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THE LOVER'S COMPLAINT.
O! DON'T be beguilin' my heart with your
wilin', You've tried that same thrick far too often
before, And by this blessed minnit an' day that is in
it, I'll take right good care that you'll try it
no more! You thought that so slyly you walked with
O'Reilly, By man and by mortal unheard and unseen, While your hand he kept squeezin', and yuce
looked so pleasin', Last Saturday night in your father's boreen.
THE IRISH STRANGER.-Continued.
As in grandeur it rose from its lord,
Its choicest of fruits for its board.
Yes, it's gone and I'll ne'er see it more.
Sit smiling in beautiful bloom,
And lavish amidst her perfume,
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,
Preparing for winter's cold storm.
Now they are gone, shall I ne'er see them more?
On the wrongs of thy injured isle;
On shores far away in exile.
For the joys that I'll never see more.
Upon her disconsolate shore,
That ground I still dearly adore.
Yes, in pity I ask for no more.
His thricks and his schamin' has set you a
dhramin'; That any one blessed with their eyesight
may see, You're not the same crature you once war by
nature, 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 unfaith
ful, 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
eye. 0! 'tis Mary Mullally, that lives in the val
ley'Tis she that would say how ill-used I have
been, And she's not the deludher to smile and to
soother, And then walk away to her father's boreon. I send you your garter, for now I'm a martyr, And keepsakes and jims are the least of any
care, So when things are exchangin', since you too's
to rangin' I'll trouble you, too, for the lock of my hair. I know by its shakin', my heart is a-breakin', You'll make me a corpse when I'd make you
a queen, But as sure as I'm livin', it's you I'll be givin'
A terrible fright, when I haunt the borcen!
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; You'll not find a beauty so beauteous as she From Ballinacrasy to Donaghadee. Her name is O'Brien, they christened her Kate, There's many a beauty has shared the same fate; But never a one, to my thinking, I've seen So lovely, so trim, as my bright-eyed colleen. Her face is a picture for limners to paint, Her figure might serve for a heart-winning saint; Oh, you'll not find a beauty so beauteous as she From Ballinacrasy to Donaghadee. Her hair is as smooth as the raven's own back, But the bonniest bird has not tresses so black; And they curl 'round a neck that might rival the snow, With the grace of a swan on the waters below. Her mouth-oh, what music I've heard from that same, Her breath it might put the sweet roses to share; Oh, you'll not find a beauty so beauteous as she From Ballinacrasy to Donaghadee.
THE DEAR LITTLE SHAMROCK.
TUERE's a dear little plant that grows on oir
isle, 'Twas St. Patrick himself sure that set it; And the sun on his labor with pleasure did
smile, And with dew from his eye often wet it. It shines thro' the bog, thro' the brake and the
mireland, And he called it the dear little shamrock
THE DEAR LITTLE SHAMROCK.--Continued.
PRETTY MARY, THE DAIRYMAS'S DAUGHTER. The dear little shamrock, the sweet little shamrock,
Faix it's I'll sing you a ditty that's funny and witty, The dear little, sweet little shamrock of
Yet it wakens the pity of every one; Ireland.
It's in vain ye'll be thryin' to prevint yeersels cryin',
An' yer eyes ye'll be dhryin' whin my song is done. That dear little plant still grows in our land, 'Twas in swate Tipperary there stud a nate dairy,
Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin; Wid the name of Ned Carey wrute over the door ; Whose smile can bewitch, and whose eyes can And sure Ned sould good butter, so it said on the shutter, command,
And beautiful googeens a shilling a score. In each climate they ever appear in.
An' he had a fine daughter call'd Mary, For they shine thro' the bog, thro’ the brake
The pride iv her dad an' his dairy; and the mireland,
Och! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight, Just like their own dear little shamrock of
An' as frisky an' blithe as a fairy. Ireland. The dear little shamrock, the sweet little shain- Poor old Ned loved his daughter, for an angel he thought her, rock,
An' fine clothes he bought her to make her look gay; The dear little, sweet little shimrock of An' she was a sweet creature, so full of good nature, Ireland.
An' as fair in ach fathure as the blossom o’ May.
She was always intrudhin' and niver a fude in, That dear little plant that springs from our So ye'll be kincludin' she'd iv lovers her share; soil,
There was tradesmin an' doctors an' lawyers and proctors, When its three little leaves are extended,
Came no ind of miles from the divil knows where, Denotes from the stalk we together should
Just to get a smile from sweet Mary, toil,
The pride iv her dad an' his dairy; And ourselves by ourselves be befriended.
