Swift to the neighb'ring church his way he takes;

Nor, in the dark,

Misses his mark,

But ev'ry pane of glass he quickly breaks.

Back as he goes,

His bosom glows,

To think how great will be his friend Dick's joy,
At getting so much excellent employ!
Return'd, he beck'ning, draws his friend aside,
Importance in his face;

And, to Dick's ear his mouth applied,

Thus briefly states the case:

Dick, I may give you joy—you 're a made man—
I've done your business most complete, my friend ;-
I'm off!-the dogs may catch me, if they can ;-
Each window of the church you've got to mend !
Ingratitude's worst curse on my head fall,
If, for your sake, I have not broke them all !”

Tom, with surprise, sees Dick turn pale,
Who deeply sighs-" O, la !"

Then drops his under jaw,

And all his pow'rs of utt'rance fail;
While horror in his ghastly face,

And bursting eye-balls, Tom can trace;
Whose sympathetic muscles, just and true,
Share with heart

Dick's unknown smart,

And two such phizzes ne'er met mortal view.

At length, friend Dick his speech regain'd,
And soon the mystery explain'd:-

"You have, indeed, my business done!
And I, as well as you, must run;
For, let me act the best I can,
Tom! Tom! I am a ruin'd man!"

"Bless me! this friendship is a foolish act;
You didn't know with the parish I contract:
Your wish to serve me, then, will cost me dear,-
I always mend those windows by the year."

A TALK ABOUT TITLES.-FRENEAU.

ONE Sabbath-day morning, said Sampson to Sue, "I have thought and have thought that a TITLE will do; Believe me, my dear, it is sweeter than syrup

To taste of a title, as cooked up in Europe;
'Your ladyship' here, and 'your ladyship' there,

'Sir knight,' and 'your grace,' and 'his worship the mayor"
But here, we are nothing but vulgar all over;
The wife of a cobbler scarce thinks you above her.
What a country is this, where madam and miss
Is the highest address from each vulgar-born cur,
And I even I-am but MISTER and SIR!
Your EQUAL-RIGHT gentry I ne'er could abide;
That all are born equal, by ME is denied,
And Barlow and Paine shall preach it in vain.
Look even at brutes, and you'll see it confest
That some are intended to manage the rest.
Yon dog that so stately along the street stalks,

You may know he 's well-born from the way that he walks
Not a better-born whelp ever snapped at his foes;

All he wants is a GLASS TO BE STUCK ON HIS NOSE;

And then, my dear Sue, between me and you,

He would look like the gemman whose name I forget,
Who lives in a castle, and never pays debt."

My dear," answered Susan, "'tis said, in reproach,
That
you climb like a bear when you get in a coach:
Now, your nobles that spring from the nobles of old,
Your earls and your knights, and your barons so bold,

From nature inherit so handsome an air,

They are noblemen born, at first glance we may swear.
But
you that have cobbled, and I that have spun,
'Tis wrong for our noddles on TITLES to run;
Moreover, you know, that to make a fine show,
Your people of note, of arms get a coat;
A boot or a shoe would but sneakingly do,
And would certainly prove our nobility NEW."

"No matter," said Sampson, “a coach shall be bought;
Tho' the low-born may chatter, I care not a groat:
Around it a group of devices shall shine,
And mottos and emblems, to prove it is mine;
Fair Liberty's CAP, and a STAR, and a STRAP;
A DAGGER, that somewhat resembles an awl;
A pumpkin-faced GODDESS supporting a STALL;-
All these shall be there. How people will stare!
And ENVY herself, that our TITLE would blast,
May smile at the motto-' The first shall be LAST.

IRISH COURTESY.-SEDLEY.

STRANGER-O'CALLAGHAN.

Stranger. I have lost my way, good friend; me in finding it?

O'Callaghan. Assist you in finding it, sir? ay, by my faith and troth, and that I will, if it was to the world's end, and further too.

Str. I wish to return by the shortest route to the Black Rock.

O' Cal. Indade, and you will, so plase your honor's honorand O'Callaghan's own self will show you the way, and then you can't miss it you know.

Str. I would not give you so much trouble, Mr. O'Callaghan.

O' Cal. It is never a trouble, so plase your honor, for an Irishman to do his duty. (Bowing.)

Str. Whither do you travel, friend?

O' Cal. To Dublin, so plase your honor-sure all the world knows that Judy O'Flannaghan will be married to-morrow, God willing, to Pat Ryan; and Pat, you know, is my own foster-brother-because why, we had but one nurse between us, and that was my own mother; but she died one day-the Lord rest her swate soul! and left me an orphan, for my father married again, and his new wife was the divil's own child, and did nothing but bate me from morning till night. Och, why did I not die before I was born to see that day! for by St. Patrick, the woman's heart was as cold as a hailstone. Str. But what reason could she have for treating you so unmercifully, Mr. O'Callaghan?

O' Cal. Ah, your honor, and sure enough there are always reasons as plenty as pratees for being hard-hearted. And I was no bigger than a dumpling at the time, so I could not help myself, and my father did not care to help me, and so I hopped the twig, and parted old Nick's darling; och, may the divil find her wherever she goes. But here I am alive and lapeing, and going to see Pat married; and faith to do him justice, he's as honest a lad as any within ten miles of us, and no disparagement neither; and I love Pat, and I love all his family; ay, by my shoul do I, every mother's skin of them—and by the same token, I have travelled many a long mile to be present at his wedding.

Str. Your miles in Ireland are much longer than ours, I believe.

O' Cal. Indade, and you may believe that, your honor, because why, St. Patrick measured them in his coach, you know. Och, by the powers! the time has been-but, 'tis no matter, not a single copper at all at all now belongs to the family-but as I was saying, the day has been, ay, by my troth, and the night too, when the O'Callaghans, good luck to them, held their heads up as high as the best; and though I have not a rod of land belonging to me, but what I hire, I love my

country, ard would halve my last pratee with any poor creature that has none.

Str. Pray, how does the bride appear, Mr. O'Callaghan?

O' Cal. Och, by my shoul, your honor, she's a nate article; and then she will be rigged out as gay as a lark and as fine as a peacock; because why, she has a great lady for her godmother, long life and success to her, who has given Judy two milch cows, and five pounds in hard money; and Pat has taken as dacent apartments as any in Dublin-a nate comely parlor as you'd wish to see, just six fate under ground, with a nice beautiful ladder to go down-and all so complate and gentale and comfortable, as a body may say.

Str. Nothing like comfort, Mr. O'Callaghan.

O' Cal. Faith, and you may say that your honor. (Rubbing his hands.) Comfort, is comfort, says I to Mrs. O'Callaghan, when we were all seated so cleverly around a great big turf fire, as merry as grigs, with the dear little grunters snoring so swately in the corner, defying wind and weather, with a dry thatch, and a sound conscience to go to sleep upon.

Str. A good conscience makes a soft pillow.

O' Cal. Och, jewel, sure it is not the best beds that make the best slapers; for there's Kathleen and myself can sleep like two great big tops, and our bed is none of the softest-because why, we slape on the ground, and have no bed at all at all.

Str. It is a pity my honest fellow, that you should ever want one. There-(giving him a guinea), good-by,,Mr. O'Callaghan.

O' Cal. I'll drink your honor's health, that I will; and may God and the blessed Virgin bless you and yours, as long as grass grows and water runs.

THE SUN-BURNT MAN.-STAHL.

AN affidavit was made by Augustus Dormouse yesterday afternoon, against Clarence Fitz-Butter, for burning him with a burning-glass.