e broken wall;
And 'neath the twinkling stars he plodded on,
To tell how he had got and lost his horse.
"As swate a gray as iver eyes sat on,"
He said to Bridget and the children eight,
After thrice telling the whole story o'er,
"The way he run it would be hard to bate;
So little, too, with jist a whisk o' tail,
Not a pin-feather on it as I could see,
For it was hatched out just sax weeks too soon!
An' such long ears were niver grown before
On any donkey in grane Ireland!
So little, too, you'd hold it in your hand;
Och hone! he would have made a gray donkey."
So all the sad O'Flanigans that night
Held a loud wake over the donkey gone,
Eating their "pratees" without milk or salt,
Howling between whiles, "Och! my little colt!"
While Bunny, trembling from his dreadful fright,
Skipped home to Mrs. B. by light of moon,
And told the story of his scare and flight;
And all the neighbouring rabbits played around
The broken mare's egg scattered on the ground.

THE WORLD FOR SALE.

REV. RALPH HOYT.

The world for sale! Hang out the sign; call every traveler here to me:
who'll buy this brave estate of mine, and set this weary spirit free?
'Tis going! yes, I mean to fling the bauble from my soul away; I'll
sell it, whatsoe'er it bring: the world's at auction here to-day! It
is a glorious sight to see--but, ah! it has deceived me sore; it is
not what it seems to be. For sale! it shall be mine no more. Come,
turn it o'er and view it well; I would not have you purchase dear.
'Tis going! going! I must sell! Who bids! who'll buy this splendid
Tear? Here's Wealth, in glittering heaps of gold; who bids? But let me
tell you fair, a baser lot was never sold! Who'll buy the heavy heaps
of Care? and, here, spread out in broad domain, a goodly landscape
all may trace; hall, cottage, tree, field, hill and plain:--who'll
buy himself a burial place? Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell that
Beauty flings around the heart; I know its power, alas! too well; 'tis
going! Love and I must part! Must part? What can I more with Love? all
o'er is the enchanter's reign. Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove--a
breath of bliss, a storm of pain? And Friendship, rarest gem of earth;
who e'er has found the jewel his? Frail, fickle, false, and little
worth! who bids for Friendship--as it is? 'Tis going! going! hear the
call; once, twice and thrice, 'tis very low! 'Twas once my hope,
my stay, my all, b