauhteotl (the Terrible God) o-ah! o-ah! o-ah! The son of the woman of Tula. The green plume is on his head, the wing of the eagle is on his leg; his forehead is blue, like the firmament. He carries a spear and buckler, and with the fir-tree of Colhuacan he crushes the mountains! O-ah! o-ah! o-ah! Mexitli Tetzauhteotl !"

"Mexitli Tetzauhteotl! o-ah! o-ah! o-ah! my father ate the heart of Xochimilco! Where was Painalton, the god of the swift foot, when the Miztecas ran to the mountains? Fast, warrior, fast!' said Painalton, the brother of Mexitli. His foot-print is on the snows of Istaccihuatl, and on the tops of the mountains of Orizaba. Toktepec, and Chinantla, and Matlalzinco were strong warriors, but they shook under his feet as the hills shake when the king of hell groans in the caverns. So my father killed the men of the south, the men of the east, and the men of the west, and Mexitli shook the fir-tree with joy, and Painalton danced by night among the stars! O-ah! o-ah! Mexitli Tetzauhteot]!"

"Mexitli Tetzauhteotl! o-ah! o-ah! Where is the end of Mexico? It begins in Huehuetapallan in the north, and who knows the end of Huehuetapallan? In the south it sees the land of crocodiles and vultures, the bog and the rock where man cannot live. The sea washes it on the east, the sea washes it on the west, and that is the end who has looked to the end of the waters? Mexico is the land of blossoms, the land of the tiger-flower, and the cactus-bud that

opens at night like a star,-the land of the dahlia, that ghosts come to snuff at. It is a land dear to Mexitli! O-ah! o-ah! Mexitli Tetzauhteot!!

"Mexitli Tetzauhteotl! o-ah! o-ah! o-ah! Who were the enemies of Mexico? Their heads are in the wall of the house of skulls, and the little child strikes them as he goes by with a twig. Once Mexico was a bog of reeds, and Mexitli slept on a couch of bulrushes. Our god now sits on a world of gold, and the world is Mexico. Will any one fight me? I am a Mexican. Mexitli is the god of the brave. Our city is fair on the island, and Mexitli sleeps with us. When he calls me in the morning, I grasp the quiver,-the quiver and the axe,- and I am not afraid. When he winds his horn from the woods, I know that he is my father, and that he will look at me while I fight. Sound the horn of battle; I see the spear of a foe. Mexitli Tetzauhteotl, we are the men of Mexico! O-ah! o-ah! Mexitli Tetzauhteot!!

With this extract we shall conclude our notice of this very curious subject, promising, however, to return to it at a future period.

EPITAPH.

WHEN London, of a rogue bereft,
Saw Tomkins, the distiller, die ;
It seems some twenty pounds he left,
To pay a poet for a lie.

Thus wrote the bard, who, lacking gold,

Was yet to tell a fib unwilling:
"This stone need not his worth disclose,
Who half his life was good in-stilling.

A GEOGRAPHICAL EPIGRAM.

"OH, dear! such a climate 'tis death to be in—

I surely shall die in the Bights of Benin'!"

"All look for your death, and the more shall we rue it,

R. J.

Since the sups, not the 'Bights,' will, alas! bring you to it.”

R. J.

DARBY THE SWIFT;

OR,

THE LONGEST WAY ROUND IS THE SHORTEST WAY HOME.

"He who runs may read."

CHAPTER I.

