VOL. V.

TO MY OLD COAT.

BY ALEX. M'DOUGALL, ESQ. OF NOVA SCOTIA.

AH me! how oft my fancy plays
Round the bright flame of other days,
Ere poverty I knew,

When, ere the light of hope was gone,
"In pride of place" I put thee on,
My Sunday-coat of blue!

"Twere vain to tell what fears arose,

How I anticipated woes,

When first thy shape I tried ;

But doubts dispell'd, what joy was mine!

I gazed upon thy superfine,

And scorn'd all coats beside.

Can I forget that jovial night,

When thy gilt buttons in the light

Of matchless beauty shone;

When, cheer'd by many a witching glance,

I in the figure of the dance

Exhibited my own?

These days of pride like meteors pass'd—
Alas! they were too good to last,

And dismal hours have come.
Now, my poor coat! thy haggard air
Speaks volumes to me, while despair

Has almost struck me dumb.

My other upper parts of dress,

Though ancient, are exceptionless ;—
With patching here and there

My nether garments still retain
Cohesive power; but all in vain

Thy breaches I repair.

Thy collar, which so lightly press'd
In graceful sweep my swelling chest,
Now makes my choler swell.
The soap, perspiring through each stitch

So tar-like, urges me to pitch

Thee to the tailor's hell.*

Thy edges now are all unhemm'd,

Thy guiltless buttons, too, condemn'd,
Hang in lack-lustre rows;
Thy sleeves have faded from their prime,
Thy cuffs, which met the storms of Time,
Have sunk beneath its blows.

Thy seams, which look'd so smooth before,
("Talk not to me of seems,") no more
In evenness excel;

While, shrinking from thy wearer's make,
Thou, Wolsey-like, art forced to take
Of greatness a farewell.

I dare not trust thy texture now-
"A thing of shreds and patches,”-thou
Art woful to behold.

Thy waist has fallen to waste at last;
Thy skirts, whose threads are failing fast,
A sad, sad tale unfold!

As on thy alter'd form I gaze,

I mourn the joys of other days,
Ere poverty I knew,

When, ere the light of hope had gone,
"In pride of place" I put thee on,

My Sunday-coat of blue!

THE LAMENT OF THE CHEROKEE.

O soft falls the dew, in the twilight descending,
And tall grows the shadowy hill on the plain;
And night o'er the far distant forest is bending,

Like the storm-spirit, dark, o'er the tremulous main ;
But midnight enshrouds my lone heart in its dwelling,
A tumult of woe in my bosom is swelling,
And a tear, unbefitting the warrior, is telling

That Hope has abandoned the brave Cherokee !

Can a tree that is torn from its root by the fountain,
The pride of the valley, green-spreading and fair;
Can it flourish, removed to the rock of the mountain,

Unwarmed by the sun, and unwatered by care?
Though Vesper be kind her sweet dews in bestowing,
No life-giving brook in its shadow is flowing,
And when the chill winds of the desert are blowing,
So droops the transplanted and lone Cherokee!

Loved graves of my sires! have I left you for ever?
How melted my heart, when I bade you adieu !
Shall joy light the face of the Indian ?—ah, never!
While memory sad has the power to renew.
As flies the fleet deer when the blood-hound is started,
So fled winged Hope from the poor
broken-hearted;
O, could she have turned, ere for ever departed,

And beckoned with smiles to her sad Cherokee !

Is it the low wind through the wet willows rushing,
That fills with wild numbers my listening ear?

Or is some hermit-rill, in the solitude gushing,

The strange-playing minstrel, whose music I hear? 'Tis the voice of my father, slow, solemnly stealing,

I see his dim form, by yon meteor, kneeling,

To the God of the white man, the CHRISTIAN, appealing,
He prays for the foe of the dark Cherokee!

Great Spirit of Good, whose abode is the heaven,
Whose wampum of peace is the bow in the sky;
Wilt thou give to the wants of the clamorous raven,
Yet turn a deaf ear to my piteous cry?
O'er the ruins of home, o'er my heart's desolation,
No more shalt thou hear my unblest lamentation;
For death's dark encounter I make preparation, -

He hears the last groan of the wild Cherokee !

HANDY ANDY. No. VI.

BY SAMUEL LOVER.

NOTWITHSTANDING the deep potations of the Squire and Dick Dawson the night before, both were too much excited by the arrival of Johnstone to permit them to be laggards in the morning; they were up and in consultation at an early hour, for the purpose of carrying on prosperously the mystification so well begun on the young Englishman,-and they set their wits to work that intention might follow up with spirit the occurrence that accident originated.

"Now, first of all, Dick," said the Squire, "is it fair, do you think ?"

"Fair!" said Dick, opening his eyes in astonishment. "Why, who ever heard of any one questioning anything being fair in love, war, or electioneering;-to be sure it's fair-and more particularly when the conceited coxcomb has been telling us how he'll astonish with his plans the poor ignorant Irish, whom he holds in such contempt. Now let me alone, and I'll get all his plans out of him-turn him inside out like a glove, pump him as dry as a pond in the summer, squeeze him like a lemon."

“An orange, you mean, Dick," said the Squire, with a wink.

"By my sowl he's too green to be orange," said Dick. "But whatever he is, we 'll get the inside out of him, and let him see whether the poor ignorant Iwish, as he softly calls us, are not an overmatch for him at the finesse upon which he seems so much to pride himself.”

