But the priest has done more, for his hands he unbound, And with one daring spring Jim has leaped to the ground; Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash goes the sabres; He’s not down! he’s alive still! now stand to him, neighbours.  Through the smoke and the horses he’s into the crowd,—­ By heaven he’s free!—­than thunder more loud, By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken—­ One shout that the dead of the world might awaken.  Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, But if you want hangin’, it’s yourself you must hang; To-night he’ll be sleeping in Atherloe Glin, An’ the divil’s in the dice if you catch him ag’in.—­ The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, An’ Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat; An’ the sheriffs were both of them punished severely, An’ fined like the divil for bein’ done fairly.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

Sawtan i’ the law court
Wis once, sae I’ve heard tell—­
“Oh! but hame is hamely!”
Quo’ Sawtan to himsel.’

THE CANE-BOTTOM’D CHAIR.

BY W.M.  THACKERAY.

     In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
     And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
     Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
     I’ve a snug little kingdom up four pairs of stairs.

     To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
     But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;
     And the view I behold on a sunshiny day
     Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

     This snug little chamber is cramm’d in all nooks
     With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,
     And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,
     Crack’d bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

     Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack’d),
     Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;
     A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;
     What matter? ’tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

     No better divan need the Sultan require,
     Than the creaking old sofa, that basks by the fire;
     And ’tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
     From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

     That praying-rug came from a Turcoman’s camp;
     By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
     A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn: 
     ’Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

     Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,
     Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;
     As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie
     This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

     But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
     There’s one that I love and I cherish the best: 
     For the finest of couches that’s padded with hair
     I never would change thee, my cane-bottom’d chair.