It made him forget all the cares of old age,

It bloomed in his face, and made happy his soul.

While here, then, we're found, push the bowl around,

"Tis the liquor of life no care can control, This jovial philosopher taught that the sun

Was thirsty, and oft took a swig from the main. The planets would tipple as fast as they run,

The earth, too, was dry, and would suck up the rain,

While here, then, we're found, push the bottle around,

"Tis the liquor of life, pray who can refrain?

IT CHANCED THAT CUPID, ON A SEASON.

(From the French. Sir W. Scott.)

IT chanced that Cupid, on a season,
By fancy urged, resolved to wed,
But could not settle-whether Reason
Or Folly should partake his bed.
What does he then?-Upon my life,
"Twas bad example for a deity,
He takes me, Reason, for his wife,
And Folly for his hours of gaiety.
Though thus he dealt in petty treason,

He loved them both in equal measure;
Fidelity was born of Reason,

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.

.......

THE IRISH HAYMAKER.

(Upton.)

AND did you ne'er hear of an Irish haymaker,
One Mr. O'Rafferty?—Then it is me;
And my father he was, yes, he was a stay-maker,
And I am the whalebone he danced on his knee.
And, och! ever since with the girls I've been jig-
ging,

Who cry, but don't mean it, "Pat, leave me alone."

Then, for whiskey, I an't, joy, eternally swigging, By my soul, from my cradle I've sucked it, I

own.

Then, what d'ye think of an Irish haymaker?
Och, an't he a devil the lasses to smack?
With his dideroo-bub, and his little shellelagh,

Sing up and down frisky, and fire away whack. There's Judy M'Brawn, and I ne'er will forsake her,

For, faith, we are tied, so I can't get away; Then, she sings like an owl, when the maggot does take her,

And growls, bites, and scratches, the long sum. mer's day.

Then her friend, as she calls him, one Teddy O'Shafferty,

To be sure she don't hug him as puss did the

mouse,

While he fondles, and calls her his sweet Mrs. Rafferty.

What a blessing to have such a friend in a house! Then, what d'ye think, &c.

Then, do what I will, or wherever I'm walking, By my soul, I am watched, night and day, out of sight,

Nor the devil a word they believe when I'm talking,

As if I was given to swear black is white. One day, to be sure, I looked into a kitchen,

And saw the pot boiling, but not for poor Pat; But for love and for thieving I'd always an itching, So I took out the mutton and popped in the cat. Now, what d'ye think, &c.

Och, luck to sweet summer, the fields, and the lasses,

For sure we don't frisk it up hill and down daleAnd then the dull hours so merrily passes,

When we can't catch the pig for the grease on

his tail.

But the best joke of all, and it's joy past expressing,

E'en the thought of it now makes me burn with

delight,

Is Shelah's soft lips, when I give her a blessing, While we roll in the hay on a sun-shiny night. Now, what d'ye think, &c.

JOHN APPLEBY was a man's name, and he lived near the sign of the Kettle,

His wife was called Joan Quiet, because she could scold but a little;

John to the alehouse would go, Joan to the tavern would run,

John would get drunk with the women, and Joan would get drunk with the men. Sing tol de rol lol, &c. John would spend his own two-pence, and Joan would spend her groat; Joan would pawn her best jacket, and John would pawn his best coat;

John set the porridge-pot by, Joan sent the brass kettle to sell,

The money came readily in, and they merrily spent it in ale.

Sing tol de rol lol, &c.

Thou art a base hussey, says John, for selling my pewter and brass;

And thou art a cuckold, says Joan, for thy ears are as long as an ass.

I'll bang thy back, hussey, says John, if you give me another cross word,

And for thy fury and vapours, I tell thee, I care

not a

Sing tol de rol lol, &c.

John he was no great eater, and Joan she was no glutton,

And for to tickle their maws they bought them a shoulder of mutton.

John, in an angry mood, took the mutton in his hand,

And out of the window he threw it, but Joan she was at a stand.

Sing tol de rol, &c.

Joan she was at a stand, but of it she made no matter,

Immediately took in her hand, and after it threw the platter;

An old woman coming by, and seeing the mutton lay,

Caught up the platter and mutton, and with them she ran away. Sing tol de rol lol, &c. The neighbours came running in, and thinking to end the quarrel,

But,

before they had half done, they left ne'er a drop in the barrel;

They banged the barrel about, pulled out the spig

got, too;

We'll all get drunk to-night, for what have we else to do?

Sing tol de rol lol, &c.

WILT THOU BE MINE, FAIR CAROLINE? (T. E. Hook.)

WILT thou be mine, fair Caroline?
For thee I sigh and sorrow;

Young Edward sighed, and, kneeling, cried,
Wilt thou be mine to-morrow?

The smile divine, fair Caroline
From Venus seemed to borrow;

I will be thine, blushed Caroline ;-
I will be thine to-morrow.

The morn appears, their bosoms cheers-
Poor lovers doomed to sorrow :
His country's foes, to fight he goes,
And leaves her on the morrow.

A fatal dart soon pierced his heart;
The news strikes her with sorrow:
I'll still be thine! cried Caroline,
And died upon the morrow.

