The landlady can never make the lodgers in that room content, They never stay, beyond the day that she has asked them for the rent, But men are not so wicked now; they will not swear an oath for pelf. They're much about the same as you--almost exactly like myself. A GUN SOLO. [Illustration] BY a lonely dried up fountain, In a purple Irish mountain, My talk was interesting, With a female of that spot, When she sprang from off my knees; For rasping thro' the trees, A bullet stopped our jesting, I started at the shot! "It's my husband's gun!" she murmured, I sauntered from the spot!! [Illustration: THE SEMI-GRAND PIANO] I WAS walking thro' the darkness of The pleasant town of Birr, 'Twas late, and very lonely, You could not hear a stir When turning round a corner, I heard the music sweet, Of a semi-grand piano, and a singing down the street. You will say it's not uncommon to hear the pleasant sound, Of a semi-grand piano upon a midnight round, But O the silver music, of the voice that mingled there, With the semi-grand piano, was wonderful, and rare! I waited on in rapture, and harkened to the strain, I paused until she finished, and commenced the song again, And O the magic pathos, of her voice was such, I say'd "I'll warble when she's finished, an Italian serenade." And so anon I warbled a heart bewitching thrill, All in the friendly darkness, beneath her window sill, I thought it might remind her, of the troubadours of old, Tho' 'twasn't too romantic, for the night was dev'lish cold! It wasn't all Italian, but it was much the same, It was a sweet impromptu, a song without a name, And if it doesn't bore you, I'll sing you just a verse, You'll say it might be better; but I think it might be worse. "O lady who was singing With happy semi-grand, A troubadour is waiting, He's asking for your hand, Carrissima! Mia! Agrah! From other lands I roam, Be ready with the trousseau, I'll come, and take you home! Recordar, how I love you, This lay of mine will tell, O willow! willow! wirrasthrue! Mavrone! I love you well! L'ami l'amo l'amantibus Ri foldherando dum, Mein fraulein cushla bawn agrah! Get up your traps, and come!" It wasn't all Italian, this song of mine you see, It wasn't like a tarantelle; 'twasn't like a glee, 'Twas thought of on the spur, its thus that brightest songs are made, I think that you'll agree with me, 'twas a compo serenade. I felt the song was working, 'twas amorous, and new, 'Twas making an impression, a thing I always do, As tho' the middle ages, were back again in Birr, Hark! hark behind her lattice, at last I heard a stir!