Part 27 (1/2)

Young Rory O'More, courted Kathleen Bawn, He was bold as a hawk,--she as soft as the dawn; He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.

”Now, Rory, be aisy,” sweet Kathleen would cry, (Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye), ”With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about, Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out.”

”Oh, jewel,” says Rory, ”that same is the way You've thrated my heart for this many a day; And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not to be sure?

For 'tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O'More.

”Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, ”don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound.”

”Faith,” says Rory, ”I'd rather love you than the ground.”

”Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!”

”Oh,” says Rory, ”that same I'm delighted to hear, For drames always go by conthraries, my dear; Oh! jewel, keep draming that same till you die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie!

And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not, to be sure?

Since 'tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O'More.

”Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teas'd me enough, Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste, So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste.”

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm around her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, And he look'd in her eyes that were beaming' with light, And he kiss'd her sweet lips;--don't you think he was right?

”Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more, That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd me before.”

”Then here goes another,” says he, ”to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O'More.

_Samuel Lover._

A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO

”_Le temps le mieux employe est celui qu' on perd._”

--|Claude Tillier|.

I'd read three hours. Both notes and text Were fast a mist becoming; In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, And filled the room with humming.

Then out. The cas.e.m.e.nt's leaf.a.ge sways, And, parted light, discloses Miss Di., with hat and book,--a maze Of muslin mixed with roses.

”You're reading Greek?” ”I am--and you?”

”O, mine's a mere romancer!”

”So Plato is.” ”Then read him--do; And I'll read mine in answer.”

I read. ”My Plato (Plato, too,-- That wisdom thus should harden!) Declares 'blue eyes look doubly blue Beneath a Dolly Varden.'”

She smiled. ”My book in turn avers (No author's name is stated) That sometimes those Philosophers Are sadly mis-translated.”

”But hear,--the next's in stronger style: The Cynic School a.s.serted That two red lips which part and smile May not be controverted!”

She smiled once more--”My book, I find, Observes some modern doctors Would make the Cynics out a kind Of alb.u.m-verse concoctors.”