“I did not come here like a tame, crawling mouse;
I stand like a man, in my enemy’s house. 
In the field, on the road, Phadrig never knew fear
Of his foemen, and God knows he now scorns it here. 
I ask but your leave, for three minutes or four,
To speak to the girl whom I ne’er may see more.” 
Then he turned to Kathleen, and his voice changed its tone,
For he thought of the days when he called her his own;
And said he, “Kathleen, bawn, is it true what I hear—­
Is this match your free choice, without threat’ning or fear? 
If so, say the word, and I’ll turn and depart—­
Cheated once, but once only, by woman’s false heart.” 
Oh! sorrow and love made the poor girl quite dumb;
She tried hard to speak, but the words wouldn’t come,
For the sound of his voice, as he stood there fornint her,
Struck cold on her heart, like the night-wind in winter,
And the tears in her blue eyes were trembling to flow,
And her cheeks were as pale as the moonbeams on snow. 
Then the heart of bold Phadrig swelled high in its place,
For he knew by one look in that beautiful face,
That though strangers and foemen their pledged hands might sever,
Her heart was still his, and his only, for ever.

Then he lifted his voice, like an eagle’s hoarse call,
And cried out—­“She is mine yet, in spite of ye all.” 
But up jumped O’Hanlon, and a tall chap was he,
And he gazed on bold Phadrig as fierce as could be;
And says he—­“By my fathers, before you go out,
Bold Phadrig Crohoore, you must stand for a bout.” 
Then Phadrig made answer—­“I’ll do my endeavour;”
And with one blow he stretched out O’Hanlon for ever!

Then he caught up his Kathleen, and rushed to the door,
He leaped on his horse, and he swung her before;
And they all were so bothered that not a man stirred
Till the galloping hoofs on the pavement were heard. 
Then up they all started, like bees in a swarm,
And they riz a great shout, like the burst of a storm;
And they ran, and they jumped, and they shouted galore;
But Phadrig or Kathleen they never saw more.

But those days are gone by, and his, too, are o’er,
And the grass it grows over the grave of Crohoore,
For he wouldn’t be aisy or quiet at all;
As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall,
So he took a good pike—­for Phadrig was great—­
And he died for old Ireland in the year ninety-eight.

CUPID’S ARROWS.

BY ELIZA COOK.

Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day,
  And besought him to look at his arrow;
“’Tis useless,” he cried, “you must mend it, I say,
  ’Tisn’t fit to let fly at a sparrow. 
There’s something that’s wrong in the shaft or the dart,
  For it flutters quite false to my aim;
’Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart,
  And the world really jests at my name.