After the chase had continued for a length of time, the preacher began to think that poor Pat had had almost enough, and as he had now circled round again till they were pretty near the place from whence they first started, and he was, in fact, within a stone's throw of his own home, he allowed the terrified fellow to proceed in that direction, and was not sorry to see him enter the door of his cabin, which was immediately closed with great violence, and on the preacher coming up, he could hear the tables, chairs, and every other article in the house, being piled against the door to prevent the entrance of the pursuer. The old man smiled to himself as he noticed this fresh proof of the Irishman's terror, and whether it was a smack of the old Adam that still lurked about him, or whether solely as a precautionary measure for the future, to strike the lesson deeper home, it is hard to say, but certainly there appeared some touch of roguish humour in the preacher's face, as turning the horse's haunches towards the door, he once more said “Go at him Jack," and the horse striking out his heels shattered the frail barrier to shivers, and exhibited the terrified creature fainting on the floor. The sight at once awakened the humanity of the preacher, and he galloped swiftly to a neighbouring farm, whose owner he knew, and dispatched such assistance as was necessary to recover poor Pat. On arriving there, they found his senses were restored, but his mind was fully impressed with the belief that he had been chased by the evil one on a fiery charger, who, but for the interposition of St. Patrick and the blessed Virgin, would have devoured him alive.

POOR WILL OF THE NILE!

A BALLAD, WRITTEN AND COMPOSED BY WILLIAM ASPULL.

E’er heard ye the tale of poor Will of the Nile,
As gallant a tar as e'er left Britain's isle;
He trusted his Mary's fond love ne'er would fade,
His soul beam'd with candour, but false prov'd the maid ;

She slighted poor Will of the Nile.
From his long cruise returning he leap'd on the shore,
To bear to his Mary his hard earned store ;
But the false one had fled to conceal her foul shame,
Yet malice soon blew the loud trumpet of fame

In the ear of poor Will of the Nile.
Distracted and frantic the mariner fled,
Far, far from his home, and in honour's cause bled;
Trafulgar's bright morning received his last breath,
He smil'd as he lay, and cried “ welcome, now, death,

Thrice welcome to Will of the Nile!”

gen-tle breath of the southern sky, The sails hang drooping a

down the mast, Like the wings of a bird that has

II.
It comes, it comes, and old Ocean's breast,

To meet its embrace is swelling with pride,
Now curls the white foam on its azure crest,
Like the down of the swan as she cleaves the tide.

Yet whistle my lads, &c.

III.
Hurrah! the gale shall our canvass fill,

'Tis come, and we feel all its eager force;
The bellying sails sleep deep and still,
And the reeling bark steers her northern co'ırse.

Yet whistle once more, &c.

IV.

Now, now we mount on the billow's foam,

And the whistling wind mocks our feeble power;
'Tis bearing us on towards our home,

And we rattle away, twelve knots an hour.
Then whistle no more, we've a gallant breeze,*
And sweep like a bird o'er the rolling seas.