Come, Liberality!—I hail the name, Whether 'tis "all for love," or love for fame— Whether to strike the world is your desire, In printed lists of donors dubbed "Esquire;" Whether to govern in those stately domes Where Want's pale children sigh in vain for homes, And few but those who're blest with wealth and kin, And means to keep them out, can struggle in; Whether you boldly sport your own bank-notes, Or beg about for other people's votes; Whether you fill the presidential chair, Or join the throng because a Lord is there; Or, like some Lords, whose plan is rather funny, Put down your name, but never pay the money. But if, like some, the only certain way To reach your heart does through your stomach lay, Then mount the leek, a true Saint David's son, And let the fund afford a little fun, 'Mid warring knives, and charge of glasses' din, Turn out your purse, and be well lined within. Tough tho' the mutton, as a saddle, there, Like Bardolph, you can eat, and "eat and swear," And doom, with aching teeth and furious looks, The dinner to the sire of all bad cooks.— But now behold, the dishes clear'd and gone, Three dismal men who twine three tunes in one, And send forth sounds, with faces sad to see, Call'd by the chair, "The favour of a Glee."— Appealing lists appal you now, and they Are nail'd for pounds, who screw for pence all day. But hear the sweet applauses of the crowd, When Mister Secretary reads aloud That Smith or Jones has put down One Pound One; Then, if you've luck to get a hat, begone, Unless you longing linger near the spot To hear "Should auld acquaintance be forgot." [Illustration] ST. PATRICK'S DAY. _An Irish Mellow-day._ It was Paddy O'Murrough that lov'd Mistress Casey: In ribbons for her he would squander his pelf; And he swore that without her he'd never be aisy, And sent her big praties to roast for herself. He said she was "Vanus, and Mars, and Apolly," And twenty more goddesses up in de skies: And never tired praising her swate little ankle, And her swate little mouth, and her swate little eyes. Says he, "Let de rest git dere bunches o' roses, And stick 'em so iligant top o' dere head: Och! Nora don't nade sich bamboozlificashin: Her own purty locks is as bright an' as red. "So, Nora, my darlint, now take pity on me— Ochone! but 'tis luv is de terrible smart! An och, bodderashin! 'tis Misther O'Cupid Wid his little shilaly is breakin' my heart!"