Off, then, went the boat, at first very pleasantly, Smoothly, and so forth, but after a while It swayed and it swagged this way and that way, and presently Chest after chest, and pile after pile, Of the little folks’ goods began tossing and rolling, And pitching like fun, beyond fairy controlling! O, Mab! if the hubbub was great before, It was now some two or three million times more; Crash went the wee crocks, and the clocks, and the locks, Of each little wee box were stove in by hard knocks; And then there were oaths, and prayers, and cries— “Take care!”—“See there!”—“Oh, dear! my eyes!” “I am killed!”—“I am drowned!”—with groans and sighs; Till to land they drew; “Yeo hoe! Pull to! Tiller-rope, thro’ and thro’!” And all’s right anew. V. “Now, jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities, ... Eh! what is this? Where are they at all? Where are they and where are their tiny commodities? Well! as I live!” He looks blank as a wall, The poor Ferryman! Round him, and round him he gazes, But only gets deeplier lost in the mazes Of utter bewilderment! All, all are gone— And he stands alone, Like a statue of stone, In a doldrum of wonder. He turns to steer, And a tinkling laugh salutes his ear With other odd sounds—“Ha! ha! ha! ha! Tol, lol; zid, ziddle—quee, quee—bah! bah! Fizzigigiggidy! phse! sha! sha!” “O, ye thieves, ye thieves! ye rascally thieves!” The good man cries. He turns to his pitcher, And there, alas! to his horror perceives, That the little folks’ mode of making him richer Had been to pay with him—withered leaves! CLARENCE MANGAN. THUBBER-NA-SHIE; OR, THE FAIRY WELL. [Amongst the many old and fanciful superstitions embodied in the traditions of our peasantry, some of the most poetical are those connected with spring wells, which in Ireland have been invested with something of a sacred character ever since the days of Druidical worship. It is in some parts of the country an article of popular belief, that the desecration of a spring by any unworthy use is followed invariably by some misfortune to the offender; and that the well itself, which is regarded as the source of fruitfulness and prosperity, moves altogether out of the fields in which the violation has been committed.—_Dublin University Magazine_, vol. viii., p. 449.] Oh! Peggy Bawn was innocent, And wild as any roe; Her cheek was like the summer rose, Her neck was like the snow: And every eye was in her head So beautiful and bright, You’d almost think they’d light her through Glencarrigy by night. Among the hills and mountains, Above her mother’s home, The long and weary summer day Young Peggy Blake would roam;