POETRY.

THE PLEA OF THE MUTE.

(sir: Ochone, Mote Ilachreell DOCTOR MAGEE, would ye murder and drown P

Ochone, Doctor Magee !

Faith, it doesn't agree wid your clerical gown, Ochone, Doctor Magee !

Plaze, alter your tone, And just lave us alone ; 'Tis the heart of a stone In your bosom must be: Are ye growing as hard As Paul Bert and Bernard P Ochone, Doctor Magee !

Doctor Magee, it's the summer won't come, 0 chone, Doctor Magee !

While the brutes that can talk, torture those that are dumb, Ochone, Doctor Magee !

Sure the dog and the hare Are worth somebody's care, And the birds of the air Have their feelings, ye see ; And. the mute little fish, Tho' they can't spake, they wish : Ochone, Doctor Magee !

Doctor Magee, it's at home we'd begin, Ochone, Doctor Magee Ere we'd be rebuking mankind for its sin, Ochone, Doctor Magee !

Just remimber who said That the hairs of your head Are all counted in bed, When in comfort ye'd be ; But He cares, I've heard tell, For the sparrows as well: Ochone, Doctor Magee !

And how do you know, that's for leading the blind, Ochone, Doctor Magee !

That ye're free to torment for the good of mankind ?

Ochone, Doctor Magee !

" Och, what's in a name ?"

Says you ; "it's the same, As killing my game For my dinner or tea:"

It's yourself knows—that's fiat—

Better logic than that : Ochone, Doctor Magee !

Then, take our advice, Mr. Bishop Magee, Ochone, Doctor Magee And do by dumb bastes as it's done by ye'd be, ()alone, Doctor Magee A fine mess ye've made Of your manliness-trade; Bishops shouldn't parade Science notions, ye see : Sure, the flock that ye tache Won't forget your last spache.