sina; thence defiance hurled
To the linked thunders of th' embattled world.

No bandage bring. Stark-eyed the hero dies.
Do you not know that thus for twenty years
I've faced both ball and bullet!--for no prize
But weal of France, my country? In man's ears,
Yea and before God's all-beholding eyes,
I swear I never wronged her. But Death nears.
Marshal no more, behold a man expire!
So now, make ready! Aim! Dear comrades, fire!

THE LILY LAND OF FRANCE.

With pensive memories
We part the Ocean foam,
To find 'neath summer skies
A country and a home.
O lily land of France,
Farewell! Farewell, Paris! (_Pa-ree_)
Farewell to Life's romance!
Welcome the sounding sea!

Soon, soon, our fading forms
Recede into the sea,
Which, dark with all its storms,
Will veil our hearts from thee.
O lily land of France,
Farewell! Farewell, Paris!
Farewell to Life's romance!
Welcome the sounding sea!

In vain, in farther climes,
Athwart the sweeping sea,
We seek, in other times,
The heaven we've lost in thee.
O lily land of France,
Farewell! Farewell, Paris!
Farewell to Life's romance!
Welcome the sounding sea!

THE THREE P'S.

THE PRATIE, THE PIG AND POTEEN.

'Tis daily this baste
Will prosade to the fayste,
The best that Ould Oireland has seen;
The P's are but three,
But they're plenty for me,--
The Pratie, the Pig, the Poteen.

The Pratie, in place,
Has an iligant face,
That my mouth opens wide to let in,
But, like Widow Machree,
He's so glad to see me,
That he laughs himself out of his shkin.
He's so round and so square,
As he laughs at me there,
That he looks loike my brother, I ween;
Then I put him to cool
On the top of a shtool,
Till I take a wee drop of Poteen.
Then I put him to cool
On the top of a shtool,
Till I take a wee drop of Poteen.

But gourmands, ahoy!
The Pig is the Boy!
Indade he's the girl to my taste;
The form is so nate,
The lip is so swate,
That I kape her quite close to my waist.
But no cannibal I,
When I look in her eye,
The loikes to my sister is seen;
So I piously pause
In the work of my jaws,
Till I take a wee drop of Poteen.
So I piously pause
In the work of my jaws,
Till I take a wee drop of Poteen.

Lave the Pratie to cool
On the top of the shtool,
While we master this question of shtate,
Shall I ate? Shall I swig?