e our best affections away, like shillings at the
Library, and Man looks coldly on, and smilingly says, "Better luck,
Miss, next time."

I am sure that the sand, with which Time has filled his hour-glass, must
have been picked up at a watering-place, for nowhere else does the time
run on so slowly, or the hours succeed one another with such provoking
similarity.

It is very curious that the sea, which brings the colour back to our
cheeks, generally takes it from our ribbons!

It is the same with dispositions as with bonnets; it is not every one
that can stand the sea-side.

Scandal is a rank weed which is generally found in great profusion near
the sea-coast.

A watering-place is a harbour of refuge, that we, poor weak vessels,
after having been tossed about for nine months in the year, are obliged,
during the other three, to put into for repairs.

I am frequently reminded, when I see a party about to start in a
pleasure boat, of the effect of a London season. Every one is so gay and
blooming, so full of health and spirits at the starting, but how pale,
dejected, dragged, drenched, and fairly sickened they look, if you
chance to see them returning at the end of it!

* * * * *

SONG OF THE TRANSPLANTED SHAMROCK.

"One of the Royal servants brought with him to the train a sod of
shamrock which had been dug up in the grounds attached to the
Viceregal Lodge. A porcelain pot received the plant, which, as it
had been obtained at the special request of HER MAJESTY, is probably
destined to be transplanted to some of the Royal grounds, and
cultivated as a memento of a visit which will be long memorable in
Ireland."--_Dublin Daily Express._

Erin mavourneen, torn up from thy green,
Lonely, withered, and drooped for a while,
Though planted in porcelain, and nursed by a Queen,
I was sick at the roots for my own pleasant isle;

Where the winds came so gently to kiss me and love me,
There was tenderness e'en in the breath of the north;
Where the kind clouds would fling their soft shadows above me,
When the hot sun of summer came scorchingly forth.

I pined for those tender grey eyes, whose black lashes
Veil a tear and a smile alike ready to start;
I longed for the mirth, whose unquenchable flashes
Hold a struggle with gloom in the Irishman's heart.

White hands were about me, but not my own people's,
Kind hearts, to