THE IRISHMEN OF TO-DAY.

I AM told every day that the Irish are fools

And degraded by every shame; And that every effort they make for their

rights Adds only disgrace to their name. Murder is wrong and for vengeance 'twill cry,

To the zenith of heaven's great dome; But how can a man see the ones that he loves

Just driven like dogs from their home?

BRIDGET MOLLOY.
In an ivy clad cabin there dwelt a colleen,

Fresh and fair as the goddess of morn,
In whose eyes full of witchery, roguish and dark,

Young cupids each moment were born.
In the village she reigned like a beautiful queen,

She was every one's treasure and joy,
And there was not a boy but would die for a smile

From the lips of sweet Bridget Molloy-
And there was not a boy but would die for a smile

From the lips of sweet Bridget Molloy.
When the birds in the springtime were choosing their mates,

Young Dermot won her virgin heart ;
And they vowed as they stood hand in hand by the brook

There was nothing could tear them apart.
And they'd picture the time when united they'd be,

For a lifetime of love and joy;
And no happier lovers there ever was seen,

Than young Dermot and Bridget Molloy-
And no happier lovers there ever was seen,

Than young Dermot and Bridget Molloy.
When his hopes were the brightest misfortune came 'round,

And a boy couldn't well live at home,
So a pathway of fortune he tried to cut out,

For his love in a land o'er the foam.
“ Heaven bless you, my Dermot asthore,

Your affections and faith will you buoy.
And may fortune to you be as constant and true

As the heart of your Bridget Molloy-
And may fortune to you be as constant and true

As the heart of your Bridget Molloy."
With a heart beating high he returned for his love,

He was fortunate over tne wave,
But the form of his loved one was gone from his sight,

Ile was led to a newly made grave.
She left him a message, a lock of her hair,

With the words: “ For my own darling boy!”
And the hopes of his life have been sunk in the grave

Of his own darling Bridget Molloy-
And the hopes of his life have been sunk in the grave

Of his own darling Bridget Molloy.

CHORUS.
So don't form opinions until you know

well
Who's to blame, and then what you say
Will cast no retlection on true hearted

men,

The Irishmen of to-day. I have seen sons and daughters of Irish de

scent, Who would fain pass their old parents by, For maybe their clothes were not cut in the

style. Or their walk wasn't fair to the eye. And perhaps their old father to educate them

Had spent all that hard labor gains; To see theni grow up to deny both his name And the blood that sent life through their

veins.

Do you think we would stand England's

tyranny here In this mightiest land of the free? Do you think she don't know it for many a

year, Since she lost the tax on the tea ? Then why should poor Paddy be held in dis

dain For holding his place on this earth? For a man is a coward who would not stand

up And fight for the land of his birth.

THE BANTRY GIRLS' LAMENT FOR JOHNNY.

RIDING DOUBLE.

Oh, who will plow the field, or who will sell the corn?
Oh, who will wash the sheep, an' have 'em nicely shorn?
The stack that's on the haggard unthrashed it may remain,
Since Johnny went a-thrashing the dirty King o' Spain.
The girls from the bawnoge in sorrow may retire,
And the piper and his bellows may go home and blow the fire;
For Johnny, lovely Johnny, is sailin' o'er the main,
Along with other pathriarchs, to fight the King o' Spain.
The boys will sorely miss him, when Moneyhore comes round,
And grieve that their bould captain is nowhere to be found;
The peelers must stand idle, against their will and grain,
For the valiant boy who gave them work now peels the King o'

Spain.
At wakes or hurling-matches your like we'll never see,
Till you come back to us again, astore gra-gal-machree;
And won't you throunce the buckeens that show us much disdain,
Bekase our eyes are not so black as those you'll meet in Spain.
If cruel fate will not permit our Johnny to return,
His heavy loss we Bantry girls will never cease to mourn;
We'll resign ourselves to our sad lot, and die in grief and pain,
Since Johnny died for Ireland's pride in the foreign land of

Spain.

