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Oh! I cannot hear the sound Of those joyous village bells, Mournful music should be found In the halls where sorrow dwells. Once for me those bells were rung, And the bridal song was sung; Wretched is the bride that hears Sounds like those with tears.

Now I seethe laughing train, Youths and maiden‘s dancing forth; I'll not look on them again, Eyes like mine would mar their mirth. Once for me those hells were rung, And the bridal song was sung; Wretched is the bride who hears Sounds like those with tears.

"Oh! were I at rest Amidst Arran's green isles, Or in climes where the summer Unchangingly smiles; Though treasures and dainties Might come at a call, Still, O'Hara’s full cup I would prize more than all.

But why would I say That my choice it must be, When the prince of our fathers Hath lov'd it like me: Then come, jolly Turlough. Where friends may be found; And our Kain we'll pledge, As that cup goes around.”

was a very pretty, avery interesting girl, nay, a very amiable girl--but Mary was, nevertheless, a prude ,- and prudish too at an age when the young spirit generally bounds to the syren minstrelsy of pleasure, and expands be neath the radiant sun of unchequered life-. Mary was cold, precise and formal; a pattern and mo del of decorum herself, she neither excused, nor would allow of any thing beyond the strict and formal etiquette of society, and boasted frequently of platonic affection and reciprocal esteem. Mary had a younger sister, who, unfortunately, had a very different disposition; warm-hearted, generous, affable, and kind—-but as good-hearted a little creature as ever rambled across a lawn, or plucked wild roses from the hedges, or gathered buttercups in the fields and meadows. These were the characteristics of the girls in childhood; they grew with their growth, and strengthened with their strength; and when Mary had arrived at the womanly age of twenty-one, and Lucy at the more juvenile period of eighteen, the one was a downright prude, the other a merry good-tem pered soul, with a lover, a boudoir, and a spaniel dog. Mary eschewed these things—the boudoir was too careless and toyish, the spaniel was too noisy, and as for the lover——Dear me,the poor girl was alarmed at the very mention of the word. Though Madame Rumour did tell a very strange story of Mary Woodbine having been seen one evening reclining upon the arm of a military gentleman, walking down the hawthorn lane leading to G—, looking prettier than ever, and so happy! But Madame Rumour tells fibs very often—and who could ever suspect Mary?

Lucy had a lover, a good, kind, affectionate lover; their passion was mutual. The giddy girl, though she delighted to teaze her faithful Edmund, and make him look very foolish, or very as lovers generally do when their ladies have the inclination to tantalize, which they often have, (whether to their credit or not, I will not say: we must not be the ﬁrst to blame our sex,) still Lucy loved him, tenderly and truly, and who could have the heart to sever two such faithful ones?

Mary had.—I will not say what occasioned her conduct, but it is certain that her guardian had taxed her severely about the rumours respecting the military gentleman in the hawthorn lane, and to shift the burthen off her own shoulders, she placed it upon her pretty sister’s directly, revealing the whole course of love, and all the meetings and appointments, which were in consequence immediately broken, for Lucy was conﬁned to her boudoir. Mary was again thought a model of propriety; she lectured Lucy upon the indecorum of her attachment, and delivered a sage discourse upon the ridiculous nature of love, and she the sublime tendency of platonic affection; ordered all the pretty books in the house to be locked up in her own apartment, and delivered to her sister “The Whole Duty of Man,” “Seneca’ Morals,” and a few other virtuous books of the same description. Lucy, with a heavy heart, received the books, and threw them down in a pet after her sister had quitted the boudoir, when, lo and behold, what should peep out from between the leaves of one of the large moral books, but the edge of a little note, nicely folded! Lucy immediately opened the volume in extacy, and a neat bath-wove gilt-edged billet revealed itself, which the pretty prisoner had the curiosity to read, for it began with “My dearest Mary,” and finished with “thine ever truly and affectionately, Alexander!!!" Here was a discovery!—and to Mary too!—whoever would have thought it?

The bell was instantly rung, and, at the request of Lucy, Mary shortly entered the boudoir,“ “My dear,“ with a look and aspect of gravity. dear, dear sister Mary,” joyously exclaimed the enraptured romp, as she sprung upon the neck of the prude——“ how is A—lex—-an—der?" “Alexander!” rejoined the astonished girl, “I do not understand you, Lucy.”