can't give it ye—

"Risen from the sepulchre of—inactivity;

"And, like owld corpses, dug up from antikity,

"Wandrin' about in all sorts of inikity!!" 1 —

Even you, Judy, true as you are to the Owld Light,

Would have laught, out and out, at this iligant flight

Of that figure of speech called the Blatherumskite.

As for me, tho' a funny thought now and then came to me,

Rage got the betther at last - and small blame to me!

So, slapping my thigh, "by the Powers of Delf,"

1" But she (Popery) is no longer the tenant of the sepulchre of inactivity. She has come from the burial-place, walking forth a monster, as if the spirit of evil had corrupted the carcass of her departed humanity; noxious and noisome, an object of abhorrence and dismay to all who are not leagued with her in iniquity."Report of the Rev. Gentleman's Speech, June 20, in the Record Newspaper.

We may well ask, after reading this and other such reverend ravings, "quis dubitat quin omne sit hoc rationis egestas?"

THESE few brief lines, my reverend friend,

By a safe, private hand I send
(Fearing lest some low Catholic wag
Should pry into the Letter-bag),
To tell you, far as pen can dare
How we, poor errant martyrs, fare;-
Martyrs, not quite to fire and rack,
As Saints were, some few ages back,
But scarce less trying in its way -
To laughter, whereso'er we stray;
To jokes, which Providence mysterious
Permits on men and things so serious,
Lowering the Church still more each
minute,

And injuring our preferment in it.

Just think, how worrying 't is, my friend,
To find, where'er our footsteps bend,
Small jokes, like squibs, around us
whizzing;

And bear the eternal torturing play
Of that great engine of our day,
Unknown to the Inquisition - quiz-
zing!

Your men of thumb-screws and of racks
Aimed at the body their attacks;
But modern torturers, more refined,
Work their machinery on the mind.
Had St. Sebastian had the luck
With me to be a godly rover,
Instead of arrows, he 'd be stuck

With stings of ridicule all over;
And poor St. Lawrence who was killed
By being on a gridiron grilled,
Had he but shared my errant lot,
Instead of grill on gridiron hot,
A moral roasting would have got.
Nor should I (trying as all this is)

Much heed the suffering or the shame— As, like an actor, used to hisses,

I long have known no other fame, But that (as I may own to you, Tho' to the world it would not do,) No hope appears of fortune's beams Shining on any of my schemes; No chance of something more per ann. As supplement to Kellyman; No prospect that, by fierce abuse Of Ireland, I shall e'er induce The rulers of this thinking nation To rid us of Emancipation; To forge anew the severed chain, And bring back Penal Laws again.

The weary Day-God's last retreat is
The breast of silvery-footed Thetis;
And mine, as mighty Love 's my judge,
Shall be the arms of rich Miss Fudge!

Start not, my friend, the tender scheme,

Wild and romantic tho' it seem,
Beyond a parson's fondest dream,
Yet shines, too, with those golden dyes,
So pleasing to a parson's eyes
That only gilding which the Muse
Can not around her sons diffuse; -
Which, whencesoever flows its bliss,
From wealthy Miss or benefice,
To Mortimer indifferent is,
So he can only make it his.
There is but one slight damp I see
Upon this scheme's felicity,
And that is, the fair heroine's claim
That I shall take her family name.
To this (tho' it may look henpeckt),
I can't quite decently object,
Having myself long chosen to shine
Conspicuous in the alias 1 line;
So that henceforth, by wife's decree,
(For Biddy from this point won't
budge)

Your old friend's new address must be
The Rev. Mortimer O' Fudge -
The "O" being kept, that all may see
We're both of ancient family.

Such, friend, nor need the fact amaze you,
My public life's calm Euthanasia.
Thus bid I long farewell to all
The freaks of Exeter's old Hall
Freaks, in grimace, its apes exceeding,
And rivalling its bears in breeding.
Farewell, the platform filled with
preachers -

The prayer given out, as grace,2 by speechers,

1 In the first edition of his Dictionary, Dr. Johnson very significantly exemplified the meaning of the word "alias" by the instance of Mallet, the poet, who had exchanged for this more refined name his original Scotch patronymic, Malloch. "What other proofs he gave [says Johnson] of disrespect to his native country, know not; but it was remarked of him that he was the only Scot whom Scotchmen did not commend." - Life of Mallet.

2 "I think I am acting in unison with the feelings of a Meeting assembled for this solemn

To Miss B. Fudge of Pisgah Place,
One of the chosen, as "heir of grace,"
And likewise heiress of Phil. Fudge,
Esquire, defunct, of Orange Lodge.

Same evening, Miss F. Fudge, 't is hinted

Niece of the above, (whose "Sylvan
Lyre,"

In our Gazette, last week, we printed),

Eloped with Pat. Magan, Esquire.
The fugitives were trackt, some time,
After they 'd left the Aunt's abode,
By scraps of paper, scrawled with rhyme,
Found strewed along the Western
road;-

Some of them, ci-devant curl-papers,
Others, half burnt in lighting tapers.
This clew, however, to their flight,

After some miles was seen no more;
And, from inquiries made last night,
We find they 've reached the Irish
shore.