Och! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight, And still thro' the bog, thro' the brake and the
An' as frisky an' blithe as a fairy. mireland, From one root should branch, like the sham- But so plaze you sweet Mary loved one, Paddy Rarey, rock of Ireland;
Who could dance like a fairy an’ twirl his stick; The dear little shamrock, the sweet little sham. Tho' his birth was a misthry, could trace his ancistry, rock of Ireland ;
Thro’ the pages iv histhry to Amonachnic. The dear little, sweet little shamrock of Ire- But Mary's ould daddy didn't care for young Paddy, land.
For no money had he sure a wife to support;
An' a silky ould waver, a well-to-do shaver,
Crept into Ned's favor his daughter to court,
An’ was promised the hand iv sweet Mary, I long to see thee free,
The pride iv her dad an' his dairy; Where'er I am by day or night
Och! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight, My heart beats warm for thee.
An' as frisky an' blithe as a fairy.
Mary's lovers got jealous an' oft they did bellus,
Sayin' before they'll expel us we'll all take the sack;
One wint home to his garden, an' (cravin' yer pardon), Old Ireland I adore.
He dug up the devil an' shoveled him back. Your scenez surpass all on earth,
An' some shouldered arums an' others sung pearms, They are so rich and rare;
An' many tried charums till their houses they burn'd, Your sons are of the noblest birth,
An' the papers related iv deaths contemplated, Few with them can compare.
Thro' love it shtated, which wasn't returned, Oppressed and starved they were compelled
By the beautiful heart-killin' Mary, To wander from your shore;
The pride iv her dad an' his dairy; Old Grama Machree, I weep for thee
Och! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight, Old Ireland I adore.
An’ as frisky an' blithe as a fairy. I'd like to know what hast you done
So one day to her father, sez Mary, I'd rather That still you can't be free?
Be single for life, than that life shud be ruled But this I know, you had a son
By a crawlin' ould waver, an' I'll not have the craver Who struggled hard for thee.
If the hair iv his head hung with diamonds an' gold. O'Connell was that hero's name
Sez her father, Daunt raise me, for the divil may saise me, He was known from shore to shore;
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.
Till she fell on the tiled flure, her senses most fled.
An' yer wouldn't give that for poor Mary, If you were free as once we were,
The pride iv her dad an? his dairy; How happy would we be!
Och! she was his delight an’ the pearl iv his sight, No foreign landlord then would dare
An' as frisky an' blithe as a fairy.
Telling him to forget her an' bid him good-by!
Thin she gave a great shiver, flue away to the river, Old Ireland free once more.
Axed God to forgive her, an' prepared for to die!
OULD DOCTHER MACK. Cum away from the water, shouted Ned to his daughter,
You may tramp the world over An' you shall wed Pat an' have all yer dad's tin;
From Delhi to Dover, But it wasn't so aisy, for the spot bein' greazy,
And sail the salt say from Archangel to ArraAn' her mind bein' crazy, she slipped and fell in.
Through the whole Zodiack,
But to ould Docther Mack ye can't furnish &
Have ye the dropsy, An' Mary's poor lover did never recover,
The gout, the autopsy? An' his antics an' tanthrums 'twas horrid to see;
Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll Till he tuk off his garther, some forty years afther
shape yez; An' hoong himself up to a mulberry tree! An' sure ould Ned Carey follied Pat an’ Mary,
No ways infarior An' they haunted the dairy an' kicked up a great din;
In skill, but suparior, An' such shriekin' an' laughter, from foundation to rafther,
And lineal postarior of Ould Aysculapious.
He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Was heard for years afther till the house it fell in! An' that was the ind o' poor Mary,
Aigle eye and complexion clarety;
Here's to his health,
Honor and wealth,
The king of his kind and the crame of
all charity! THE WOODS OF KYLINOE.
How the rich and the poor,
To consult for a cure, My heart is heavy in my breast-my eyes are full of tears, Crowd on to his doore in their carts and their My memory is wandering back to long departed years
carriages, To those bright days long, long ago,
Showin' their tongues When nought I dreamed of sordid care, of worldly woe
Or unlacin' their lungs, But roved, a gay, light-hearted boy, the woods of Kylinoe.
For divel one symptom the docther dispar
ages, There, in the springtime of my life, aand springtime of the
Troth, and he'll tumble year,
For high or humble, I've watched the snowdrop start from earth, the first young From his warm feather-bed wid no cross conbuds appear ;
trariety; The sparkling stream o'er pebbles flow,
Makin' as light The modest violet, and the golden primrose blow,
Of nursin' all night Within thy deep and mossy dells, beloved Kylinoe!
