"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me enough; Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Jim

Duff;

And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,
So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest."

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck;

And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light,

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And he kissed her sweet lips-don't you think he was right? 'Now, Rory, leave off, sir—you'll hug me no more— That's eight times to-day you've kissed me before." "Then here goes another," says he, to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O'More.

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THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.

A BABY was sleeping;

Its mother was weeping;

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;
And the tempest was swelling

Round the fisherman's dwelling;

And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh come back to me!'

Her beads while she numbered,

The baby still slumbered,

And smiled in her face as she bended her knee: "O blest be that warning,

My child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee."

"And while they are keeping

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me!

And say thou wouldst rather

They'd watch o'er thy father!

For I know that the angels are whispering to thee !"

The dawn of the morning

Saw Dermot returning,

And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see;
And closely caressing

Her child with a blessing,

Said, "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

Thomas Babington Macaulay.

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

NOW

glory to the Lord of Hosts,

From whom all glories are!

And glory to our sovereign liege,

King Henry of Navarre!

Now let there be the merry sound

Of music and the dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines,

Oh, pleasant land of France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle,

Proud city of the waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes.

Of all thy mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills,
Be joyous in our joy,

For cold, and stiff, and still are they
Who wrought thy walls annoy.
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field
Hath turned the chance of war;
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry,

And King Henry of Navarre!

Oh! how our hearts were beating,
When, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League
Drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens,
And all its rebel peers,

And Appenzel's stout infantry,

And Egmont's Flemish spears !

There rode the brood of false Lorraine,

The curses of our land!

And dark Mayenne was in the midst,
A truncheon in his hand;
And, as we looked on them, we thought
Of Seine's empurpled flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair

All dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God,
Who rules the fate of war,
To fight for his own holy name,
And Henry of Navarre!

The king is come to marshal us,

In all his armour dressed,

And he has bound a snow-white plume Upon his gallant crest.

He looked upon his people,
And a tear was in his eye;
He looked upon the traitors,

And his glance was stern and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us,
As rolled from wing to wing,
Down all our line, in deafening shout,
"God save our lord, the king!"
"And if my standard-bearer fall,
As fall full well he may—
For never saw I promise yet
Of such a bloody fray—

Press where ye see my white plume shine,

Amidst the ranks of war,

And be your oriflamme, to-day,

The helmet of Navarre !"

Hurrah! the foes are moving!
Hark to the mingled din

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum,

And roaring culverin!

The fiery Duke is pricking fast

Across Saint Andre's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry

Of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye love,
Fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies now,
Upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep,
A thousand spears in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close

Behind the snow-white crest;

And in they burst, and on they rushed,
While, like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed

The helmet of Navarre!

Now, God be praised, the day is ours!
Mayenne hath turned his rein;
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter-

The Flemish Count is slain.

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds Before a Biscay gale;

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, And flags, and cloven mail;

And then we thought on vengeance,

And all along our van,

"Remember Saint Bartholomew !"

Was passed from man to man: But out spake gentle Henry

"No Frenchman is my

foe;

Down, down with every foreigner,
But let your brethren go."
Oh! was there ever such a knight,

In friendship or in war,

As our sovereign lord, King Henry,
The soldier of Navarre!

Ho! maidens of Vienne!

Ho! matrons of Lucerne !

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those

Who never shall return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity,