The duke by law did lose his head,
Through him he sought to do much good;
The man that wrought his master's woe,
By lingering grief, was brought full low.
For when the king did hear him speak,
How basely he the duke did take,
Instead of gold gave him disgrace,
With banishment from place to place.
Thus Banister was forced to beg,
And crave for food with cap and leg;
But few on him would bread bestow
That to his master proved a foe.

Thus wandering in this poor estate,
Repenting his misdeeds too late,
Till, starvéd, he gave up his breath,
By no man pitied at his death.

Both old and young that live not well,
Look to be plagued from heaven or hell:
So have you heard the story then,
Of this great Duke of Buckingham.

OLD BALLAD.

The Furlough: an Irish Anecdote.

NE autumn, many years ago, as I was travelling in Ireland, I was standing one morning at the window of "mine inn," when my attention was attracted by a scene that took place beneath. The Belfast coach was standing at the door, and on the roof, in front, sat a solitary passenger, a fine young fellow, in the uniform of the Connaught Rangers. Below, by the front wheel, stood an old woman, seemingly his mother, a young man, and a younger woman, sister or sweetheart, and they were all earnestly entreating the young soldier to descend from his

seat on the coach.

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"Come down wid ye, Thady," said the old woman; come down, now, to your ould mother. Sure it's flog ye they will, and strip the flesh off your bones. Come down, Thady, darlin'."

"It's honour, mother," was the short reply of the soldier; and,

with clenched hands and set teeth, he took a stiffer posture on the coach.

"Thady, come down! Come down, ye simpleton; come down along wid ye." The tone of the present appeal was more impatient than the last, and the answer was more prompt: "It's honour, brother." And the body of the speaker rose more rigidly erect than ever on the roof.

"Oh, Thady, come down! Sure it's me, your own Kathleen, that bids ye! Come down, or ye'll break the heart of me, Thady, jewel! Come down, then." The poor girl wrung her hands as she said this, and cast a look upward that had a visible effect upon the muscles of the soldier's countenance. There was more tenderness in his tone, but it conveyed the same resolution as before.

"It's honour-honour bright, Kathleen!" And, as if to defend himself from another glance, he fixed his look steadfastly in front, while the renewed entreaties burst from all three in chorus, with the same answer.

"Come down, Thady, honey! Thady, ye fool, come down! Oh, Thady, come down to me!"

"It's honour, mother; it's honour, brother; honour bright, my own Kathleen."

Although the poor fellow was a private, this appeal was so public, that I did not hesitate to go down and inquire into the particulars of the distress. It appeared that he had been home on furlough, to visit his family, and having exceeded, as he thought, the term of his leave, he was going to rejoin his regiment, and to undergo the penalty of his neglect. I asked him when the furlough expired.

"The first of March, your honour. Bad luck to it of all the black days in the world; and here it is, come sudden on me, like a shot."

"The first of March! Why, my good fellow, you have a day to spare, then. The first of March will not be here until tomorrow. It is leap-year: February has twenty-nine days."

The soldier was thunderstruck. "Twenty-nine days is it? You're certain of that same? Oh, mother, mother, all this comes of your ould almanack-a base cratur of a book to be decaven one, after living so long in the family of us."

His first impulse was to cut a caper on the roof of the coach, and to throw up his cap with a loud hurrah. His second was to throw himself into the arms of his Kathleen; and the third was to wring my hand nearly off in acknowledgment.

“It's a happy man I am, your honour, for my word's saved, and all by your honour's manes. Long life to your honour for the same. May ye live a long hundred, and lape years every one of them !"

Meddlesome Matty.

NE ugly trick has often spoiled
The sweetest and the best :
Matilda, though a pleasant child,
One ugly trick possessed,

Which, like a cloud before the skies,
Hid all her better qualities.

Sometimes she'd lift the teapot lid,
To peep at what was in it;
Or tilt the kettle, if you did

But turn your back a minute.
In vain you told her not to touch,
Her trick of meddling grew so much.

Her grandmamma went out one day,
And, by mistake, she laid

Her spectacles and snuff-box gay
Too near the little maid.

“Ah, well,” thought she, "I'll try them on,
As soon as grandmamma is gone."

Forthwith she placed upon her nose

The glasses large and wide;
And looking round, as I suppose,
The snuff-box too she spied.
"Oh! what a pretty box is this;
I'll open it," said little miss.

"I know that grandmamma would say,
'Don't meddle with it, dear ;'
But then she's far enough away,
And no one else is near;
Besides, what can there be amiss
In opening such a box as this?"

So thumb and finger went to work
To move the stubborn lid,
And presently a mighty jerk
The mighty mischief did;
For all at once, ah! woeful case,
The snuff came puffing in her face.

Poor eyes and nose and mouth and chin
A dismal sight presented;
For as the snuff got deeper in,

More deeply she repented.

In vain she ran about for ease-
She could do nothing else but sneeze.

She dashed the spectacles away,
To wipe her tingling eyes,
And as in twenty bits they lay,
Her grandmamma she spies.
"Heyday! and what's the matter now?"
Says grandmamma, with lifted brow.

Matilda, smarting with the pain,
And tingling still and sore,
Made many a promise to refrain
From meddling ever more.
And 'tis a fact, as I have heard,
She ever since has kept her word.

JANE TAYLOR.

The Widow and her Son.

PART I.

URING my residence in the country I used frequently to attend at the old village church, which stood in a country filled with ancient families, and contained, within its old and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations. Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark oaken panelling, all

reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country is so holy in its repose—such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of nature, that every restless passion is chained

down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently, springing up within us—

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky.

But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms beside me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor, decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean, Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society, and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer, habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart, I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir.

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so delightfully situated that it frequently attracted me. I stood on a knoll, round which a stream made a beautiful, bend, and then wound its way through a long extent of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost as aged as itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still, sunny morning, watching two labourers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of the churchyard, where, from the number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow.

While I was thinking about the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell