THE IRISH STRANGER.-Continued. With wonder I gazed on yon proud, lofty building, Yes, it's gone and I'll ne'er see it more. When nature was seen on the sole bush and bramble, Sit smiling in beautiful bloom, O'er the fields without danger I used to ramble, And lavish amidst her perfume, Or range thro' the woods where the gay-feather'd throng Now they are gone and I'll ne'er see them more. When the sloes and the berries hung ripe on the bushes. I've gathered them oft without harm, And gone to the fields where I've shorn the green rushes, Or I've sat by the fire on a cold winter's night, But, Erin, sad Erin, it grieves me to ponder On the wrongs of thy injured isle; But give me the power to cross o'er the main, For the joys that I'll never see more. Farewell then to Erin and those I left weeping Farewell to the grave where my father lies sleeping, Farewell to each pleasure, I once had at home, KATE O'BRIEN. PERHAPS you don't know there's a sweet little stream Far down in a dell where a poet might dream; A nate little cabin stands close to the tide, And, och, such a jewel is shining inside. I don't mean a jewel that money can buy, But a warm-hearted creature with love in her eye; Her name is O'Brien, they christened her Kate, Her hair is as smooth as the raven's own back, Her mouth-oh, what music I've heard from that same, And they that are thraitors won't do, faith, for me! Tho' it is most distressin' to think that a blessin' Was just about fallin' down plump on the scene, When a cunning culloger, as black as an ogre, Upsets all your hopes in a dirty boreen. And 'tis most ungrateful, unkind, and unfaithful, When you very well know how I gave the go-by, Both to pride and to pleasure, temptation and treasure, To dress all my looks by the light of your SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND. THE DEAR LITTLE SHAMROCK.-Continued. The dear little shamrock, the sweet little shamrock, The dear little, sweet little shamrock of That dear little plant still grows in our land, In each climate they ever appear in. For they shine thro' the bog, thro' the brake and the mireland, Just like their own dear little shamrock of The dear little shamrock, the sweet little shamrock, The dear little, sweet little shamrock of That dear little plant that springs from our soil, When its three little leaves are extended, Denotes from the stalk we together should toil, And ourselves by ourselves be befriended. And still thro' the bog, thro' the brake and the mireland, From one root should branch, like the shamrock of Ireland; The dear little shamrock, the sweet little shamrock of Ireland; The dear little, sweet little shamrock of Ire land. OLD IRELAND I ADORE. OH, Erin's Isle, my heart's delight, My heart beats warm for thee. I grieve to see thee so oppressed, Oh, Grama Machree, I weep for thee- Your scenes surpass all on earth, Your sons are of the noblest birth, Few with them can compare. Old Grama Machree, I weep for thee- I'd like to know what hast you done But this I know, you had a son O'Connell was that hero's name He was known from shore to shore; PRETTY MARY, THE DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER. It's in vain ye'll be thryin' to prevint yeersels cryin', An' he had a fine daughter call'd Mary, Och! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight, Poor old Ned loved his daughter, for an angel he thought her, But so plaze you sweet Mary loved one, Paddy Rarey, An' was promised the hand iv sweet Mary, Och! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight, Mary's lovers got jealous an' oft they did bellus, Och! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight, So one day to her father, sez Mary, I'd rather By a crawlin' ould waver, an' I'll not have the craver If the hair iv his head hung with diamonds an' gold. Sez her father, Daunt raise me, for the divil may saise me, If ye iver have Pat, I'd as lave see yer dead; Oh, Grama Machree, he'd have set you free, Thin he turn'd like a wild boor, an' bullied his child sure, But, alas! he is no more. If you were free as once we were, How happy would we be! No foreign landlord then would dare To lord it over thee. We'd have our homes and bread to eat, As once we had before; Oh, Grama Machree, I long to see Till she fell on the tiled flure, her senses most fled. But at last she got betthur an' wraut Pat a letthur, Telling him to forget her an' bid him good-by! Thin she gave a great shiver, flue away to the river, Axed God to forgive her, an' prepared for to die! PRETTY MARY.