Downing-street was in a state of great activity all yesterday, and people were passing to and fro repeatedly.  This excitement is generally believed to be connected with nothing particular.  We have our own impression on the subject, but as disclosures would be premature, we purposely forbear making any.  We can only say, at present, that Sir Robert Peel continues to hold the office of Prime Minister.

* * * * *

THE BROTH OF A BOY.

AN IRISH LYRIC.

AIR,—­I’m the boy for bewitching them

  Whisht, ye divils, now can’t you be aisy,
    Like a cat whin she’s licking the crame. 
  And I’ll sing ye a song just to plase you,
    About myself, Dermot Macshane. 
  You’ll own, whin I’ve tould ye my story. 
    And the janius adorning my race,
  Although I’ve no brass in my pocket,
    Mushagra!  I’ve got lots in my face. 
      For in rainy or sunshiny weather,
        I’m full of good whiskey and joy;
      And take me in parts altogether,
        By the pow’rs I’m a broth of a boy.

  I was sint on the mighty world one day,
    Like a squeaking pig out of a sack;
  And, och, murder! although it was Sunday,
    Without a clane shirt to my back. 
  But my mother died while I was sucking,
    And larning for whiskey to squall,
  Leaving me a dead cow, and a stocking
    Brimful of—­just nothing at all. 
      But in rainy, &c.

  My ancistors, who were all famous
    At Donnybrook, got a great name: 
  My aunt she sould famous good whiskey—­
    I’m famous for drinking that same. 
  And I’m famous, like Master Adonis,
    With his head full of nothing but curls,
  For breaking the heads of the boys, sirs,
    And breaking the hearts of the girls. 
      For in rainy, &c.

  Och!  I trace my discint up to Adam,
    Who was once parish priest in Kildare;
  And uncle, I think, to King David,
    That peopled the county of Clare. 
  Sure his heart was as light as a feather,
    Till his wife threw small beer on his joy
  By falling in love with a pippin,
    Which intirely murder’d the boy. 
      For in rainy, &c.

  A fine architict was my father,
    As ever walk’d over the sea;
  He built Teddy Murphy’s mud cabin—­
    And didn’t he likewise build me? 
  Sure, he built him an illigant pigstye,
    That made all the Munster boys stare. 
  Besides a great many fine castles—­
    But, bad luck,—­they were all in the air. 
      For in rainy, &c.

  Though I’d scorn to be rude to a lady,
    Miss Fortune and I can’t agree;
  So I flew without wings from green Erin—­
    Is there anything green about me? 
  While blest with this stock of fine spirits,
    At care, faith, my fingers I’ll snap;
  I’m as rich as a Jew without money,
    And free as a mouse in a trap. 
      For in rainy, &c.