TROTTIN' to the fair,

Me and Moll Malony, Seated, I declare,

On a single pony-
How am I to know that

Molly's safe behind,
Wid our heads in, oh! that

Awk'ard way mclined ?
By her gentle breathin'

Whispered past my ear,
And her white arms wreathin'

Warm around me here.
Trottin' to the fair,

Me and Moll Malony, Seated, I declare,

On a single pony. Yerrig Masther Jack.

Lift your forelegs higher, Or a rousin' crack

Surely you'll require. “ Ah!"

says Moll, “ I'm frightened That the pony'll start," And her hands she tightened

THE LAMENT OF GRANU WAIL.

RIDING DOUBLE. Continued. On my happy heart; Till widout reflectin',

'Twasn't quite the vogue, Somehow, I'm suspectin' That I snatched a pogue.

Trottin' to the fair, etc.

JOHN BULL was a bodach, as rich as a Jew,
As griping, as grinding, as conscienceless, too;
A wheedler, a shuffler, a rogue by wholesale,
And a swindler, moreover, says Granu Wail!

John Bull was a banker, both pursy and fat,
With gold in his pockets, and plenty of that;
And he tempted his neighbors to sell their entail:
'Tis by scheming he prospers, says Granu Wail!

John Bull was a farmer, with cottiers galore-
Stout chawbacons once that like bullocks could roar;
Hard work and low wages, and Peel's sliding scale,
Have bothered their courage, says Granu Wail!

A SWEET IRISH GIRL IS THE DARLING. IF they talk about ladies, I'll tell them the

plan Of myself—to be sure I'm a nate Irishman; There is neither sultana nor foreign maʼmselle That has charms to please me, or can coax me

so well
As the sweet Irish girl, so charming to see;
Och! a tight Irish girl is the darling for me.
And sing filliloo, fire away, frisky she'll be,
Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me;

For she's pretty,
She's witty,
She's hoaxing
And coaxing,

She's smiling,
Beguiling to see, to see;

She rattles,
She prattles,
She dances

And prances,
Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me.

John Bull was a bruiser, so sturdy and stout,
A boisterous bully-at bottom a clout-
For when you squared up he was apt to turn tail-
Brother Jonathan lashed him, says Granu Wail!

John Bull was a merchant, and many his ships, His harbors, his dock-yards, and big building slips; And the ocean he claimed as his rightful entailMonsieur Parley-vouz bars that, says Granu Wail!

John Bull had dependencies, many and great-
Fine, fertile, and fat-every one an estate;
But he pilfered and plundered wholesale and retail-
There's Canada signs on it, says Granu Wail!

Now, some girls they are little and some they

are tall, Och, others are big, sure, and others are small; And some that are teasing are bandy, I tell; Still none can please me, or can coax me so

well, As the dear Irish girl, so charming to see; Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me;

For she's pretty,
She's witty,
She's hoaxing

And coaxing,
Beguiling to see, to see;

She rattles,
She prattles,
She's smiling,
She dances

And prances,
Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me.

John Bull was a saint in the western clime,
Stood fast for the truths of the Gospel sublime,
Vowed no other faith in the end could avail-
Isn't the Jugghernaut champion? says Granu Wail!

John Bull had a sister, so fair to be seen,
With a blush like a rose, and a mantle of green.
And a soft, swelling bosom! on hill or in dale,
Oh! where could you follow, sweet Granu Wail!

And John loved his sister, without e'er a flaw,
Like the fox and the pullet, the wolf and the lamb;
So he paid her a visit—but mark her bewail:
My title deeds vanished ! says Granu Wail!

SONG OF THE IRISH EXILE.

ALONE, all alone, by the wave-washed strand,

And alone in the crowded hall!
The hall it is gay, and the waves are grand,

But my heart is not there, at all.
It flies far away, by night and by day,

To the time and the place that are gone Oh, I never can forget the maiden I met

In the valley near Sliebh na m-ban!

Then he rummaged her commerce and ravaged her plains, Razed her churches and castles-her children in chains; With pitch-caps, triangles, and gibbets wholesale, Betokened John's love to poor Granu Wail!

