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He flings his "kit" whene'er he wills
To hide amidst the brambles,

And off by streams and woods and hills
He sets upon his rambles;
He rests in many a cosy nook

Where late the hare was seated,
He cools him by some silvery brook
If woodland winds are heated;
Upon the soft green turf he lies
And lists the riplets flowing,
Or watches with his calm grey eyes
The wild flowers round him blowing;
And when he's tired of this repose,
Once more amidst the heather
He lights his pipe, and binds and sews,
And raps and taps his leather.

Sometimes in homes of men he bides
Who keep a roaring table,
Between the cellar casks he hides
And swills while he is able.
He knows the smack of sweet potheen,
Old wines, and brandies mellow,
He owns a throat and nose as keen
As any jolly fellow;

But little hurt or harm does he,
Judged by the wild vagaries
Of Phooka, Shefro, Linaun-shee,
And other dreadful fairies.
He frights no women into fits,
He makes no babes to sicken,
He drives no cattle into pits,
He never chokes a chicken.

Yet often, while he works and sings,
Or midst his walks so pleasant,
Upon him like a hound there springs
A panting brawny peasant,

And grasps his neck, and, with a curse,
Says, "willing or unwilling,

Come hand me here your fairy purse
That ever holds a shilling!
And lead me where in days of old
In times of war and trouble,
Rich people buried crocks of gold
'Neath bush or stone or stubble.
Come, guide me forward to my prize,
And never think to fly me,
I'll hold you straight before my eyes
Though Nick himself stood by me."

Right onward moves the little man,
Cast down and sad in seeming,
But framing many a subtle plan
Beyond his captor's dreaming.
For vain will be his active strides,
And vain his grasp of rigour,
If once his glance a moment glides
From off the fairy figure.

A thousand sounds rise in his rear,
A thousand strong temptations-
Men, women, horses, dogs, are near,
Friends, foes, and blood relations.
Hurroo! his pigs are in his track,
He knows the lively squealers-
Ha, here are bailiffs at his back,
And there's a squad of peelers!
And now a call from Nell's shebeen
Into his brain comes ringing,
Now whispers from his own colleen
About his ears are singing!

Now rushing on with trampling sound
That fills his soul with wonder,
A troop of horsemen scour the ground
That echoes back like thunder!
'Tis past-the bugle's blast is o'er,
But hush, and list a minute-
There's fighting on the bohermore
And all his friends are in it!
The noise dies out, and on the wind
Come tones of sadder meaning,
A funeral crowd is close behind,

He knows for whom they're keening!
Yet never once to left or right
He looks for joy or sorrow,
He holds his fairy prisoner tight,
He'll settle all to-morrow.

At last they reach a weed-grown field,
Neglected, wild, and dreary,

""Tis here the treasure lies concealed,"
Outspeaks the cunning fairy.
"But lose my throat, and let me talk,
And listen to my counsel,

The gold's beneath this very stalk
Of blooming yellow groundsel."

The peasant's pulses madly beat,

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His brain is wild with pleasure

What, here!" he cries, "beneath my feet

The heap of shining treasure!

Here, here, beneath this dark brown mould,
That ball of sunlight gleaming

That brimming pot of blazing gold-
Heaped up and over-streaming!
Oh, kind, oh gracious cluricaune
Who calls you old and footy?
My heart's delight, my bouchal bawn,
My youth, my truth, my beauty!
But say who wrongs or injures you
And soon I'll make him rue it;
And say what mortal man can do
To serve you, and I'll do it.
And sure the gold is here indeed,
Where safe 'twas hid from plunder,
'Tis here beneath this darling weed
And but a short way under!
And sure 'tis gold that will not lack
Good weight, whoever weighs it,
And sure 'twill nearly break my
back
From out its hole to raise it-

Oh, cruel, now to be delayed,
And back, o'er bogs and ditches,
To tramp again for pick and spade
Ere I can clutch my riches!

I'll travel quickly through the night
While all the world is sleeping,
And here I'll be ere morning's light
Above the east is peeping.

But first, to mark this precious spot,
I'll scrape this ring to bound it,
And this sweet flower above the pot
I'll tie my garter round it."
"Good-bye, young man," the fairy cries,
"You're rich and wise and clever;"
"Good-bye," the happy youth replies,
"And joy be yours for ever."

Back through the gloom the peasant hies,
His brain with wonders teeming,
He slaps his hands, he rubs his eyes,
He's wide awake, not dreaming!

He reaches soon his cabin door,
And not one moment losing,

With tools in hand, he's off once more,
Low muttering still and musing.
Well, there are men, and women too,
So fond of all contraries,

They say these things are never true,
They laugh at ghosts and fairies.
But let them scold or laugh away
As they feel vex'd or funny,
One thing is sure--at break of day
He'll just be made of money!
And then good-bye to toil and care,
To plough and spade and harrow,
To tattered clothes, and humble fare,
And cabin dark and narrow.
For soon he'll have a grand estate,
'Twould take a day to view it,
A fine big house, an entrance gate
With gravel walks right through it.
And happy there as man can be,
At rest from all his labours,

He'll evermore be glad to see

And help his good old neighbours.

