THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

'M sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May morning long ago,
When first you were my bride.
The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye!

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again!
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek;
And I still keep listening for the words
You never more may speak!

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends;
But oh! they love the better far,
The few our Father sends.
And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessing and my pride ;-
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary, kind and true,
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm going to:

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;

But I'll not forget old Ireland

Were it fifty times as fair!

-LADY DUFFERIN.

A

AN ADVENTURE IN THE AFRICAN DESERT.

S we went forward, our whole caravan being in a body, our negroes, who were in the front, cried out that they saw a white man. We were not much surprised at first, it being, as we thought, a mistake of the fellows', and we asked them what they meant; when one of them stept up to me, and, pointing to a hut on the other side of the hill, I was astonished

to see a white man indeed, but stark naked, very busy near the door of his hut, and stooping down to the ground with something in his hand, as if he had been at some work; and his back being towards us, he did not see us.

K