But one of her children more bould than the rest,
Took it into his head for to make a request !
Our rights, Uncle John! Else our flag on the gale?
Faix, he got an instalment, says Granu Wail!

It was not the grace of her queenly ar,

Nor her cheek like the rose's glow,
Nor was it the wave of her braided hair,

Nor the gleam of her lily white brow; 'Twas the soul of truth, and the melting ruth,

And the eye like the summer dawn, That stole my heart away, one mild day,

In the valley near Sliebh na m-ban!

And now he is at the Ould Growler again,
With his logic and law, and three millions of men!
And nothing will plaise him, just now, but repale,
* Mo seast or anam astig tu,” says Granu Wail!

THE KILRUDDERY HUNT.

HARK! hark! jolly sportsmen, a while to my tale,
Which to gain your attention I'm sure cannot fail:
"Tis of lads and of horses, and dogs hat ne'er tire,
O’er stone walls and hedges, thro’ dale, bog, and brier;
A pack of such hounds, and a set of such men,
'Tis fifty to one if you meet with again;
Had Nimrod, the mightiest of hunters, been there,
Fore-gad he'd have shook like an aspen for fear.

In seventeen hundred and forty and four,
The fifth of December, I think 'twas no more,
At five in the morning, by most of the clocks,
We rode from Kilruddery in search of a fox.
The Leighlinstown landlord, the brave Owen Bray,
And Johnny Adair, too, were with us that day;
Joe Debil, Hal Preston—those huntsmen so stout-
Dick Holmes, some few others: and so we set out.

We cast off our hounds for an hour or more;
When Wanton set up a most tuneable roar,
“ Hark! Wanton,” cried Joe, and the rest were not slack;
For Wanton's no trifler esteemed by the pack;
Old Bounty and Collier came readily in,
And every hound joined in the musical din:
Had Diana been there, she'd been pleased to the life,
And one of the lads got a Goddess to wife.

Ten minutes past nine was the time of the day
When Reynard broke cover,

and this was his way-
As strong from Kilegar, as tho' he feared none,
Away he brush'd round by the house of Kilternan,
To Carrickmines thence, and to Cherrywood then,
Steep Shankhill he climbed, and to Ballyman glen,
Bray Common he crossed, leap'd Lord Anglesey's wall,
And seemed to say, “ Little I care for you all.”

MORNING ON THE IRISH COAST.
TH' anam au Dhia! but there it is,

The dawn on the hills of Ireland !
God's angels lifting the night's black veil

From the fair, sweet face of my sireland; Oh, Ireland, isn't it grand you look,

Like a bride in her rich adornin',
And with all the pent-up love of my heart,

I bid you the top o' the mornin'.
This one short hour pays lavishly back

For many a year of mourning; I'd alniost venture another flight,

There's so much joy in returning-
Watching out for the hallowed shore,

All other attractions scornin'
Oh, Ireland, don't you hear me shout!

I bid you the top o' the mornin'.
Ho-ho! upon Cleena's shelving strand,

The surges are grandly beating,
And Kerry is pushing her headlands out

To give us the kindly greeting;
Into the shore the sea-birds fly

On pinions that know no drooping; And out from the cliffs, with welcomes charged,

A million of waves come trooping. Oh, kindly, generous Irish land,

So leal and fair and loving, No wonder the wandering Celt should think

And dream of you in his roving!
The alien home may have gems and gold-

Shadows may never have gloomed it;
But the heart will sigh for the absent land,

Where the love-light first illumed it.
And doesn't old Cove look charming there,

Watching the wild waves' motion, Leaning her back up against the hills,

And the tip of her toes on the ocean? I wonder I don't hear Shandon's bells,

Ah, maybe their chiming's over,
For it's many a year since I began

The life of a Western rover.
For thirty summers, astore machree,

Those bills I now feast my eyes on,
Ne'er met my vision, save when they rose

Over Memory's dim horizon.
E'en so, 'twas grand and fair they seemed

In the landscape spread before me;
But dreams are dreams, and my eyes would

ope To see Texas sky still o'er me. Ah! oft upon the Texan plains,

When the day and the chase were over, My thoughts would fly o'er the weary wave,

And around this coast line hover; And the prayer would rise, that some future

day, All danger and doubtings scornin', I'd help to win my native land

The light of young liberty's mornin'.
Now fuller and truer the shore line showg-

Was ever a scene so splendid ?
I feel the breath of the Munster breeze,

Thank God that my exile's ended.
Old scenes, old songs, old friends again,

The vale and cot I was born in!
Oh, Ireland, up from my heart of hearts,

I bid you the top of the mornin'.

