Those days of his youth have long gone by;
The magpie's note and the parrot's cry,
As borne on the evening wind,
Recall to his thoughts his childhood flown,
Old memories, fresh, yet faintly blown,
Of the youth he has left behind.
On the brow of the hill he stands to-day,
But the pride of his life has passed away;
His leaves are withered and sere.
And oft at night comes a sound of woe,
As he sways his tired limbs to and fro
And laments to the bleak night air.
He can still look down on the plain below,
And his head is decked by the sunset glow
With a glorious crown of light;
And from every field, as the night draws on,
To his spreading arms the magpies come
To shelter there for the night.
Some night, when the waters rage and swell,
He will hear the thunder roll his knell,
And will bow his head to the ground;
And the birds from their nests will wheel in the air,
And the rabbits burrow deeper in fear,
At the thundering, rending sound.
And the magpies must find another home;
No more, at the sunset, will they come
To warble their evening song.
Ah, well! our sorrow is quickly flown,
For the good old friends we have loved and known:
And the old tree falls by the tall new grown,
And the weak must yield to the strong.
Florence Bullivant.
MURPHY SHALL NOT SING TO-NIGHT.
Specimens of Ireland's greatness gathered round O'Connor's bar,
Answering the invitation Patsy posted near and far.
All the chandeliers were lit, but did not shed sufficient light,
So tallow candles, stuck in bottles, graced the bar that famous night.
All the quality were there; before such talent ne'er was seen;
Healy brought the house down fairly with "The Wearin' o' the Green."
Liquor went around in lashins, everything was going off right,
When O'Connor sent the word round, "Murphy shall not sing to-night."