Dówn the street toward mý hall - doór
When I turn my fáce once more,
Who so joyful then as Tray?
Try if you can make him stáy.

Tó my door got, if bell-ring
Does not quickly sóme one bring,
You would pity Tray's hard case,
Droóping tail and ruéful fáce.

Ópened when the door at lást,
Tray bolts maid and máster pást,
Ánd, ere wéll hung up my hát,
Ón the hearthrug outstretched flát

Liés with muzzle on the ground,
Ánd half closed eye, watching round,
While prepáratives dúly máde -
Crúmbcloth spread and táble laíd

Hérald neár approaching Threé,
Hoúr of weight to Tray and mé;
Weighty hoúr to mé and Tráy,
Túrning-point of the whole day.

Súch our forenoons; would you knów
Íf our afternoóns pass só,

Wórse or better; Í can't say

Thére 's much difference is there, Tray?

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY (IRELAND); April 8, 1855.

No more questions, good friend, no more questions, I práy; I'd be chooser myself what to say or not say;

With your 'Who?' 'Which?' and 'Whát?' 'How?' 'When?' 'Wherefore?' and 'Why?'

You but shut my heart clóser, my tongue tighter tié;
Nay, you 've nó one to bláme but yourself, if with lying
And quibbling and shúffling I pay back your prýing.

So deal with me fairly and give quid pro quo

And your own thoughts first tell me, if my thoughts you'd knów.

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY; March 30, 1855.

TIS the little boy láshing his tóp in the court;
With all his whole heart he 's intént on his spórt,
And as his top mérrily spíns round and roúnd,
In the world where 's a happier soúl to be found?

I'll go down to the court and the whole livelong day
At whip-my-top there with that happy boy pláy;
Give me tóp and lash hére, and let him take who will
My grown man's wealth, hónors, strength, wisdom, and skill.

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY; May 6, 1855.

Ás

in Tibur's pleasant villa

Strólled Mecénas ónce with Horace,
"Whát can be the reáson, poet,"
Said Mecénas cávaliérly,

"That the adjective must álways
Tó the noún be só obséquious;
Follow all its whims and húmors,
Trót beside it like a spániel?"

"I don't knów, heard never reason,"
Answered Hórace, his head sháking.
"Whát! not knów?" replied Mecénas,
“I thought poets knew all such things."

"Nów I récolléct," said Hórace

With an árch smile, "mý schoolmaster
Úsed to say that noún was pátron,
Ádjective, poor dévil! póet."

Walking from ZELL to SIMMERN, RHENISH PRUSSIA; July 9, 1855.

'TWAS on the First of January early in the morning

I paid my Love a vísit, and a happy new year wished her; She gave me her right hand and said she was glad to seé me→ Ah! little thought I thén, she was entering on her last year.

"Twas on the First of Fébruary, a cold and snowy morning, I paid my Love a visit and asked her was she quite well: — "I've got a little cough," said she, "but I don't think anything of it;

Coughs and colds are going, and I hope I 'll soon be better."

'Twas on the First of Márch and a bitter wind was blowing; I paid my Love a vísit, and asked her was she bétter: "I'm not much better yét," said she, "and the cough is sticking to me,

But when the weather sóftens I don't doubt I'll be better."

'Twas on the First of April when a blink of sun was gleaming Between two chilly showers, I paid my Love a vísit; When she saw me her eye brightened and she said she 'd soon be finely,

But I thought she didn't look well and I had a sad foreboding.

"Twas ón delicious Máy-day I paid my Love a visit;

The sky was clear, the air was soft, the birds were gaily sínging,

But my Love her pallid cheek upon her hand was leáning, And I didn't ask her how she was, for I saw it but too clearly.

"Twas on the First of leáfy June I paid my Love a vísit; When she saw me from the window she waved her hand to greét me,

And I entered the house joyful, thinking she was surely better, But when I came in neár her I saw how she was wásting.

On the First of warm Julý I paid my Love a vísit;
She was chilly cold and trémbling, with her shawl wrapt
close about her,

For the fever fit was ón her, and insidious Hectic búsy
Sápping poor besiéged Life's weak and tottering fortress.

Upon the First of August I paid my Love a vísit;
She was laid upon the sófa, and her hand was dry and búrning;
She bade me kindly wélcome, and I sat down there beside her,
But rose and came away straight, for she talked to me of dying.

Upón September First I paid my Love a visit; She raised her head upon the pillow and looked out on the reápers:

"How pleasant it 's out there," said she, "and yet I'm still