No, ULICK, my boy, rise up to our joy, An' make a clane sweep ov the crowd Of tinkerin tools, an' blundherin fools, That put your wits undher a cloud. Rise up in your might, an' sthrike for the right! Let England an' Spain hear us talk; Give FISH his conjay, an' ROONEY will stay; You'll then see who's cock ov the walk! Arrah what do you mane at all? Lave Britain alone; if she won't pay, mavrone, She's puttin' her head into debt. If I know the books, the way the thing looks, She'll pay us, wid intherest, yet! Ay, faith he did say, so wise in his day-- That noble ould Graycian, PHILANDER-- That sauce for the goose, if well kept for use, Was just as good sauce for the gandher! Arrah what did he mane at all? But Spain, the ould wulf, for her tricks in the Gulf, Her robbery, murdher, and worse, _Her_ debt, she must see, is put down C.O.D., Wid Cuba relaysed from her curse. Ay, FISH, you may sweat, an' SUMNER may threat, An' burst his crack'd head in the row; The People have spoke, that's fire an' not smoke! An' this must be finished, an' now. Arrah what do you mane at all? Och! ULICK, awake, for Liberty's sake! If not for your ROONEY, asthore; The Godiss is here, but thrimbles wid fear Ov the cowld-blooded Thing at the doore. She sez that your name a by-word of shame Will be to the nations onborn, If you lie there anmov'd whilst the flag that you lov'd Is flouted by Spaniards wid scorn. Arrah what do you mane at all? She sez, an' wid grief, her love for the chief, That fought neath her bannir so long, Will turn into hate, that will cling to the fate Ov him who now sides wid the wrong. She sez ov all woes that misery knows, The grief ov the wronger's the worst Who houlds back his ban' from a sufferin' lan' An' laves her to tyrants accurs'd! Arrah what do you mane at all? Ah! _that_ stirs your blood; I thought that it wud. Your rizin', me bouchal; it's done! Go on wid your pray'rs! I'm kickin' down-stairs This ould Spanish mack'rel, for fun. Sweet Liberty here, and Cuba, my dear! You'll stay for the bite an' the sup? An' pardon my joy; since I've woke up the boy I don't know what ind ov me's up! Arrah what did he mane at all? * * * * * Travellers' Tales. No one now believes that DR. LIVINGSTONE was burnt for sorcery. The originator of the report could have made a more plausible story by asserting that LIVINGSTONE refused to marry the daughter of an African chief, and was consequently put to death. This would have been strictly in accordance with the customs of the African aristocracy, and would also have called forth general admiration for the man who preferred to burn rather than to marry. * * * * * City Hamlets vs. Rural Ditto.