The beggar in rags as the belle of society. 'Twas there I wooed my Mary Dhuv, and won her for my bride,
And as if by meracle, Who bore me three fair daughters, and four sons, my age's
Ailments hysterical, pride;
Dad, wid dose of bread-pills he Though cruel fortune was our foe,
smother, And steeped us to the lips in bitter want and woe,
And quench the love-sickness Yet cling our hearts to those sad days, we passed near Kylinoe!
Wid wonderful quickness,
By prescribin' the right boys and girls to aich At length by misery bowed to earth, we left our native strand
other. And crossed the wide Atlantic to this free and happy land;
And the sufferin' childerThough toils we had to undergo,
Your eyes 'twould bewilder Yet soon content-and happy peace 'twas ours to know,
To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unAnd plenty, such as never blessed our hearth near Kylinoe!
And aich of them fast And heaven a blessing has bestowed, more precious far than
On some treasure at last, wealth,
Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out Has spared us to each other, full of years, yet strong in health: travelin'. Across the threshold when we go, We see our children's children round us grow,
Then, his doctherin' done, Like sapling oaks within thy woods, far distant Kylinoe.
In a rollickin' run
Wid the rod or the gun, he's the foremost to Yet sadness clouds our hearts to think that when we are no figure. more,
By Jupiter Ammon, Our bones must find a resting place, far, far from Erin's shore,
What Jack-snipe or salmon For us—no funeral sad and slow
E'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger! Within the ancient abbey's burial ground shall go
And hark! the view-hollo! No, we must slumber far from home, far, far from Kylinoe!
'Tis Mack in full follow
On black Faugh-a-ballagh the country-side Yet, 0! if spirits e'er can leave the appointed place of rest,
sailin'. Once more will I revisit thee, dear Isle that I love best,
Och, but you'd think O'er thy green vales will hover slow,
'Twas ould Nimrod in pink, And many a tearful parting blessing will bestow
Wid his spurs cryin' chink over park-wall and On all-but most of all on thee, my native Kylinoe!
OULD DOCTOR MACK.-Continued.
SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well,
May calm and sunshine long be thine!
How fair thou art let others tell,-
To feel how fair shall long be mine.
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 care-
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent there.
No more unto thy shores to come,
But on the world's rude ocean tost, He'd a house and demesne, and eight hundred
Dream of thee sometimes, as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost.
Far better in thy weeping hours
To part from thee, as I do now,
When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, And an ilegant song he could sing I'll be bail;
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow. He would ride with the rector and drink with
For, though unrival'd still thy grace, the priest,
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest,
But thus in shadow, seen’st a place
Where erring man might hope to rest-
Might hope to rest, and find in thee His house was as big and as strong as a
A gloom like Eden's, on the day jail;
He left its shade, when every tree, With a cruel four-pounder he kept all in great
Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.
Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!
And all the lovelier for thy tears-
For though but rare thy sunny smile, But his favorite weapon was always a flail;
'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears. I wish you could see how he'd empty a fair, For he handled it nately did Larry McHale.
Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few,
But, when indeed they come, divine His ancestors were kings before Moses was
The brightest light the sun e'er threw born,
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine! His mother descended from the great Granna
THE WATERFORD BOYS. He laughed all the Blakes and the Frenches to scorn,
WELL, boys! for divarsion we've all met together,
I'll tell how from Waterford hither I came;
I cross'd the big ocean in dark, gloomy weather,
My heart it was light and my pocket the same. He sat down every day to a beautiful dinner, Sad at l'avin' ould Ireland, but once more on dry land,
With cousins and uncles enough for a tail; By the roadside a tavern I happen'd to spy; And, though loaded with debt, oh, the devil a And as I was meltin', my pockets I felt in thinner
The price of a drink-I was mortally dry.
CHORUS. With a larder supplied and a cellar well For we are the boys of fun, wit and element, stored,
Drinkin' and dancin' an' all other joys; None lived half so well from Fair Head to For ructions, destruction, devarsion and divilment, Kinsale,
Who can compare with the Waterford boys! And he piously said, “I've a plentiful board, And the Lord He is good to old Larry Mc- In the tavern I stroll’d, out the master he roll’d, Hale."
