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No more questions, good friend, no more questions, I práy;
I'd be chooser mysélf what to say or not sáy;
With your "Who? Which?' and "Whát?' 'How?' "When ?'

"Wherefore ?' and “Whý?'
You but shút my heart clúser, my tongue tighter tié;
Nay, you ’ve no one to bláme but yourself, if with lýing
And quibbling and shuffling I páy 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 top in the court;
With áll his whole heárt he's intent on his sport,
And ás his top mérrily spíns round and round,
In the world where 's a háppier soúl to be found ?

I 'll go down to the court and the whole livelong dáy
At whip-my-top thére with that happy boy pláy;
Give me tóp and lash here, and let hím take who will
My grówn man's wealth, honors, strength, wisdom, and skill.


Ás in Tíbur's pleasant villa
Strolled Mecenas once with Hórace,
“What can be the reason, poet,”
Said Mecenas cávaliérly,

“Thát the adjective must always
To the noún be só obsequious;
Follow áll its whíms and húmors,
Trót beside it líke a spániel ?”

«I don't know, heard never reason,
Ánswered Hórace, his head sháking.
“Whát! not know?” repliéd Mecenas,
“I thought poets knew all such things.”

“Now I récolléct," said Hórace
With an árch smile, “my schoolmáster
Úsed to say that noún was pátron,
Adjective, poor dévil! poet.”

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

"TWAS on the First of Jánuary early in the morning
I paid my Love a vísit, and a háppy new year wished her;
She gave me her right hand and said she was glad to see me
Ah! little thought I thén, she was entering on her last year.

"Twas on the First of February, a cold and snowy morning, I paid my Love a visit and asked her was she quíte well: I 've got a little cough,” said she, “but I don't think any

thing 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 Ápril 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 on delicious Máy-day I paid my Love a vísit; The sky was clear, the air was soft, the birds were gaily

singing, 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 leafy 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 wasting.

On the First of warm July I paid my Love a vísit;
She was chilly cold and trembling, with her shawl wrapt

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

Upon the First of Aúgust I paid my Love a vísit;
She was laid upon the sófa, and her hand was dry and búrning;
She bade me kindly welcome, 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 vísit;
She raised her head upon the pillow and looked out on the

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

growing weaker, And perhaps” but there she stopped short, for she heard

me sóbbing

Upon October First I paid my Love a visit;
Her cheeks were sunk and pále, with a red spot in the middle:-
“Ah!” said she, “the winter 's neár, for the leaves are falling,

But you 'll think of me in spring when you hear the black

bird whistle."

Upón November First I paid my Love a vísit;
It was a lowering mórning and the rain was drizzling dreáry:
“It will be brighter by and bý,” said I, between my fingers

Her emáciated wrist “Yes, yes,” said she, “in heaven.”

Upón December First when I paid my Love a vísit
I met, 'twas for the first time, no stretched-out hand, no

For she láy there in her shroúd wrapt, more lovely fair than

éver, And if never more to love me, pain to suffer néver.

Upón this First of January, désolate and lonely
I sit here, in the churchyard, watching by my


grave; And if I weep, it's not for hér, for shé 's safe from all sorrow, But for myself behind her left so désolate and lonely.

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