"Egad! I believe you 're right, Dick," said the Squire, whose qualms were quite overcome by the argument last advanced; for if there was one thing more than another that provoked him, it was the impertinent self-conceit of presuming and shallow strangers, who fancied that their hackneyed and cut-and-dry knowledge of the common places of the world gave them a mental elevation above an intelligent people of primitive habits, whose simplicity of life is so often set down to stupidity, whose contentment under privation is so often attributed to laziness, and whose poverty is so often coupled with the epithet "ignorant." "A poor ignorant creature," indeed is a common term of reproach, as if poverty and ignorance must be inseparable. If a census could be taken of the rich ignorant people, it would be no flattering document to stick on the door of the temple of Mammon.

"Well, Ned," said Dick, "as you agree to do the Englishman, Murphy will be a grand help to us, it is the very thing he will have his heart in. Murtough will be worth his weight in gold to us: I will ride over to him and bring him back with

me to spend the day here: and you in the mean time can put every one about the house on their guard not to spoil the fun by letting the cat out of the bag too soon; we'll shake her ourselves in good time, and maybe we won't have fun in the hunt!"

"You're right, Dick. Murphy is the very man for our money. Do Do you be off for him, and I will take care that all shall be right at home here."

In ten minutes more Dick was in his saddle, and riding hard for Murtough Murphy's. A good horse and a sharp pair of spurs were not long in placing him vis-à-vis with the merry attorney, whom he found in his stable-yard up to his eyes in business with some ragged country fellows, the majority of whom were loud in vociferating their praises of certain dogs; while Murtough drew from one of them, from time to time, a solemn assurance, given with many significant shakes of the head, and uplifting of hands and eyes, "that it was the finest badger in the world!" Murtough turned his head on hearing the rattle of the horse's feet, as Dick the Divil dashed into the stable-yard, and with a view-halloo welcomed him.

"You 're just in time, Dick. By the powers we'll have the finest day's sport you've seen for some time."

"The

"I think we will," said Dick, "if you will come with me.” "No; but you come with me," said Murtough. grandest badger fight, sir."

"Pooh!" returned Dick; "I've a bull-bait for you."

“A bull-bait? Tare an' owns that's great! Where ?" "At home."

-

"What! is the Squire going to turn out old Hell-fire for us-that's great Boys," said he to the country fellows, "will any of your dogs fight a bull ?”

A loud assurance in the affirmative followed the question. "Then we'll put off the badger fight, and bait the bull." "It's not with dogs we must bait him though," said Dick. "Is it with cats ?" said Murtough.

66

Whisper," said Dick,-"it's a John Bull we're going to

bait."

"A John Bull !-what do you mean ?" "Come here," said Dick; and nodding Murtough away from the group of peasants, he told him of the accident that conveyed their political enemy into their toils. "And the beauty of it is," said Dick, "that he has not the remotest suspicion of the condition he 's in, and fancies himself able to buy and sell all Ireland-horsedealers and attorneys included."

"That's elegant," said Murphy.

"He's come to enlighten us, Murtough," said Dick.

"And maybe we won't return the compliment," said Murtough: "just let me get on my boots. Hilloa, you Larry! saddle the grey. Don't cut the pup's ears till I come home; and if Mr.

Ferguson sends over for the draft of the lease, tell him it won't be ready till to-morrow. Molly! Molly !-where are you, you old divil? Sew on that button for me,-I forgot to tell you yesterday,—make haste! I won't delay you a moment, Dick. Stop a minute, though. I say, Lanty Houligan,—mind, on your peril, you old vagabone, don't let them fight that badger without me. Now, Dick, I'll be with you in the twinkling of a bedpost, and do the Englishman, and that smart! Bad luck to their conceit !-they think we can do nothing regular in Ireland."

Murtough ran into the house, and the boots and the button, and the grey and himself, were ready sooner than might be expected from the random nature of his orders and his movements, and he and Dick Dawson were soon moving at a slapping pace towards Merryvale. Murtough Murphy, from his rolicking gleeful nature, was in a perfect agony of delight in anticipating the fun they should have in mystifying Johnstone. Dick's intention had been to take Johnstone along with them on their canvass, and openly engage him in all their electioneering movements; but to this Murphy objected, as running too great a risk of discovery. He recommended rather to engage the Englishman in amusements of one sort or other, that would detain him from O'Grady and his party, and gain time for their side; to get out of him all the electioneering plot of the other party, indirectly; but to have as little real electioneering business as possible. "If you do, Dick," said Murphy, "take my word we shall betray ourselves somehow or other he could not be so soft as not to see it; but let us be content with kidnapping him-amuse him with all sorts of absurd stories of Ireland and the Irish-tell him magnificent lies-astonish him with grand materials for a note book, and work him up to publish-that's the plan, sir!"

On their arrival at Merryvale, they found the family party had just sat down to breakfast. Dick, in his own jolly way hoped Johnstone had slept well.

"Vewy," said Johnstone, as he sipped his tea with an air of peculiar nonchalance which was meant to fascinate Fanny Dawson, Dick's sister, a pretty and clever girl, and in her own way nearly as great a devil as Dick himself, for instance, when Johnstone uttered his first silly commonplace to her with his peculiar non-pronunciation of the letter R, Fanny established a lisp directly, and it was as much as her sister Mrs. Egan could do to keep her countenance as Fanny went on slaughtering S's as fast as Johnstone ruined R's.

"I'll twouble you for a little mo' queam," said Johnstone, holding forth his cup and saucer with an affected air.

"Perhaps you'd like thum more thcugar," lisped Fanny lifting the sugar-tongs with an exquisite curl of her little finger.