"A CENTURY or two ago, there was a class of dependents or hangerson to the great families in Ireland, denominated running-footmen,' who may truly be looked upon as originals in their singular, laborious, and sometimes even dangerous calling. Though ostensibly mere letter-carriers, or light-parcel bearers, across the difficult parts of the country, as yet inaccessible to carriages, or even quadrupeds, (or rendered passable by that style of road-making which the Colossus of Roads, Macadam, pretended was his discovery,) the running-footmen had occasionally charges of more serious import. They were often suspected of being the agents by whom political measures of local warfare were transmitted from baronial sovereigns to their distant clanships or allies,-of being walking, or rather running, telegraphs (for their speed was prodigious) of some plot of treason against the rights of the invader, and often cruelly and unjustly sacrificed to his fury, when intercepted on their secret but seldom hostile missions. They carried their notions of honour on the point of their trust, whatever it might be, to a romantic scrupulosity. No matter whether it was a love-letter or a challenge, a purse or a process, a curse or a blessing, the faithful runner never revealed it to any one but the person for whom it was intended. Though journeying by the most difficult passes, and undergoing the most severe privations, those extraordinary fellows seldom failed in their undertakings. This may be partially accounted for by the reverence they were held in by their own people; for as the lower Irish still continue to believe in the strange notion of their Oriental ancestors, that the souls of 'innocents' (in plainer English, fools,') are in heaven, and that their 'muddy vesture of decay' on earth is entitled to superstitious respect, these motleys, in either their real or assumed garb of folly, were treated with a kind of familiar or affectionate reverence wherever they went amongst their own countrymen. On the other hand, the paths of their treading, when they went out upon distant journeys, were so little known to the hostile strangers, that they ran but little chance of receiving injury at their hands, or even meeting with them. Such were the running-footmen of other days; but they are gone,their race is ended,-and those who pride themselves upon their descent from the stock seem to have retained but few of the qualifications of their ancestors. Everything romantic and happy in Ireland seems to be dwindling away. No longer do we hear the pleasant announcements of Blind Connal the harper, sir,' and 'Miss Biddy Maquillian the fiddler, my lady,' and 'Dermot O'Dowd the piper, boys,' and

I had just read so far in some work or other which I had carelessly taken up for a peep after dinner one day, when a loud knock at the

door of my apartment made me close the book, and say "Come in!" The door slowly opened; but, as nobody entered, I demanded "Who's there ?"

"It's me, masther; Darby, yir honor."-"What do you want?" inquired I." Nothing, sir," said he, "but I've got a letther for ye, sir."-" From whom ?" said I.-" Faix, I don't know, sir,” replied he archly; "for I haven't read it yit; but here it is."- Why don't you come in and give it to me?" demanded I.—"I'm afraid, sir," said he, "that my brogues would dirty the carpet, and set all the girls in the kitchen a-laughing at me for comin' into the drawin'-room; and sure a purtier room a man need never wish to come into.""Oh! very well," said I, rising; "you shall have your way, Darby."—" Am I to wait for an answer, sir?" said he, giving me the letter." No," replied I; "I'll ring if it be necessary."-"Thank yir honor," said Darby, and turned to descend the stairs with the furtive caution of a cat when stealing upon its prey, lest he should make his brogues audible. A loud crash, succeeded by a louder laugh, through which I distinctly heard "Merry bad look to yiz all!" convinced me that Darby's coming up stairs with the letter was a contrivance of the other servants to play some trick upon him, which their merriment seemed to show had succeeded; but into which as I did not care to inquire, I sate down, opened my letter, and began to read. I had not proceeded far before I found it related to business of the most serious consequence, and required that I should write instanter to a friend, who was on a visit at Bally, (nearly forty miles distant across the country,) and have an answer by immediate return of post. There was no time to be lost; so I wrote my letter as speedily as possible, folded, sealed, and directed it, then rang the bell with unusual impatience. It was promptly answered; but this time there was no knock at the door before it opened, for it was Eileen, my usual attendant, that presented herself, with a face whose natural health, cheerfulness, and rustic beauty were considerably heightened by the flush of recent merriment.

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"What have you been doing with Darby, Eileen?" said I.—“ Oh, widdy-eelish!" (her constant ejaculation) said she laughing, nothing at all, sir; only he said he wanted to see the drawin'-room, so we sent him up with the letter, and he slipped his foot as he came down, sir; that's all."- "You know I don't like those tricks, Eileen," said I, with all the severity I could muster against her smothered laughter. "No, sir; I know, sir; but when an omadhaun like that-"-" Silence!" said I. "I want to send a letter by the post: what o'clock is it?"-"Half an hour too late, sir," said Eileen, resuming her gravity; "and there'll be no post to-morrow."-" No post to-morrow!" echoed I.-"No, sir; to-morrow's Saturday, you know."- "Confusion!" said I, "it will be so indeed. What's to be done ?"—"I don't know, sir," replied Eileen despondingly; "how far is it?"—"Oh! nearly forty miles across the country," cried I; " and I want an answer immediately."—"Can't Darby run across with it?" said Eileen."Run across with it!" cried I; "is the girl out of her senses? across forty miles, as if it were nothing more than a hop-step-andjump!"He'll do it in that same, sir," said Eileen seriously, "if ye'll only tell him what it is."-"Who'll do it?" cried I impatiently. "Why, Darby, sir," said she; "Darby in the kitchen, that's known

Run