Volume 100 — "LA RIXE."

Spilt mugs, chairs fallen, and scattered tables,— That's Oirish shindy, me bhoys, all over! "Union of Hearts" and such plisant fables, Won't greatly hamper the free-foight lover. What do you mean, Ye paltry spalpeen? True Oirish hearts from Old England to wean? Faix, not a bit of it! We'll jist have none of it! They're foighting frindly, and jist for the fun of it! There's bould PARNELL, he looks fierce and fell, Wid his savage face, and his snickersnee steely. Faix, wouldn't he loike that same to stroike All into the gizzard of Misther HEALY? He looks so sullen At the pair a pullin' At his sinewy arm, and his onset mullin'! That thraitor, TIM, he'd be having his will on, But for tearful O'BRIEN, and dismal DILLON. As for tarin' TIM, he'd be hot at him, Wid his ready sword from its scabbard flashin'! But that meddlin' JUSTIN will be a thrustin' Himself betune 'em, the duel dashin'! Och, I assure ye, Nor judge nor jury Could abate their ardour, or assuage their fury. Faix, Mount Vaysuvius, wid its flame and smother, Must take a back sate—whin they get at each other! Och! a rale ruction hath a swate seduction, For us Oirish, BULL, though it mayn't be your way. PARNELL's a rum fish, and he seems to "scumfish" That Grand Ould Gintleman paping in at the doorway. Ye may call it "Rixe," Though I can't quite fix Its mayning; a plague on all polyglot thricks! Sthand asoide, O'BRIEN, DILLON, MCCARTHY! Let 'em foight it out—shure that's Oirish and hearthy!