But the priest has done _more_, for his hands he unbound,
And with one daring spring Jim has leaped to the ground;
Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash goes the sabres;
He's not down! he's alive still! now stand to him, neighbours.
Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,--
By heaven he's free!--than thunder more loud,
By one _shout_ from the people the heavens were shaken--
_One_ shout that the dead of the world might awaken.
Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,
But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang;
To-night he'll be sleeping in Atherloe Glin,
An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.--
The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that,
An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat;
An' the sheriffs were both of them punished severely,
An' fined like the divil for bein' done fairly.
HOME, SWEET HOME.
BY WILLIAM THOMSON.
Sawtan i' the law court
Wis once, sae I've heard tell--
"Oh! but hame is hamely!"
Quo' Sawtan to himsel.'
THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR.
BY W.M. THACKERAY.
In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom up four pairs of stairs.
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