THE IRISH STRANGER.-Continued.

With wonder I gazed on yon proud, lofty building,
As in grandeur it rose from its lord,
With sorrow I beheld my own garden soon yielding
Its choicest of fruits for its board.
But where is my father's low cottage of clay,
Wherein I did spend many a long happy day?
Alas! has his lordship contrived it away?

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
Did joyfully sing their loud-echoing song,
The days then of summer passed swftly along,

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,
Preparing for winter's cold storm.

Or I've sat by the fire on a cold winter's night,
Along with my friends telling tales of delight.
Those tales gave me pleasure, I could them invite,
Now they are gone, shall I ne'er see them more?"

But, Erin, sad Erin, it grieves me to ponder

On the wrongs of thy injured isle;
Thy sons, many thousands, deploring, to wander
On shores far away in exile.

But give me the power to cross o'er the main,
America might yield me some shelter from pain,
I'm only lamenting whilst here I remain

For the joys that I'll never see more.

Farewell then to Erin and those I left weeping
Upon her disconsolate shore,

Farewell to the grave where my father lies sleeping,
That ground I still dearly adore.

Farewell to each pleasure, I once had at home,
Farewell, now a stranger in England I roam;
Oh, give me my past joys, or give me a tomb,
Yes, in pity I ask for no more.

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 shame;
Oh, you'll not find a beauty so beauteous as she
From Ballinacrasy to Donaghadee.

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

THE DEAR LITTLE SHAMROCK.-Continued. The dear little shamrock, the sweet little shamrock,

The dear little, sweet little shamrock of
Ireland.

That dear little plant still grows in our land,
Fresh and fair as the daughters of Erin;
Whose smile can bewitch, and whose eyes can
command,

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
Ireland.

The dear little shamrock, the sweet little shamrock,

The dear little, sweet little shamrock of
Ireland.

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.

I'd like to know what hast you done
That still you can't be free?

But this I know, you had a son
Who struggled hard for thee.

O'Connell was that hero's name

He was known from shore to shore;

But so plaze you sweet Mary loved one, Paddy Rarey,
Who could dance like a fairy an' twirl his stick;
Tho' his birth was a misthry, could trace his ancistry,
Thro' the pages iv histhry to Amonachnic.
But Mary's ould daddy didn't care for young Paddy,
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,
The pride iv her dad an' his dairy;

Och! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight,
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),
He dug up the devil an' shoveled him back.
An' some shouldered arums an' others sung pearms,
An' many tried charums till their houses they burn'd,
An' the papers related iv deaths contemplated,
Thro' love it shtated, which wasn't returned,
By the beautiful heart-killin' Mary,
The pride iv her dad an' his dairy;

Och! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight,
An' as frisky an' blithe as a fairy.

So one day to her father, sez Mary, I'd rather
Be single for life, than that life shud be ruled

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;

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
Old Ireland free once more.

Till she fell on the tiled flure, her senses most fled.
An' yer wouldn't give that for poor Mary,
The pride iv her dad an' his dairy;
Och! she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight,
An' as frisky an' blithe as a fairy.

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,
An' you shall wed Pat an' have all yer dad's tin;
But it wasn't so aisy, for the spot bein' greazy,
An' her mind bein' crazy, she slipped and fell in.
An' all down to the bottom went Mary,

In sight of her dad an' his dairy;

Och she was his delight an' the pearl iv his sight,
An' as frisky an' blithe as a fairy.

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,
Was heard for years afther till the house it fell in!
An' that was the ind o' poor Mary,

Her Paddy, her dad, an' the dairy;

An' from that same night I've never seen sight
Iv the home iv the beautiful fairy.

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-
Hale.

He'd a blunderbuss, too, of horse-pistols a pair;
But his favorite weapon was always a flail;
I wish you could see how he'd empty a fair,
For he handled it nately did Larry McHale.

His ancestors were kings before Moses was born,

His mother descended from the great Granna
Uaile;

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,
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 careThrough 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,
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,
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.

For, though unrival'd still thy grace,
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
A gloom like Eden's, on the day

He left its shade, when every tree,
Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

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,
I'll tell how from Waterford hither I came;
cross'd the big ocean in dark, gloomy weather,
My heart it was light and my pocket the same.
Sad at l'avin' ould Ireland, but once more on dry land,
By the roadside a tavern I happen'd to spy;
And as I was meltin', my pockets I felt in
The price of a drink-I was mortally dry.

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;

The landlord affrighten' came with a light in,
"I'm murdered alive," sez I, so must away."
Sez he, "Before goin', I'd have you be knowin',
For supper and bed you've five shillin's to pay."
"Five shillin's for what? och, don't be disgracin'
Yourself for a rogue," sez I, if you please;
When I can't sleep for rats, you, a brazen ould face on ye,
To charge me five shillin's for plain bread and cheese."

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;
The English girls are beautiful, their loves I don't decline,
The eating and the drinking, too, are beautiful and fine;
But in a corner of me heart, which nobody can see,
Two eyes of Irish blue are always peeping out at me!
Oh, Molly, darlin', never fear, I'm still your own dear boy-
Ould Ireland is me country, and me name is Pat Malloy.

From Ireland to America across the seas I roam,
And every shilling that I got, ah, sure I sent it home;
Me mother couldn't write, but, oh, there came from Father Boyce:
"Oh, heaven bless you, Pat," says she-I hear me mother's voice!
But now I'm going home again, as poor as I begun,
To make a happy girl of Moll, and, sure, I think I can;
Me pockets they are empty, but me heart is filled with joy,
For ould Ireland is me country, and me name is Pat Malloy.

Ma Colleen dhas Cruthin Amoe.