"Ding, dong, bell,

The cat's in the well!

Who put her in? Little John Green.

Who pulled her out? Great John Stout!"-

There was never a drama of sorrow

<>But good folks might be found, I'm afraid,

Who a queer satisfaction could borrow

From the parts of importance they played.

There is war for four years in the nation:

There are havoc and panic abroad:

Comes a tempest; a wild conflagration:

Great souls go up home to their God.

How the tall I's spring thick in the spell-

ing!—

I knew, or I saw, or I said!—

How the small ones turn out to the swelling

Each splendor of final parade!

How many are left, we may wonder,

Heart-mournful for that which befell?

How many would wish back the blunder

"When the Cat has got into the Well!

Nay, more; if with infinite bother

And peril, poor Puss is got out,

Somehow, one boy seems famous as t' other,

John Green is as big as John Stout!

See, now! let me tell you a story

Of something which happened in sooth;

That shows with how fearless a glory

The children and simple speak truth.

Biddy came to her mistress refulgent;

A whole sunrise of smiles on her face;

'With w M'am, could ye be so indulgent

Jist to shpare me the day, if ye plase?

"It 's me cousin that 's dead,—Kate

M'Gawtherin,—

Was married to Barnaby Roach;

An' I 'd want,—but I hates to be both-

erin',—

Three shillings to pay for the coach!"

And so we were minus our dinners;

And all that deplorable day

We fasted, like penitent sinners,

While Biddy the cook was away.

But she came when the sunset was gleam-

ing;

And her story she gleefully told;

Disdaining all dolorous seeming,

In a way that was good to behold.

Each loving and sad recollection

Of the late Mrs. Barnaby Roach

Quite absorbed in the single reflection

That she "wint wid himsel' in the coach!"

"For he thrated me, faith, like a lady,

An' he paid me me fare, an' ahl;

An' he tould me that I, Bridget Brady,

Was the charm of the funeral!"