“‘I bid you take care; give me four.’

“’Ha, ha! what a buck your granny was, Mistet Tim Sheeney; it’s three you’ll have, or none.’

“‘Then by the puck I’ll let you go.’

“‘I defy you to do it, you murdering robber.’

“‘Do you! by dad; once more, give me four.’

“‘To blazes wid you; three or none.’

“‘Then there you go!’

“And, worse luck, sure enough he did, and that at the devil’s own pace.

“At this moment I turned my eyes in horror to the Tower, and the height was awful.”

“Poor child,—­of course he was killed upon the spot?”

“There’s the wonder; not a ha’porth o’ harm did the vagabone take at all at all.  He held on by the birds’ legs like a little nagur; he was but a shimpeen of a chap, and what with the flapping of their wings and the soft place he fell upon, barring a little thrifle of stunning, and it may be a small matter of fright, he was as comfortable as any one could expect under the circumstances; but it would have done your heart good to see the little gossoon jump up, shake his feathers, and shout out at the top of his small voice, ’Tim Sheeney, you thief, you’d better have taken the three,—­for d—­n the daw do you get now!’” And so ends the Legend of the Round Tower.

* * * * *

IRISH INTELLIGENCE.

AWFUL STATE OF THE COUNTRY!

(From our own Correspondent.)

We are at length enabled to inform the Public that we have, at a vast expense, completed our arrangements for the transmission of the earliest news from Ireland.  We have just received the Over-bog Mail, which contains facts of a most interesting nature.  We hasten to lay our sagacious correspondent’s remarks before our readers:—­

Bally-ha-ghadera, Tuesday Night.

PUNCH will appreciate my unwillingness to furnish him with intelligence which might in any way disturb the commercial relations between this and the sister island, more particularly at the present crisis, when the interests of that prosperous class, the London Baked Potatoe vendors, are so intimately connected, with the preservation of good feeling among the Tipperary growers.  However, my duty to PUNCH and the public compel me to speak.—­I do feel that we are on the eve of a great popular commotion.  Every day’s occurrences strengthen my conviction.  Bally-ha-ghadera was this morning at sunrise disturbed by noises of the most appalling kind, forming a wild chorus, in which screams and bellowings seemed to vie for supremacy; indeed words cannot adequately describe this terrific disturbance.  As I expected, the depraved Whig Journalist, with characteristic mental tortuosity, has asserted that the sounds proceeded from a rookery in the adjoining wood, aided by the braying of the turf-man’s donkey.  But an enlightened public will see through this paltry subterfuge.  Rooks and donkeys!  Pooh!  There cannot be a doubt but that the noises were the preparatory war-whoops of this ferocious and sanguinary people.  We believe the Whig editor to be the only donkey in the case; that he may have been a ravin(g) at the time is also very probable.