ace the
future. It was growing dusky. The richly golden arch of an autumn moon
could be seen through the hazy mist of that half frost which is at this
season the sure harbinger of a hot day on the morrow. The street noises
had gradually died away, and save the distant sound of a ballad-singer,
whose mournful cadence fell sadly on the ear, I heard nothing.

Without perceiving it, I found myself listening to the doggerel of the
minstrel, who, like most of her fellows of the period, was celebrating
the means that had been used by Government to carry their favorite
measure,--the Union with England. There was, indeed, very little to
charm the ear or win the sense, in either the accent or the sentiment of
the melody; yet somehow she had contrived to collect a pretty tolerable
audience, who moved slowly along with her down the street, and evinced
by many an outburst of enthusiasm how thoroughly they relished the
pointed allusions of the verse, and how completely they enjoyed the dull
satire of the song.

As they approached the barracks, the procession came to a
halt,--probably deeming that so valuable a lesson should not be lost
to his Majesty's service; and forming into a circle round the singer,
a silence was commanded, when, with that quavering articulation so
characteristic of the tribe, and that strange quality of voice that
seems to alternate between a high treble and a deep bass, the lady
began:--

"Don't be crowdin' an me that a way. There it is now,--ye 're tearin'
the cloak off the back o' me! Divil receave the note I 'll sing, if ye
don't behave! And look at his honor up there, with a tenpenny bit in the
heel of his fist for me. The Lord reward your purty face; 't is yourself
has the darlin' blue eyes! Bad scran to yez, ye blaggards! look at my
elegant bonnet the way you 've made it!"

"Arrah! rise the tune, and don't be blarneying the young gentleman,"
said a voice from the crowd,--and then added, in a lower but very
audible tone, "Them chaps hasn't a farthin' beyond their pay,--three
and ninepence a day, and find themselves in pipeclay!"

A rude laugh followed this insolent speech; and the ballad-singer, whose
delay had only been a ruse to attract a sufficient auditory, then began
to a very well-known air:

"Come hither, M.P.'s, and I 'll tell
My advice, and I 'm sure you 'll not mock it:
Whoe'er has a country to sell,
Need never want gold in his pocket.
Your brother a bisho