GOOD DEEDS ARE NEVER ILL
BESTOWED.

A LITTLE boy, a Savoyard,

With cold and hunger almost dying, Among the rocks and mountains left,

For parents, house, and home, was crying; A stranger, from the distant road,

Who heard him weep, and saw him wander, No longer suffered him to saunterGood deeds are never ill bestowed.

He gave the little boy his hand,

And dried his tears, and hushed his sorrow, And said such tender things and kind,

I could not tell them by to-morrow; He brought him to his lost abode,

His mother dear, whose heart was breaking, And left his with friendly greetingpurse, Good deeds are never ill bestowed.

ILL TEMPER AND GOOD NATURE.
GOOD NATURE puts each heart at ease,
And softens pain and sorrow;
E'en ugliness itself to please,

From that a charm can borrow:
While beauty, like an April day,
Is clouded in a minute;

And, through ill temper, fades away
Without one comfort in it.

Of all the curses known below,

'The worst, and much too common, Are those which from ill temper flow, Especially in woman.

Ill temper to Suspicion joined
Is mother of all evil;

And where an angel man should find,
He meets the very devil.

Ill temper made poor Abel fal!
A victim to his brother;
Ill temper deadens Nature's call,
And sours the fondest mother,
A woman's of the softest mould,
To smooth man's rugged nature;

And when she's jealous, loud, and bold, No reason guides the creature.

The fairest female, if she dare

With man to cope and wrestle, Should in remembrance always bear

That she's the weaker vessel.

Then cease, ye fair, mankind to vex,
Or prove yourselves unruly;

And, though their questions may perplex,
Be meek, and answer coolly.

THE BEAUTIFUL MAN.

Air-" Ballinamori Orah."—(Beuler.)
WHEN old uncle died, then he left me his cash,
And I in the fashion determined to dash;
With my bright sparkling eyes and fine flashy ways,
I knew I should soon set the world in a blaze:
Relations all called me a noody,

But I was determined they should see
I would, and I should, and I could be
An exquisite beautiful man.

I purchased whip, gloves, and a large quizzingglass,

Revolving-heel boots, and bright spurs of brass; Wigs, whiskers, and wrist-bands, and neat pair of

stays,

A high-mettled racer, and high-seated chaise :
To the tailor I then did dash on,
Said I, "make a coat in the fashion,
For in the mode I would flash on-
Because I'm a beautiful man.'

I put on my stays, and soon I was drest
In pigeon-tailed coat, padded full at the breast;
I slipped on my boots, and then I arose
So high, that I walked on the points of my toes :
My loose white trowsers, so handy,
Concealed my legs so bandy,

And made me appear quite the dandy,
And that is a beautiful man.

Now friends quizzed my pigeon-toes and pigeon

chest,

That is my pigeon-tailed coat, padded full at the breast,

And said, if 'twere not for my whiskers and eyes,
They should take me to be a great girl in disguise,
Or perhaps for a duck or a widgeon,
Or, rather, they all did allege on,
For a crow dressed up for a pigeon,
Instead of a beautiful man,

At balls, concerts, and plays I now did appear, Where I talked, roared, and laughed-that no one might hear;

I ogled the girls with my beautiful eyes
Till they all praised my beauty up to the skies;
Said I was an exquisite riddle,
Like both a beau and a fiddle,

Pinched in at the sides and the middle,

And sighed, what a beautiful man!
As the sun of the fashion I wanted to blaze,
So I hired a porter to lace up my stays;

I was courting a lady of exquisite mien,
And I would be compact and fit to be seen:
I cried, "pull the lace with all might, sir;
Now pull it a little bit tighter,-
Oh la! how I shall delight her!

She'll call me a beautiful man."
Then I put on my whiskers, mustachios, and wig,
And waistcoat adorned with a lavender-sprig;
With rings on my fingers, and patch on my chin,
I walked through the streets with a beautiful grin:
I was scented with musk and with roses,
And smelt like a bundle of posies,
The passengers sniffed up their noses,
And cried, "What a oeautiful m

Arrived at the door, I gave a loud double rap, Which made the street echo like a great thunderclap;

The maid opened the door, and up stairs she ran, Crying out," My dear ma'am, here's a beautiful man!"

When I was introduced to the lady,
She cried, in astonishment "Hey day!
You've come to court me!"-I said, " Ay;"
Said she, "What a beautiful man

She admired me much, for she asked me to dine
With her friends, who, I'm sure, all thought me

divine;

I sat down to dine, when my spurs, cursed fates! Caught the cloth, and I fell, with pies, puddings, and plates:

With plum pie my face was soon painted,
My stays keep me in restraint, did,

I couldn't get up, so I fainted;
Now arn't I a beautiful man?

OH, SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S

BLOOM. (Byron.)

Oн, snatched away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb,
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves the earliest in the year,
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom.
And oft, by yon blue gushing stream,

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause, and lightly tread,

Fond wretch, as if her step disturbed the dead.

Away; we know that tears are vain,

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress; Will this unteach us to complain,

Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou-who tell'st me to forgetThy looks are wan-thine eyes are wet.

