ULYSSES has made him Collecthor,
    (Sich choppin’ o’ heads ne’er was seen;)
  Sure the hayro will make me Inspecthor
    Whin there’s so many “wigs on the green.” 
  And we’ll be night-watchmen uproarious,
    Wid big badges on our coats,
  And we’ll fight for TOM MURPHY the glorious,
    Wid our fists, our guns, and our votes.

  At the Custom House, Dutchman and Yankee
    Are thryin’ to talk wid a brogue,
  They’re all Irish, now—­fat, lean, or lanky,
    And green are the neckties in vogue. 
  They’re thracin’ themselves to some DURPHY,
    O’NEILL, or McCANN, or O’TAAFFE,
  I’ll go bail the bowld conqueror MURPHY
    ’S too owld to be caught wid sich chaff.

  Now Dutchmin may go to the divil,
    And Yankees to Plymouth’s ould rock,
  We’ll blast it, if they are not civil;
    While boys of the raal ould stock
  Will hurroo for ould Ireland the turfy. 
    Whoo!  Jibralthar is taken to-day,
  Our commandther’s the conqueror MURPHY—­
    Now a tiger and nine times hoorray!

* * * * *

COMIC ZOOLOGY.

Genus Culex.—­The American Mosquito

Few American birds are better known than the mosquito.  In common with the woodcock, snipe, and other winged succubi, it breeds in wet places, yet is always dry.  Like them it can sustain life on mud juleps, but prefers “cluret.”  It is a familiar creature, seems to regard the human family as its Blood relations, and is always ready to sucker them.

Being a bird of Nocturnal Habits, it is particularly attracted to human beings in their Night-shirts.  The swallow preys upon it, but it generally eludes the Bat.  Although it cannot be called Noctilucous, like the lightning bug, it has no objection to alight in the darkness, and you often knock till you cuss in your vain attempts to prevent its taking a Shine to you.

The mosquito differs in most respects from all the larger varieties of the winged tribes, and upon the whole takes after man more than any other living thing.  Nevertheless, it certainly bears a noticeable resemblance to some of the feathered race.  Like the Nightingale, it “sings darkling,” and like the woodpecker, is much addicted to tapping the bark of Limbs and Trunks for the purpose of obtaining grub.  It may be mentioned as an amiable idiosyncracy of the mosquito, that it is fond of babies.  If there is a child in the house, it is sure to spot the playful innocent; and by means of an ingenious contrivance combining the principles of the gimlet and the air-pump, it soon relieves the little human bud of its superfluous juices.  It is, in fact, a born surgeon, a Sangrado of the Air, and rivals that celebrated Spanish Leech in its fondness for phlebotomy.  Some infidels, who do not subscribe to the doctrine that nothing was made in vain, consider it an unmitigated nuisance, but the devout and thoughtful Christian recognizes it as Nature’s preventive of plethora, and as it alternately breathes a Vein and a song, it may be said (though we never heard the remark,) to combine the utile with the dulce.