"There is a flow'r I dearly love, and which with pride I bear Upon my head, or next my heart, none with it can compare; It is the Orange Lily, to which glorious memories cling, Of Derry, Boyne, or Aughrim, 'twill the recollection bring. Some roots I have procured to plant, and when their flow'rs appear, I'll hail them as the emblems of the cause I hold most dear." Thus spoke a sturdy Northern lad. A Munster boy was nigh, And heard the words which, he conceived, an insult did imply. "I hate, I loathe your gaudy flow'r," disdainfully he cried; "It shall not grow, its tints to show, wherever I abide. Your lily shall be trampled if it ever meets my sight." The blood of both was thus aroused and eager for a fight; An aged man reproved them, bade their bitter taunts to cease, And then suggested that his taste each might indulge in peace. "My friend, I'll plant your lily, let its color glad your eyes, No hateful green shall intervene to rival its rich dyes. There's space enough throughout the land where those who love to see The verdant hue may freely view the sod, the shrub, the tree." The old man took the lily roots entrusted to his care, With which the rival youths agreed no more to interfere. In genial soil, of aspect warm, at once he planted them, But as each primal leaf arose he nipp'd it from the stem. He said the green must not appear the orange flow'r beside, The blossom bright should meet the sight in undisputed pride. But then the blossom, lone and bare, without the friendly aid Of leaves to shield its rising stem soon wither'd and decay'd. The abortive root unto the youths the old man then display'd. "Both colors are essential to the perfect flow'r," he said. "You cannot have the orange if the green you take away, The plant affords a lesson--may it reach your hearts, I pray." METRICAL ATTEMPTS. I shall venture to offer two or three more productions to the readers of these pages. If my metrical attempts are considered even below mediocrity, they will serve to make others more acceptable. The coarse, homely attire of the peasant is a foil tending strongly to enhance admiration for the courtly costumes of the upper classes; and the weeds that blossom in our hedgerows, or on the sides of our highways, render us unconsciously more appreciative of the floral beauties displayed in the gardens of aristocratic mansions. My own recollections enable me to compare much of the past with the present, and render me desirous of endeavouring to describe some of the changes which have occurred since-- LONG AGO. Yon tree whose massive timber The storms assail in vain, I've seen a sapling limber A child might rend in twain; And in the churchyard yonder, It's planter's lying low, Whilst on its growth I ponder, And think of LONG AGO.