-Continued. Cum away from the water, shouted Ned to his daughter, In sight of her dad an' his dairy; Och she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight, An' Mary's poor lover did never recover, An' his antics an' tanthrums 'twas horrid to see; Till he tuk off his garther, some forty years afther An' hoong himself up to a mulberry tree! An' sure ould Ned Carey follied Pat an' Mary, An' they haunted the dairy an' kicked up a great din; An' such shriekin' an' laughter, from foundation to rafther, Her Paddy, her dad, an' the dairy; An' from that same night I've never seen sight Он, Larry McHale, he had little to fear, And never could want, when the crops didn't fail; He'd a house and demesne, and eight hundred a year, And a heart for to spend it had Larry McHale. The soul of a party, the life of a feast, And an ilegant song he could sing I'll be bail; He would ride with the rector and drink with the priest, Oh, the broth of a boy was old Larry McHale! It's little he cared for the judge or recorder, His house was as big and as strong as a jail; With a cruel four-pounder he kept all in great order; He'd murder the country, would Larry Mc- He'd a blunderbuss, too, of horse-pistols a pair; His ancestors were kings before Moses was born, His mother descended from the great Granna He laughed all the Blakes and the Frenches to scorn, They were mushrooms compared to old Larry McHale. I SWEET INNISFALLEN. SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well, Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell In memory's dream that sunny smile, Which o'er thee on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle. "Twas light, indeed, too blest for one, Who had to turn to paths of careThrough crowded haunts again to run, And leave thee bright and silent there. No more unto thy shores to come, Far better in thy weeping hours For, though unrival'd still thy grace, He left its shade, when every tree, Weeping or smiling, lovely isle! And all the lovelier for thy tearsFor though but rare thy sunny smile, "Tis heaven's own glance when it appears. Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, But, when indeed they come, divineThe brightest light the sun e'er threw Is lifeless to one gleam of thine! THE WATERFORD BOYS. WELL, boys! for divarsion we've all met together, CHORUS. For we are the boys of fun, wit and element, Drinkin' and dancin' an' all other joys; For ructions, destruction, devarsion and divilment, Who can compare with the Waterford boys! In the tavern I stroll'd, out the master he roll'd, "Morrow," sez he, sez I, "Av you please, Provide me a bed, but first bring me some bread, A bottle of porter and a small piece of cheese. For times they are queer, and provisions are dear, If you cannot get meat, with cheese be content." Sez the landlord, "You're right," so he bro't me the biteg I roll'd up my cuffs and at it I went. THE WATERFORD BOYS.-Continued. My bread and cheese ended, I then condescended To seek some repose, so I ax'd for a light, And soon in a doze I was under the clothes; COLLEEN DHAS CRUTHIN AMOE. THE beam on the streamlet was playing, The dew-drop still hung on the thorn, When a blooming young couple were straying, To taste the mild fragrance of morn. He sighed as he breathed forth his ditty, And she felt her breast softly to grow; I popp'd in my toes and I popp'd out the light. But wakin' from sleepin' I heard somethin' creepin', Meand'rin' and wand'rin' about my bedpost; Squeakin' and scratchin', thinks I 'mid my watchin', "Pon my conscience, you've mighty long claws for a ghost." "Oh, look on your lover with pity, The landlord affrighten' came with a light in, 66 AT sixteen years of age I was my mother's fair-naired boy, She kept a little huckster shop, her name it was Malloy; "I've fourteen children, Pat," says she, "which heaven to me has sent, But children ain't like pigs, you know— they can't pay the rent!" She gave me every shilling there was in the till, And kissed me fifty times or more, as if she'd never get her fill; "Oh, heaven bless you, Pat," said she," and don't forget, my boy, That ould Ireland is your country, and your name is Pat Malloy!" Oh, England is a purty place, of gold there is no lack— I trudged from York to London, wid me scythe upon me back; From Ireland to America across the seas I roam, Ma Colleen dhas Cruthin Amoe. |