"My warriors I enrolled, They rallied round their lord; And cheafs in council old I summoned to the board-- Wise Doheny and Duffy bold, And Meagher of the Sword. "I stood on Slievenamaun, They came with pikes and bills; They gathered in the dawn, Like mist upon the hills, And rushed adown the mountain side Like twenty thousand rills. "Their fortress we assail; Hurroo! my boys, hurroo! The bloody Saxons quail To hear the wild Shaloo: Strike, and prevail, proud Innesfail, O'Brine aboo, aboo! "Our people they defied; They shot at 'em like savages, Their bloody guns they plied With sanguinary ravages: Hide, blushing Glory, hide That day among the cabbages! "And so no more I'll say, But ask your Mussy great. And humbly sing and pray, Your Majesty's poor Wait: Your Smith O'Brine in 'Forty-nine Will blush for 'Forty-eight." LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.* BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOTGUARDS (BLUE). I paced upon my beat With steady step and slow, All huppandownd of Ranelagh Street: Ran'lagh St. Pimlico. While marching huppandownd Upon that fair May morn, Beold the booming cannings sound, A royal child is born! The Ministers of State Then presnly I sor, They gallops to the Pallis gate, In carridges and for. With anxious looks intent, Before the gate they stop, There comes the good Lord President, And there the Archbishopp. Lord John he next elights; And who comes here in haste? 'Tis the ero of one underd fights, The caudle for to taste. Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss, Towards them steps with joy; Says the brave old Duke, "Come tell to us, Is it a gal or a boy?" Says Mrs. L. to the Duke, "Your Grace, it is A PRINCE." And at that nuss's bold rebuke, He did both laugh and wince. He vews with pleasant look This pooty flower of May, Then, says the wenarable Duke, "Egad, it's my buthday." By memory backwards borne, Peraps his thoughts did stray To that old place where he was born, Upon the first of May. Perhaps he did recal The ancient towers of Trim; And County Meath and Dangan Hall They did rewisit him. I phansy of him so His good old thoughts employin'; Fourscore years and one ago Beside the flowin' Boyne. His father praps he sees, Most Musicle of Lords, A playing maddrigles and glees Upon the Arpsicords. Jest phansy this old Ero Upon his mother's knee! Did ever lady in this land Ave greater sons than she? And I shoudn be surprize While this was in his mind, If a drop there twinkled in his eyes Of unfamiliar brind. . . . . . To Hapsly Ouse next day Drives up a Broosh and for, A gracious prince sits in that Shay (I mention him with Hor!)