Oh no, I never name my wife But let her lie at rest; Although she used to pull my nose, Now I am truly blest. Each morn for cash she’d worry me, To purchase heavy-wet; And how she stagger’d home at eve I never shall forget. I strove to find in change of scene, A tranquil hour or two, But if, alas, she found me out She’d thump me black and blue. ’Tis true, I now appear no more With eyes as black as jet; But _how the poker she could wield_, _I never can forget_. They hint that she is happy now, In sooth, and so am I, And, as she can return no more ’Twere wrong in me to sigh. When I prepared to bury her And friends and neighbours met, The sort of sorrow I then felt I never can forget. From _Wiseheart’s Merry Songster_. Dublin. ――――:o:―――― I’D BE A BUTTERFLY. I’d be a butterfly born in a bower, Where roses and lilies and violets meet, Roving for ever from flower to flower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I’d never languish for wealth or for power, I’d never sigh to see slaves at my feet; I’d be a butterfly born in a bower, And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet. I’d be a butterfly, &c. Oh! could I pilfer the wand of a Fairy, I’d have a pair of those beautiful wings, Their summer day’s ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose where the nightingale sings; Those who have wealth must be watchful and wary, Power, alas! nought but misery brings. I’d be a butterfly, sportive and airy, Rock’d in a rose where the nightingale sings. I’d be a butterfly, &c. What though you tell me each gay little rover, Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day, Surely ’tis better when summer is over, To die when all fair things are fading away: Some in life’s winter may toil to discover Means of procuring a weary delay. I’d be a butterfly, living a rover, Dying when fair things are fading away, I’d be a butterfly, &c. THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. In 1828 a small volume was printed at Malton, entitled “PSYCHÆ; _or Songs of Butterflies. By T. H. Bayly, attempted in Latin Rhyme by the Rev. Francis Wrangham, M.A., F.R.S. (Archdeacon of the East Riding of York_.”) in which occurs the following admirable Latin version of the above song:――