She bade the honest lad good day, She bade the nuns good night. Tenderly she listened to all he had to say, Then jumped into his arms, and so they ran away, And they sung sweetly, smalilou, &c.

........

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. Air-"Ye Gentlemen of England.” (T. Campbell.)

YE mariners of England,

That guard our native seas,

Whose flag has braved a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze,

Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe,

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow, While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirit of fathers
your

Shall start from every wave,
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow,
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bu.wark,

No towers along the steep,

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below-
As they roar, on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow,
When the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors,
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow,
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

........

THE NEWCASTLE WEDDING.
NEIGHBOURS, I'm come for to tell ye,
Our skipper and Moll's to be wed,
And if it be true what they're saying,
Egad, but we'll be rarely fed.
They've brought home a shoulder of mutton,
Besides, there's two thumping fat geese,
And when at the fire they're roasting,
We're all to have sops in the grease.

Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle,
And there will be pies and spice dumplings,
And there will be bacon and peas.
Besides a great lump of beef boiled,
And they may get crowdies who please.
To eat of such good things as these are,
I'm sure, you've but seldom the luck,
Besides, for to make us some pottage,
There'll be a sheep's head and a pluck.

Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

Of sausages there will be plenty,
Black puddings, sheep-fat and neats' tripes,
Besides for to warm all our noses,
Great store of tobacco and pipes;

A room they say there is provided

For us at the Old Jacob's Well,

The bridegroom he went there this morning,
And spoke for a barrel of yell.

Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

There's sure to be those things I mentioned,
And many things else, and I learn
There's white bread and butter and sugar
To please every bonny young bairn.
Of each dish and glass you'll be welcome
To eat and to drink till you stare.
I've told you what meat's to be at it,
I'll next tell you who's to be there.

Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.
Why, there's to be Peter, the hangman,
Who flogs the folks at the cart's tail;
And Bob, with his new sark and ruffle,
Made out of an old keel sail;
And Tib on the quay who sells oysters,

Whose mother oft strove to persuade
Her to keep from the lads, but she wouldn't,
Until she got by them betrayed.
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

And, there will be Sandy, the cobbler,
Whose belly's as round as a keg;
And Doll, with her short petticoats,

To display her white stockings and leg
And Sall, who when snug in a corner,

A sixpence, they say, wo'n't refuse, She cursed when her father got drowned Because he had on his new shoes.

Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

And there will be Sam, the quack doctor,
Of skill and profession he'll crack;
And Jack who would fain be a soldier,
But for a great hump on his back;
And Tom in the streets for his living
Who grinds razors, scissors, and knives;
And two or three merry old women

That call" mugs and doubler's wives."
Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

But. neighbours, I'd almost forgot
For to tell ye-exactly at one

The dinner will be on the table,

And music will play till it's done; When you'll be all heartily welcome Of this merry feasting to share': But if you wo'n't come at this bidding, Why then, you may stay where you are. Blind Willy's to play on the fiddle.

pillow;

And all for my true love, my true love, O! When bleak blows the wind, and tempests are beating,

I'll count all the clouds, as I mark them retreat-
ing,
For true lovers' joys, well-a-day! are as fleeting.
Sing O for my true love, &c.

Maids, come in pity when I am departed,

Sing all for my true love, &c. When dead, on the bank, I am found, brokenhearted,

And all for my true love, &c. Make me a grave, all while the wind's blowing,

TANTIVY, tivy, tivy, tivy, high low!
Hark, how the merry merry horn does blow,
As through the lanes and meadows we go,
As puss has run over the down;

When Ringwood, and Rockwood, and Jowler, and Spring,

And Thunder and Wonder, made all the woods ring,

And horsemen and footmen, hey ding a ding ding,

Who envies the pleasure and state of a crown? Then follow, follow, follow, follow, jolly boys, Keep in with the beagles now whilst the scent

lies,

The fiery-faced god is ready to rise,

Whose beams all our pleasure controls, Whilst over the mountains and vallies we roll, And Wat's fatal knell in each hollow we toll, And in the next cottage tope off a full bowl, What pleasure like hunting can cherish the soul?

MURDOCK M'LAREN AND MOLLY
M'GHIE;

OR, THE PIPER'S PEREGRINATIONS.
Air-"Ballinamori Orah.”—(T. Jones.)

COME, lend your attention, and listen awhile,
If you all fall a laughing, you've no need to smile,
Then sit quiet, my hearts, and a story I'll tell
Of a true Irish Scotchman who lived at the Bell,
And his name it was Murdock M'Laren,
From the bogs of braw Scotland sae barren,
All his love how he fain would be sharing
With lovely Miss Molly M'Ghie.

With the bagpipe so nately concealed in his plaid,
With two bottles of whiskey to govern his head,
With no shoes on his feet, but his bonnet so red,
Faith, he rose up one morn without going to bed.
And his heart in his bosom so loving,
His courage like Highlanders' proving,
He presently sat off a roving,

In search of Miss Molly M'Ghie.

Now Miss Molly M'Ghie you might quickly descry, She'd no teeth in her head, but two specks in her