On the eighth day of March it was, some people say,
That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw the day;
While others declare 'twas the ninth he was born,
And 'twas all a mistake between midnight and morn;
For mistakes will occur in a hurry and shock,
And some blam'd the baby—and some blam'd the clock—
Till with all their cross-questions sure no one could know,
If the child was too fast—or the clock was too slow.

Now the first faction fight in ould Ireland, they say,
Was all on account of Saint Pathrick's birthday,

On the Coast of Coromandel
Where the early pumpkins blow,
In the middle of the woods
Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
Two old chairs, and half a candle,--
One old jug without a handle,--
These were all his worldly goods:
In the middle of the woods,
These were all the worldly goods
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

Once among the Bong-trees walking
Where the early pumpkins blow,
To a little heap of stones
Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
There he heard a Lady talking
To some milk-white hens of Dorking,--

On the banks of Allan Water,
When the sweet spring-time did fall,
Was the miller's lovely daughter,
— Fairest of them all.

For his bride a soldier sought her,
And a winning tongue had he,
On the banks of Allan Water,
— None so gay as she.

On the banks of Allan Water,
When brown autumn spread his store,
There I saw the miller's daughter,
— But she smiled no more.

For the summer grief had brought her,
And the soldier false was he,
On the banks of Allan Water,
— None so sad as she.

FIRST HALF

On the bamboo grass
snow falls and piles up this winter night;
what a delight to dance!

SECOND HALF

Since the age of freshly made fences and the gods,
we've held the leaves of bamboo grass
and danced!

On Sunday morning, then he comes
To church, and everybody smells
The blacking and the toilet soap
And camphor balls from Mr. Wells.

He wears his whiskers in a bunch,
And wears his glasses on his head.
I mustn't call him Old Man Wells —
No matter — that's what Father said.

And when the little blacking smells
And camphor balls and soap begin,
I dOnot have to look to know
That Mr. Wells is coming in.

On summer afternoons I sit
Quiescent by you in the park,
And idly watch the sunbeams gild
And tint the ash-trees' bark.

Or else I watch the squirrels frisk
And chaffer in the grassy lane;
And all the while I mark your voice
Breaking with love and pain.

I know a woman who would give
Her chance of heaven to take my place;
To see the love-light in your eyes,
The love-glow on your face!

And there's a man whose lightest word
Can set my chilly blood afire;
Fulfillment of his least behest
Defines my life's desire.

On starry heights
A bugle wails the long recall;
Derision stirs the deep abyss,
Heaven's ominous silence over all.
Return, return, O eager Hope,
And face man's latter fall.
Events, they make the dreamers quail;
Satan's old age is strong and hale,
A disciplined captain, gray in skill,
And Raphael a white enthusiast still;
Dashed aims, at which Christ's martyrs pale,
Shall Mammon's slaves fulfill?

(Dismantle the fort,
Cut down the fleet--
Battle no more shall be!
While the fields for fight in aeons to come

There was an old man of the Dee,
Who always was partial to tea;
Buttered toast he abhorred, and by muffins was bored,
That uncommon old man of the Dee.

On primal rocks she wrote her name;
Her towers were reared on holy graves;
The golden seed that bore her came
Swift-winged with prayer on ocean waves.

The Forest bowed his solemn crest,
And open flung his sylvan doors;
Meek Rivers led the appointed guest
To clasp the wide-embracing shores;

Till, fold by fold, the broidered land
To swell her virgin vestments grew,
While sages, strong in heart and hand,
Her virtue's fiery girdle drew.

O exile of the wrath of kings!
O Pilgrim Ark of Liberty!
The refuge of divinest things,

On Philiphaugh a fray began,
At Hairheadwood it ended;
The Scots outoer the Graemes they ran,
Sae merrily they bended.

Sir David frae the Border came,
Wi heart an hand came he;
Wi him three thousand bonny Scots,
To bear him company.

Wi him three thousand valiant men,
A noble sight to see!
A cloud o mist them weel conceald,
As close as eer might be.

When they came to the Shaw burn,
Said he, Sae weel we frame,
I think it is convenient
That we should sing a psalm.

When they came to the Lingly burn,