But those days are gone by, and his, too, are o'er,
And the grass it grows over the grave of Crohoore,
For he wouldn't be aisy or quiet at all;
As he lived a brave boy, he resolved so to fall,
So he took a good pike--for Phadrig was great--
And he died for old Ireland in the year ninety-eight.
CUPID'S ARROWS.
BY ELIZA COOK.
Young Cupid went storming to Vulcan one day,
And besought him to look at his arrow;
"'Tis useless," he cried, "you must mend it, I say,
'Tisn't fit to let fly at a sparrow.
There's something that's wrong in the shaft or the dart,
For it flutters quite false to my aim;
'Tis an age since it fairly went home to the heart,
And the world really jests at my name.
"I have straighten'd, I've bent, I've tried all, I declare,
I've perfumed it with sweetest of sighs;
'Tis feather'd with ringlets my mother might wear,
And the barb gleams with light from young eyes;
But it falls without touching--I'll break it, I vow,
For there's Hymen beginning to pout;
He's complaining his torch burns so dull and so low,
That Zephyr might puff it right out."
Little Cupid went on with his pitiful tale,
Till Vulcan the weapon restored;
"There, take it, young sir; try it now--if it fail,
I will ask neither fee nor reward.
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