He ran Bushes Grove up to Carbury Byrns-
Joe Debil, Hal Preston, kept leading by turns;
The earth it was open, yet he was so stout,
Tho' he might have got in, still he chose to keep out;
To Malpas high hills was the way that he flew,
At Dalkey's stone common we had him in view;
He drove on to Bullock, then slunk Glenagarry,
And so on to Monkstown, where Laura grew weary.
Thro' Rochestown wood, like an arrow he passed,
And came to the steep hills of Dalkey at last;
There gallantly plunged himself into the sea,
And said in his heart, “ None can now follow me;
Could stop the pursuit of the stanch-mettled hounds:
Could stop the pursuit of the staunch-mettled hounds:
Flis policy here did not serve him a rush,
Five couple of Tartars were hard at his brush.

To recover the shore then again was his drift;
But ere he could reach to the top of the clift,
He found both of speed and of daring a lack,
Being waylaid and killed by the rest of the pack.
At his death there were present the lads I have sung,
Save Larry, who, riding a garron, was hung:
Thus ended at length a most wonderful chase,
That held us five hours and ten minutes space.

We returned to Kilruddery's plentiful board, Where dwelt hospitality, truth, and my Lord; We talked o'er the chase, and we toasted the health Of the man who ne'er struggled for place or for wealth. “ Owen Bray balked a leap," says Hal Preston; “ 'twas odd.” “ 'Twas shameful,” cried Jack, “ by the great L--G--!”

One morning Tim was rather full,

His head felt heavy, which made him shake, He fell from the ladder and broke his skull,

So they carried him home his corpse to wake; They rolled him up in a nice clean sheet,

And laid him out upon the bed,
With fourteen candles 'round his feet,

And a couple of dozen around his head.-CHORUS

His friends assembled at his wake,

Missus Finigan called out for the lunch; First they laid in tay and cake,

Then pipes and tobacky, and whisky punch. Miss Biddy O'Brien began to cry,

Such a purty corpse did ever you see? Arrah! Tim avourneen, an’ why did ye die?

Och, none of your gab, sez Judy Magee.--CHORUS.

over

Perhaps young McDonald regards not your

name, But placed his affections upon some foreign

dame; And may have forgotten, for aught that you

know, The lovely young lassie he left in Glenco. My Donald's true valor, when tried in the

field, Like his gallant ancestors, disdaining to yield; The Spaniards and French he'll soon

throw, And in splendor return to my arms in Glenco. The power of the French is hard to pull down, And caused many heroes to die of their

wounds; And with young McDonald it may happen so, The man you love dearly perhaps is laid low. My Donald from his promise can never depart, For love, truth and honor are found in his

heart; And if I never see him, still single I'd go, And

for my Donald, the pride of Glenco.

Then Peggy O'Connor took up the job,

Arrah! Biddy, says she, ye're wrong, I'm shure! But Judy then gave her a belt on the gob,

And left her sprawling on the flure. Each side in the war did soon engage,

'Twas woman to woman, and man to man, Shillelah law was all the rage,

An' a bloody ruction soon began.-CHORUS.

mourn

Mickey Mulvaney raised his head,

When a gallon of whisky flew at him;
It missed him, and hopping on the bed,

The liquor scattered over Tim.
Bedad! he revives! see how he raises !

An' Timothy, jumping from the bed,
Cries, while he lathers around like blazes,

Bad luck to yer souls! d’ye think I'm dead ?--CHORUS

Cheer up, my dear Flora, your sorrows are

o'er, While life does remain we'll never part more; Though the storms of war at a distance may

blow, In peace and contentment we'll reside at

Glenco.