TAFFY'S ANNIVERSARY.

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."

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!"

'Twas Lent when Pat said so,—but Nora said, "No, Sir;"

She knew 'twas no use at that time to consent;

But by Mothering Sunday Pat found her much softer,

And before Lent was over, he saw her relent.

The day was soon fixed—Easter Monday, be sure,

The time seem'd to Pat a snail's gallop to go;

"By de hokey!" says he, "is it fast days dey call 'em?

For fast days I tink dey move murtherous slow."

At length Easter Monday arrived bright and gay,

Saint Patrick's Day too—nothing could be more pat

To chapel away they all went—in a buss:

For a wedding, what carriage so proper as that?

So the knot was soon happily tied—tho' I know

There are some in the world think it wrong thus to tie men;

That the poor have no right to get married at all;

And that low men have no sort of bus'ness with Hymen.

Return'd, they sat down to an iligant feast:

An divil the knife or the fork that lies idle;

There's praties in plenty, pig-puddings, and pork,

And a saddle of mutton, to match with the bridal.

And then comes the dance, and the drink, and the toast:

"Pat Murrough, your health—you're a broth of a b'y"

Och! how tipsy they were! e'en the clargy himself,

Like Pity, was seen with a drop in his eye.

Then in comes Mick Larry, Pat Murrough's old rival,

With a lot of his friends from Sev'n Dials direct;

And och! what a scrimmige and murther intirely!

And then the police comes, the peace to protect.

Then straight to the beak Paddy Murrough is taken:

Mick Larry himself 'tis appears against Pat;

Says the beak, "You're with bigamy charged, Paddy Murrough!"

"Och, big'my! 'tis little I know sure of that!"

"What is it, your wurtchip?" says Paddy.—Says he,

"'Tis a serious offence 'gainst the laws of the nation—

To marry two wives, which is bigamy call'd—

And the punishment death—or, at least, transportation.

"So take leave of your spouses, for I must commit you!"

"Stop a minnit, my jewel!" says Paddy, says he:

"Sure I know'd very well what your wurtchip has tould me;

And so, to be safe, I got married to three!"