Milly Boyle!' To be sure if she hadn't the bachelors no girl ever had. Shoals of 'em watching for her coming out of chapel, or from the station, or the wake, as it might be, waylaying her, as a body may say; and though she was main civil to them all, and smiles were as plenty and as sweet with her as harvest-berries, yet it was long before she laid her mind to any, until her fancy fixed on Michael Langton, one of the best boys in the barony; handsome and well to do in the world was Michael, and every one was rejoiced at her luck. Well, the day was fixed for the wedding; and even the poor mother thanked God on her knees, and offered a cock to Saint Martin, and a box of real wax candles to the Virgin-her blessing be about us for ever and ever, Amin! And the evening before, Michael and Milly were walking down by the river at the bottom of the common, and Milly spied a bunch of wild roses hanging over the stream, and she took a fancy to the flowers; and to be sure Mike made a spring at them, but his luck took the footing from under him, and, Lord save us! the poor boy was drowned in the sight of her eyes. But the worst of the woe is to come; she got a brain fever out of the trouble, and the fever scorched up her brain, so that there was no sense left in it, though her heart was as warm as ever; and then she used to go rambling about the counthry, with her hands crossed on her breasts, and her eyes evermore wandering; and if

C

she'd hear a cry, or a moan, she'd run to see if she could do any thing to lighten the throuble, and yet she had no sense left to know how to set about it. And oh, ma'am dear, the mother of her!-to see that poor woman fading away from off the face of the earth, and following her as if she was her shadow!-'twas the hardest luck I ever knew."

"And what became of poor Milly?"

"The worst of luck, if it's as long as a midsummer day, must have an end-and so, ma'am dear, Milly died. And it was quare, too, she was found dead under a wild-rose tree-I often h'ard they were unlucky things-there she was, and I h'ard them that found her tell, that it was a beautiful melancholy sight to see her her cheek resting on her arm as if she was asleep, and ever so many of the rose-leaves scattered by Nature like, over her white face!"

"And her mother?"

“Ah, ma'am, they say ould hearts are tough! but if it's true, sorrow can tear them to pieces-the two were buried in the same grave."

Moyna's story moved me much; I wished them both a kind good morrow, and had nearly arrived at the village where we lodged, when, panting and breathless, she overtook me.

"What's the matter, Moyna?"

"Oh, the man has the tooth-ache so bad that I'm forced to run for a pipe, the smoking does it good."

"What, has he not a pipe?"

“He had, maʼam, but he lent it to Briney Moore." "But I saw you put a pipe in your pocket not twenty minutes ago."

"So you might, ma'am dear, that's my luck; it would have stayed quiet and easy in any body else's pocket, but there was a hole in mine, so it walked out, without so much as by ye'r leave."

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Why did you not mend the hole ?"

“Faith, ma'am, honey, if I did, it would break out again,” said Moyna, with some impatience of tone and gesture. "Where's the good of mending any thing, when we've no luck."

Poor Moyna! she would have been very angry had she known that I again compared her to the Turks, and was more than ever satisfied that, till belief in fatalism is rooted out, poor Ireland will "have no luck!"

PRESTON MILLS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "CORN-LAW RHYMES," &c.

THE day was fair, the cannon roared,
Cold blew the bracing north,

And Preston's mills by thousands poured
Their little captives forth.

All in their best they paced the street,
All glad that they were free;

And sung a song with voices sweet

They sung of liberty!

But from their lips the rose had fled,
Like "death-in-life" they smiled;
And still, as each passed by, I said,
Alas! is that a child?

Flags waved, and men-a ghastly crew-
Marched with them, side by side;

While, hand in hand, and two by two,

They moved a living tide.

Thousands and thousands-oh, so white!

With eyes so glazed and dull!

Alas! it was indeed a sight

Too sadly beautiful!

And, oh, the pang their voices gave

Refuses to depart !

This is a wailing for the grave,

I whispered to my heart.

It was as if, where roses blushed,

A sudden, blasting gale

O'er fields of bloom had rudely rushed,

And turned the roses pale.

It was as if, in glen and grove,
The wild birds sadly sung;

And every linnet mourned its love,
And every thrush its young.
It was as if, in dungeon-gloom,
Where chained despair reclined,

A sound came from the living tomb,

And hymned the passing wind.

And while they sang, and though they smiled,

My soul groaned heavily

Oh, who would be or have a child!

A mother who would be!