BY ONE OF THE "FINEST PISANTRY IN THE WORLD." We have received the following genuine "Irish version" of a scene from and for the times, from our own peculiar and poetic correspondent:-- "DEAR PUNCH,-- I beg pardon that yoursilf I'm now troublin, But I must let you know what I just seen in Dublin; There Daniel O'Connell,--Mayor and great agitator,-- Has been making a Judy of himself, the poor unhappy cratur. At his time of life, too! tare and ounds its mighty shocking! He shoved ach of his big legs into a span bran new silk stocking: How the divil them calves by any manes was thrust in, Is a mistery to ev'ry one, without them black silks busting. And instead of a dacent trousers hanging to his suspenders, He has button'd-up one-half of him in a pair of short knee-enders. Now, Punch, on your oath, did you ever hear the likes o' that? But oh, houly Paul, if you only seen his big cock'd hat, Stuck up on the top of his jazy;--a mighty illegant thatch, With hair like young Deaf Burke's, all rushing up to the scratch, You must have been divarted; and, Jewil, then he wore A thund'ring big Taglioni-cut purple velvet _roquelore_. And who but Misther Dan cut it fat in all his pride, Cover'd over with white favors, like a gentle blushing bride; And wasn't he follow'd by all the blackguards for his tail, Shouting out for their lives, 'Success to Dan O'Connell and Rapale.' But the Old Corporation has behaved mighty low and mane, As they wouldn't lend him the loan of the ancient raal goold chain, Nor the collar; as they said they thought (divil burn 'em), If they'd done so, it was probable Dan never would return 'em. But, good-bye, I must be off,--he's gone to take the chair! So my love to Mrs. Punch, and no more about the Mayor." * * * * * PUNCH'S PAEAN TO THE PRINCELET. Huzza! we've a little prince at last, A roaring Royal boy; And all day long the booming bells Have rung their peals of joy. And the little park-guns have blazed away, And made a tremendous noise, Whilst the air hath been fill'd since eleven o'clock With the shouts of little boys; And we have taken our little bell, And rattled and laugh'd, and sang as well, Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella! Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla! Our little Prince will be daintily swathed, And laid on a bed of down, Whilst his cradle will stand 'neath a canopy That is deck'd with a golden crown. O, we trust when his Queenly Mother sees Her Princely boy at rest, She will think of the helpless pauper babe That lies at a milkless breast! And then we will rattle our little bell. And shout and laugh, and sing as well-- Roo-too-tooit! Shallabella! Life to the Prince! Fallalderalla!