One of the strangest anomalies in color known is to be observed at Mobile and other places on the Southern coast, where black men are frequently Bay pilots. * * * * * KING OAKEY THE FIRST, OF IRELAND. BY ALDERMAN ROONEY. HOORAH! the dawn begins to break, Ould Ireland's sons at last awake, And from their sowls the shackles shake That long have kept them under. Arise, then, brave Phoenicians all, Obey your noble gineral's call; From off the steps of City Hall You hear his voice of thunder! O OAKEY, darlin'! you're the wan To take ould Erin by the han'; We'll pummel the Britishers every man, And make you King of Ireland! Go rowl the news across the say, Of how we spint the glorious day, A hundred thousand on Broadway, And more upon the Island. Go tell the lords in Parlamint, Of how Saint PATRICK'S day was spint, And see if they don't reduce the rint On every fut of dry land. O OAKEY, darlin'! you're the wan To take ould Erin by the han'; We'll pummel the Britishers every man, And make you King of Ireland! Go tell them how you raised the flag, The green above their crimson rag, And should they talk of Yankee brag, We'll tache them how to rue it. Go tell them how all day you stud, Wid both your nate feet in the mud, As if it had been Saxon blood And you wor fightin' thro' it! O OAKEY, darlin'! you're the wan Who've tuk ould Erin by the han'; We'll pummel the Britishers every man. And make you King of Ireland! Your innimies say you're not sincere, Nor care a straw for Irish here, Unless whin 'lection time is near, And Irish votes are wanted. But don't you throuble yourself at all, We'll drive your innimies to the wall; We know you better, OAKEY HALL, Than take sich stuff for granted. No! OAKEY, darlin', you're the wan Who've tuk ould Erin by the han'; We'll pummel the Britishers every man, And make you King of Ireland! They say you want to be Mayor once more, And after that, to be Governore-- As if you wouldn't be needed before, To lade the Faynians over. And they say you raise this hullabaloo, 'Bout Ireland's wrongs, and Cuba's too, That Irish fools might cotton to you, And you might sit in clover. But no! for OAKEY, you're the wan That tuk ould Erin by the han'; We'll pummel the Britishers every man, And make you King of Ireland!