“Morrow," sez he, sez I, “Av you please,
Provide me a bed, but first bring me some bread, So fill up your glass and a high bumper give A bottle of porter and a small piece of cheese. him,
For times they are queer, and provisions are dear, It's little we'd care for tithes or repale; If you cannot get meat, with cheese be content." Ould Erin would be a fine country to live in, Sez the landlord, “ You're right," so he bro't me the bite;
If we only had plenty like Larry McHale. I roll'd up my cuffs and at it I went.
THE WATERFORD BOYS.-Continued.
COLLEEN DHAS CRUTHIN AMOE. My bread and cheese ended, I then condescended To seek some repose, so I ax'd for a light,
The beam on the streamlet was playing, And soon in a doze I was under the clothes;
The dew-drop still hung on the thorn, I popp'd in my toes and I popp'd out the light.
When a blooming young couple were straying, But wakin' from sleepin' I heard somethin' creepin',
To taste the mild fragrance of morn. Meand'rin' and wand'rin' about my bedpost;
He sighed as he breathed forth his ditty, Squeakin' and scratchin', thinks I 'mid my watchin',
And she felt her breast softly to grow; 'Pon my conscience, you've mighty long claws for a ghost.” “Oh, look on your lover with pity,
Ma Colleen dhas Cruthin Amoe.
My breath I suspended, the noise it soon ended,
I ventured to peep from beneath the bedclothes; “ Millia murtha! what's that?" a thumpin' jack rat,
With a leap from the floor, lit atop of ny nose. “ Thunder sweep ye!
sez I, for a schemin' ould vagabone, Take that, and that," as I leaped on the floor, Shouting, “Murther and fire, Tim, Jerry, Maria,
The rats they are eatin' me up by the score.”
“Whilst green is yon bank's mossy pillow,
Or evening shall weep the soft tear,
So long shall thy image be dear.
If pierced by the arrow of woe,
Ma Colleen dhas Cruthin Amoe.”
The landlord affrighten' came with a light in,
She sighed as his ditty was ended,
Her heart was too full to reply; For supper and bed you've five shillin's to pay."
Oh, joy and compassion were blended “ Five shillin's for what? och, don't be disgracin'
To light the mild beam of her eye. Yourself for a rogue," sez I, “if you please;
He kissed her soft hand: “ What above thee
Ma Colleen dhas Cruthin Amoe."
HOW ERIN WAS BORN.
An' i'll tell you how to keep out every rat.”
With your kind attention, your good conde.
cension, And plain bread and cheese set before them, be sure;
I'll make bold to mention of Erin so green; Don't mind if they're willin', but charge them five shillin', Bad luck to the rat that you'll ever see more."
Without hesitation, I'll tell how this nation
Became of creation the gem of the Queen.
It happened one morning, without any warnPAT MALLOY.
That Vanus was born in that beautiful say; At sixteen years of age I was my mother's fair-haired boy,
And by that same token-och! sure 'twas proShe kept a little huckster shop, her name was Malloy;
vokin', “ I've fourteen children, Pat,” says she, “ which heaven to me Her pinions were soaking and wouldn't give has sent,
This story was told, boys, by sages of old, That ould Ireland is your country, and your name is Pat Mal- boys; loy!”
Who thus did unfold, boys, how Erin was
born. Oh, England is a purty place, of gold there is no lack-I trudged from York to London, wid me scythe upon me back; The English girls are beautiful, their loves I don't decline, Now, Neptune, who knew her, began to pursue The eating and the drinking, too, are beautiful and fine;
her, But in a corner of me heart, which nobody can see,
In order to woo her--the wicked old Jew; Two eyes of Irish blue are always peeping out at me!
And very nigh caught her a-top of the water,
Great Oh, Molly, darlin', never fear, I'm still your own dear boy
Jupiter's daughter, who cried, Ould Ireland is me country, and me name is Pat Malloy.
When Jove, the great janious, looked down From Ireland to America across the seas I roam,
and saw Vanus, And every shilling that I got, ah, sure I sent it home;
And Neptune, so “hanious,” pursuing her Me mother couldn't write, but, oh, there came from Father Boyce:
wild; Oh, heaven bless you, Pat,” says she-I hear me mother's voice! He roared out like thunder, he'd tear him But now I'm going home again, as poor as I begun,
asunderTo make a happy girl of Moll, and, sure, I think I can;
And sure 'twas no wonder, for tazing his Me pockets they are empty, but me heart is filled with joy,
child.-CHORUS. For ould Ireland is me country, and me name is Pat Malloy. A star then espying, close 'round by him lying,