beating; so I ran away as fast as I could, and I wouldn't go back again for half Cork.'

"A likely story indeed,' says the priest; you know well enough 'tis no such thing, but the glass I gave you, and you going, that made you drunk, you vagabond, and so you fell down and cut yourself and couldn't bring the pig.'

"May I never see Grenough Chapel again, if every word I told your reverence wasn't as true as the sun,' says the boy; but come yourself with me, and see if I won't bring the pig home, if you'll only give her into my two hands.'

"I will,' says the priest, and away they went to the barn; but the moment he put a hand on the pig, up jumped Kelleher, from among the straw, and gave the priest such a beating as he never got before or since. Away he went without the pig surely, and the boy after him, roaring ten thousand murders. Poor Kelleher, you may be certain, was tired enough after this, so down he lay, and slept as sound as a top till late next morning, which happened to be a Sunday, so that when he got up and went into his own house, he found every one was gone to mass, except an old woman who was left minding the place, and she, instead of getting him his breakfast as he desired, ran away out of the house screeching for the bare life, at the sight of the drownded man walking in to her.

"So Kelleher had to make out breakfast for himself as well as he could; and when he was done, away he goes to mass, thinking to find all the people there before him, and learn some account of how things had been

going on at home. He was walking smartly along, when who should he almost overtake, but his ould neighbours, Jack Harty and Miles Mahony. 'Good morrow, Jack,' says Paddy; Can't you stop for a body, Miles?' says he; but when they looked back at the sound of his voice, and saw who they had after them, they took to their scrapers and ran as fast as their legs would carry them, thinking all the time it was a ghost was at their heels.

"Kelleher thought it was running to overtake mass they were, so he ran too, for fear he'd be late, which made them run the faster; and sure enough they never stopped or staid, till they got into the chapel and up to the priest where he was standing at the altar.

"Why, boys,' says the priest, what's the matter with ye?

"Oh, your reverence!' says one, and 'Oh, your reverence,' says the other, "'Tis Kelleher's ghost that's running after us, and here he is in.'

"Murder alive!' roared the priest, 'tis me he wants and not you; so if he's in, I'll be out," and flinging off his vestments, away with him through the side door of the chapel, and the people after him: he never stopped to draw breath till he got to the top of a hill a good mile or better from the chapel, and there he begun to say mass as fast as he could, for fear of the ghost. But it was Murty Mulcahy, the red haired tailor, was in the pucker when he saw Kelleher; he roared like a bull, and went clean out of the country entirely, and never came back again.

"To be sure, Kelleher thought nothing at all, but

they were all out of their senses, every mother's son of them, till his ould crony Tom Barret, seeing at last that he wasn't a ghost, came up to him and tould him how they all thought they buried him a fortnight before.

"So Kelleher went home to his own house, and his wife was kind and quiet of tongue; and the priest ever after was as civil to him as may be, and all for fear he'd spake about the fat pig."

THE POET.

SAY, who is independent?-He enrolled

Mid grandeur's servitors; proud to emboss His chains or he who burrows 'mid the dross, Gnome-like, which men first buy, then worship-gold? Or he, who for ambition all hath sold,

And feverously grasps at a splendid loss,

To whom in vain her stores may Nature toss,

Her bosom open, and her eye unfold?

The POET alone is free. For him all time

Is fortunate all Nature is his dower; Unmoved amid the change of Fate and TideHis eye doth weary not, nor want-Sublime, His now is ever.-Like that eastern flower,

Living upon Heaven's breath, and nought beside.

T. D.

NEWSTEAD ABBEY.

THOU wert well known, Newstead of old,
When England, with her clothyard shaft,
Won kingdoms, and as blythe as bold,
Drank her brown ale and laught.
Beneath thy broad and ancient oak,
Her wassail shout she merrily woke,
And with white hand and welcome glance,
Called out Will Scarlett to the dance;
With Will, the gallant and the leal,
Came Little John, as true as steel,
And Allan of the dale; a score

Of lads in Lincoln green, and more,
Bestirred them, till that shaking tree
Dropt acorns to their games and glee.
Whilst Robin Hood, to mend their cheer,
A sharp shaft sent to seek the deer,
And Lincoln's prelate quaking stood,
And blest the knaves of blithe Sherwood.