POETRY.

ANDY BYRNE.

[Tim Delany, & small Munster landlord, come over to England to sell cattle, sitting in the tap-room of a pnbro-honse in the market-town.1 WELL, ye're afther cappin' stories, and, bedad, Sirs, Whigs an Tories, Wan aich still paints the oisle av Saints as Satan's oisle all frough, But I hould 'tis lasteways fittin' that ye all should be admittin' That if the Divle has his faults, he's equal virchooes too.

I was dhroivin' home wan night, Sirs, whilst the oats was turnin' white, Sirs,

Whin some wan gips across the wall, an' bids me stop the gig "Fine avenin,' thin, but could, Sir, an' might I make so_bould, Sir, As ax if ye'd be plased at all to buy a darlin' pig ?" Why, Andy, what's the rason at this same eontrairy sason Ye'd part the pig, so small an' all, an' divle a thing but lean ?" "Och, shore," says he, replyin', "I've the misthress lyin' dyin', An' ordered nourishmint, she is—an' that's the way I mean."

Me hand was in my coat thin, an' I pulled him out a note thin ; My bhoy," says I, "to take the pig 'nd be the worst av chroimes.

Ye'll not refuse a lift thin,—shure it shan't be called a gift thin ; 'Tis lint, my Irina, till God shall Bind ould Oireland betther toimes."

I gave the horse the whip so, an' gave the bhoy the slip so, An' lookia' back along the thrack 'twas there I seen him stand ; 13edad, the fool was cryin', for his cuff his oies was dhryin', An' all the whoile he hell the note like dhramin' in his band.

Well, wan avenin' in Decimber, that 'tis bike I'll long remimber, I'd dhrove the mare to Kiltea fair, an' now I'd raiched the turn ; There was hall a moon to gnoide me, an' beyant the wall besoide me 'There rose a head all shagg'd an' red—the head av Andy Byrne.

t'd me finger an the thrigger, but I rayalized the figger ;

" Bedad, me lad, ye'd nealy had a taste av lead this day !" 'Whist, whist," says he ; "come near now—they're waiting an ye here now—

Four halals an' all—aich soide the wall ; rad& home the uddher way."

Ile vanished like a sproite, Sirs, an'—was I wrong or might, Sirs ?— I turned the horse, an' changed me course, an' july raiched me door; An' whin all was noicely fixt, Sirs, an' the glass as punch was mixt, Sirs, The whole affair seemed just a scare,—a dhrame, an' nothink more.

'Well, it moight be two hours later, an' me hand was on the grater—

I take it so, yell have to know, wid limon, just a equaze ;— I persaved a knockin' loud, Sirs, an' the manials in a crowd, Sirs,— " What's all this row? be airy now ! yer manners, av ye plan."

.0ch,bedad, 'twee soon I heard, Sirs,—an' bitther was the word, Sirs-

"'Tis Andy's wife "—" They've took his life "—" He's kilt, Sir, Vrough an' t'rough ; ' 'Tie for you that he's inquiria' "—" Shure the crathur's just expiria' "— " Och, wirra, wirra, cruel day ! whativer will I do P" Thin out we turned togedder in the bitther murtherin' wedder- The field across, an' o'er the moss, an' up to Andy's door ; Och, the white faze, sharp an' faille', an' the bite o' child'en wailin'— A cruel sight we seen that night! God send the bikes no more !

Well, we powered a dhrop av brandy down the throat av poor ould Andy, An' thin he soighed, and opened woide his blue oies dim wid death ;

,So I propt his head to rest it, an' I seised his hand an' prest it; "Twas murtherin' koind to come," says he, wid gaps betwixt for breath.

Och, me bhoy," says I, "it kills me—'tis wid grief an' shame it fills me—

To think I saved me by yer word, an' left ye there to doy ; Though ye wanst were just a piaant, ye're a marthyr shore at prisent,— Saint rather meet ye at the gate, an' ax ye in on hoigh."

Thin says he, "Don't give it mintion—shure it isn't worth attintion, 'Twas just a compliment—och ! there !—the breath is hard to git ; Faith, ye helped me in disthriss, Sir, an' ye saved my Molly- yis, Sir- 'Tis more I'd do, with freedom too, an' still not pay the dibt."

kin he lay back, tired wid spakin',—whin the morrer's morn .gras breakin', 'vint where daylight niver fades, an' lift the wife in night; But., bedad ! ye're all mistaken if ye think that she's forsaken, Small want she'll feel for fire an' meal while I've the sup an' bite.

So whilst ye're tellin' stories of ould Oireland's vanisht glories,— How Satan's won the oisle of Saints, an' scatthered all his foes—

Why, 'tis this I mane to say, Sirs—let the Divle have fair play, Sirs, For ay his skin is black as sin, less need to cork his nose.

Faniem Hoaxes