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And instead of paying their rents quietly, when the half-year

day 's come round, Enroll themselves in Ribbon-clubs and hold possession of the

ground: And if any one the courage has to ask for what 's his own, Pop! through his back a bullet goes, or at his head a stone; Or it 's maybe when the family 's just sitting down to tea,

slugs patter In through the parlour window-sash, and cups and saucers

shatter.

We were hard put to it, I freely own, both myself and the

Archbishop, But the true cause of all this trouble in the long run we did

fish up:

THE TENANTS SHOOT THEIR LANDLORDS, AND REFUSE TO PAY THEIR RENT, JUST BECAUSE THEY HAVE NO WORKHOUSES TO GO INTO WHEN ALL THEIR

MONEY 'S SPENT.

Now if by chance there is any one so dull as not to understand That this, and this alone, 's the true cause of all the troubles

of the land, Let him only read the Answer your Excellencies lately wrote To the magistrates of the county where Lord Norbury was shot, And Mr. Biddulph wounded, in the broad, high noon of day, Men, women, and children looking on, just as if it were a play.

But though your Answer, my Lords Justices, makes it seem

to me as clear As moonshine, the moonshiniest night in Ireland round the year, That want of workhouses is the cause of all the sad ills we

endure, And the building of workhouses the only sure and certain cure, Yet I'm bold to tell your Lordships in as plain words as I can, When our workhouses are finished, we'll be just where we

began.

It isn't that the landlords won't have to pay the rates, Which will swallow up the quarter or the half of their estates, - On the average, I mean, for, when the Union 's poor, The Guardians must the whole take, and the Act allows them,

to be sure But then the tenant to pay his rent won't have one penny more, And tenant-ejecting and landlord-shooting will go on just as

heretofore, And one of your Excellencies may the first be, to be shot, Which, as a friend and fellow land-holder, I pray God he

may not.

But God is good, I need not tell you, my most excellent Lords

Justices, And if you but make haste enough with the building of the

workhouses, And to put the Act in force, which to the Guardians of the poor Assigns over our estates, you will at once secure Not our precious lives alone, but whatever residue of our estates May be remaining over for us landlords, after payment of

the rates; And in cases where there 's nothing left, there will still be

refuge sure For the landlords, in the work houses, as for any other poor. And now until the next time, my Lords Justices, adieu! Your most obedient servant, JAMES LENNOX WILLIAM NAPER

OF LOUGHCREW.

(FITZWILLIAM-SQUARE, DUBLIN, Nov. 1840.]

TO THE RIVER GRIESE.

SWEETLY unconscious flows thy gentle stream,

Nor know'st thou aught of joy or misery;
But I, a weary traveller through life's dream,

Must taste of joy and woe each strange extremity.

How dear to me those banks in silence clipt

And gently pressed by thy unheeding tide!
How dear those trees in thy soft splendors dipt,

Bending in fondness from thy parent side!

But thou, no lover's rapture speeds thy pace,

This sacred spot approaching from afar;
No lover's anguish bids thee stay to trace

The last faint lines, ere fate's eternal bar

I must go,

For ever close upon thee

But not, like thee, indifferent. Turn, my feet;
Joyous ye came - unwilling now, and slow:

Farewell, ye hallowed haunts, Elizabeth's* retreat. (Written in BALLITORE (Co. KILDARE), June 1818, in Mary Leadbeater's CONTENTS.

garden on the Griese, being the author's first rencontre with one of the Nine. See page 181.)

* Formerly the residence of Miss Elizabeth Smith, and still known by the name of The Retreat. See Fragments of the late Elizabeth Smith.

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I walked, in the sun, by the side of a wood .
The poet must know how to sing ..'.
At the kernel to get, thou must first break the shell
Never spider span so fine.
My Polly is a paladin
IN A LADY'S ALBUM .
And now I know thy bones lie here, vain poet
One sunny April morning we were sauntering
The painting, to live long, must be a poem
Which was the better poet of the two
“Proud, boastful Man," 'twas thus the herring said
My book 's the wide, wide, open field
“Of the worst of bad things still some use may be made”
IN A LADY'S ALBUM.
MOSLEM WINE - DRINKER'S CATCH
INSCRIPTION FOR SAADI'S TOMB IN SCHIRAZ
Because I am nobody, turn not, I beg
THE ARAB
THE DEAD DOG. A PERSIAN FABLE
TO HOFRATH J. CH. DÖLL, ON OUR LEAVING CARLSRUHE, May 27, 1856
Elisa begged I'd go to her
I bade farewell to Antoinette
FOR THE BUST OF MONS. GIAMBATTISTA SARTORI CANOVA
IN THE ALBUM AT POSSAGNO, August 1856.
To SIGNORA ELISA PAROLINI, ON OUR LEAVING BASSANO.
POET AND ALBUM.
TO DON PIETRO ABATE BONVICINI
TO SIGNOR FRANCESCO AMBROSI OF BORGO IN THE VAL SUGANA
Round this table, bý this lámp's light
Fare thee well! I don't complain that
I saw, in Dresden, on a windy day
God bless the light, the best thing God e'er made
A little nearer, and a little nearer
Gladly I'd go with my letter
'Twas the heat of the battle at Inkermann
To T. N. COLE ESQ.
TO FRÄULEIN MINNA GEMMEL OF MARIENWERDER
IN POWERS' STUDIO, FLORENCE, Sept. 17, 1857
IN POWERS' STUDIO, FLORENCE, Sept. 20, 1857
"You make all your books too long, sir,"
With doses small of hellebore, beginning
So father Adam was his own born son
Near ancient Rome there was a place they called
FOR THE TITLE - PAGE OF MY BOOK .
It happened once, in ancient Rome's Arena
The sterling gold coin, issued from the mint

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