When rents are tight, and markets slack,
When there's no price for butter,
When oats are light, potatoes black,
And turnips rot to gutter;

Then oft, to help him o'er his loss,
He'll fill the poor man's pocket,
And never ask his name or cross
To IO U or docket-

His own colleen-upon his life
She'll find him not a traitor,
No other girl should be his wife
Even if his luck were greater.
Och, there are "ladies" he can see
With puny forms and faces,

Pale, thin, and cold, what would they be

But for their silks and laces?

But wait till Mary, plump and red,
Strong-limb'd, bright-eyed, and merry,
Sets up a bonnet on her head,

Deck'd out with leaf and berry!

Has round her neck, that 's white as milk,
Gold chains and flashing spangles,
And yards on yards of screeching silk
In flounces round her ankles-
Ha! stop, he's near the very land
As morn is breaking brightly-
Soon by that glorious weed he'll stand,
No doubt he marked it rightly!
And then, 'tis but an hour of toil,
And sure the work will please him,
'Tis but to dig some feet of soil-
How lucky no one sees him!
The field is large-in last night's gloom
It looked not half so spacious;
And see the field is all a-bloom

With groundsel stalks!-good gracious
Ay, but he'll find that deep-cut ring
He marked around his own one-
Yes, knotted with that piece of string,
It must be soon a known one.
But what is this-the stalks, oh Lord!
Have all such marks to bound them!
They are all tied with just such cord!
In just such knots around them!
Oh cruel trick, oh shameful cheat,
Oh spiteful, wicked fairy,
Oh bitter piece of black deceit,
To rob himself and Mary!

Oh, if he had another hold

Óf that old villain's wizen,

He'd keep it till he'd got the gold
From out its gloomy prison.

But who could delve to holes and grooves
That field of forty acres,

In midnight hours, when no one moves
But troubled ghosts and bakers?

And who, while shines the noon-day sun
On wood and grass and tillage,

Could labour there and bear the fun
And scoff of all the village?

He journeys homeward, sad at heart,

Why does he stop to listen?

What makes him stamp and threat and start

What bids his eye-balls glisten ?-

He hears that thief, the cluricaune,

Far off amidst the heather,

A-singing of the cruiskeen lawn,
And tapping of his leather.

A KING FOR AN HOUR.

I.

THEODORE OF CORSICA.-CONCLUSION.

By one of those curious chains, of which a couple of very old men might hold the links, all this episode might be linked to our own times. But there is a yet nearer association. This adventurous king's son used to call himself, long after, half jestingly, "Prince of Caprera,' ," but did not think there would be a later Prince of Caprera of a certain mark, who should be of his blood.

Among those who had gone to offer the island to Theodore was a certain Joseph Battista Mira, whom the King, shortly after he was established, sent away with a letter to his mother, who was still alive, at a place called Peddenhole, close to Ruggeberg in La Marck. Here he not only saw the mother but also a sister of Theodore's, called "Catherine Amelie;" with her he fell in love, and, writing for Theodore's consent, married her. The quasi royal condition on the one side, and the sense of gratitude for services received on the other, were the inducements. Later on, Joseph Battista and his wife came to Ajaccio, and finally, on the fall of their relative, settled at Nice, where the husband became a doctor. So far, these are trifling facts; but it is more important to learn, that a registry was lately discovered at Ruggeberg, by which it appeared that the Doctor had a son, and that son another son, who was the father of Joseph Garibaldi-at present certainly a Prince of Caprera in all but the title. The oddity of the whole is this, that as the crown of Corsica was settled on Theodore and his direct heirs, the soldier of Caprera is really now a sort of King in Posse, and has a good cause of action, whenever the little island shall be enabled to declare

or any

itself free by a "Plebiscite' other of the ingenious modes now in fashion.

News came to Genoa that the rebels were divided among themselves, and had actually broken up into three parties. There was one for the Republic; a second, headed by Astelli, Rafaelli, and others, were for a Republic, while Giafferi and the rest remained faithful to Theodore. It was previously heard that the King "his extraordinary majesty," as he was jocularly styled in the foreign letters-had taken a short way with these malcontents and had arrested Raffaelli and Antelli, and put them in prison.

A sort of disgust had been excited by the non-arrival of the promised foreign aid. They mistrusted Theodore's sham packets and telescopes. But they were still more alienated on account of an act of rough-and-ready justice on their king's part, towards a certain Casacolli, who had been pardoned, but who was detected intriguing with the Genoese. He had him summarily shot. This caused yet louder murmurs.

It produced, too, a sort of disorganization. A certain Colonel Arrichi up at Foriani-a sort of mountain fastness-had carelessly left it in charge of only twenty soldiers, which coming to the knowledge of the enemy, they attacked it, and, after a desperate resistance, succeeded in carrying it. The commander had some five hundred men for the defence, which he had criminally or carelessly withdrawn to another quarter. Furious at the loss, Theodore hurried up from Monte Maggiore, to punish this colonel; but the latter wisely fled to Reno, when Theodore was said to have taken a barbarous and savage vengeance. He fired his

See a communication to, the Athenæum, in 1860, which is given on the authority of a Rhine Paper." As a corroboration, I find in an old French memoir, this brother-inlaw of Theodore's set down as Sinabaldi, which is very like Garibaldi. There is no reason to doubt the statement, especially as mere fabricated lineage would aim at a higher person than a mere adventurer like Theodore,

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