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AMRY LA MORE.-Continued. While with pity I gazed, she exclaimed: “0, my mother! See the blood on the lash! 'tis the blood of my brotherThey have torn his poor flesh! and they now strip another

'Tis Connor-the friend of poor Mary Le More.”

Though his locks were as white as the foam on the ocean,

Those wretches shall find that my father is brave; My father! she cried, with the wildest emotion,

Ah, no! my poor father now sleeps in the grave. They have tolled his death bell, they've laid the turf o'er him, His white locks were bloody, no aid could restore him; He is gone! he is gone! and the good will deplore him,

When the blue waves of Erin hide Mary Le More.

KITTY TYRRELL. YOU RE looking as fresh as the morn, dar

ling, You're looking as bright as the day; But while on your charms I'm dilating.

You're stealing my poor heart away. But keep it and welcome, mavourneen,

Its loss I'm not going to mourn; Yet one heart's enough for a body,

So, pray, give me yours in return; Mavourneen, mavourneen,

0, pray, give me yours in return. I've built me a neat little cot, darling,

I've pigs and potatoes in store; I've twenty good pounds in the bank, love,

And may be a pound or two more.
It's all very well to have riches,

But I'm such a covetous elf,
I can't help still sighing for something,

And, darling, that something's yourself;
Mavourneen, mavourneen,
And that something, you know, is your.

self. You're smiling, and that's a good sign, dar

A lark, from the gold blossomed furze that grew near her,

Now rose and with energy caroled his lay; “ Hush! hush!” she continued, “ the trumpet sounds clearer,

The horsemen approach! Erin's daughters away!
Ah! soldiers, 'twas foul, while the cabin was burning,
And o'er a pale father a wretch had been mourning-
Go hide with the seamew, ye maids, and take warning,

Those ruffians have ruined poor Mary Le More.

ling,

Away! bring the ointment-0 God! see the gashes !

Alas! my poor brother, come dry my big tear! Anon we'll have vengeance for those dreadful lashes,

Already the screechowl and raven appear. By day the green grave that lies under the willow, With wild flowers I'll strew, and by night make my pillow, Till the ooze and dark seaweed beneath the curled billow

Shall furnish a death bed for Mary Le More."

Thus raved the poor maniac, in tones more heart-rending,

Than sanity's voice ever poured on my ear, When lo! on the waste, and on the march towards her bending,

A troop of fierce cavalry chanced to appear. ** Oh! the fiends!” she exclaimed, and with wild horror started, Then through the tall fern, loudly screaming, she darted; With an overcharged bosom I slowly departed,

And sighed for the wrongs of poor Mary Le More.

ST. PATRICK'S MARTYRS.

I WONDER what the mischief was in her, for the mistress was

niver countrairy, But this same is just what she said to me, just as sure as me

name it is Mary: “ Mary,” says she, all a-smiling and swate-like, “ the young ladies

are coming from France, And we'll give them a welcome next Monday, with an illegant

supper and dance."

Say “yes," and you'll never repent; Or if you would rather be silent

Your silence I'll take for consent. That good-natured dimple's a tell-tale,

Now all that I have is your own;
This week you may be Kitty Tyrrell,

Next week you'll be Mistress Malone;
Mavourneen, mavourneen,
You'll be my own Mistress Malone.

LIMERICK IS BEAUTIFUL.
LIMERICK is beautiful,

As everybody knows;
The river Shannon, full of fish,

Through that city flows.
But' tis not the river or the fish

That weighs upon my mind;
Nor with the town of Limerick

I've any fault to find.- Ochone, ochone. The girl I love is beautiful

And soft-eyed as the fawn; She lives in Garryowen,

And is called the Colleen Bawn.
And proudly as that river flows

Through that famed city,
As proudly, and without a word,

That Colleen goes by me.-Ochone, ochone. If I was made the Emperor

Of Russia to command, Or Julius Cæsar, or the

Lord Lieutenant of the land,
I'd give my plate and golden store,

I'd give up my army ;
The horses, the rifles, and the foot,

And the Royal Artillery.-Ochone, ochonu. I'd give the crown from off my head

My people on their knees;
I'd give the fleet of sailing ships

Upon the briny seas.
A beggar I would go to bed,

And happy rise at dawn;
If by my side, for my sweet bride,
I had found my Colleen Bawn.-Ochone,

ochone.

“Is it Monday ye're maning ?

says I;

ma'am, why, thin I'm sorry to stand in yer way, But it's little of work I'll do Monday, seeing that Monday's St.

Patrick's Day; And sure it's meself that promised to go wid Cousin Kitty

Malone's brother Dan, And bad luck to Mary Magee,” says I, “if she disappoints such

a swate young man!

“Me children hev been away four years ”-and she spoke in a

very unfeelin' way, “ Ye cannot expect I shall disappoint them either for you or St.

Patrick's Day; I know nothing about St. Patrick.” “That's true for ye, ma'am,

more's the pity," says I, *** l'or it's niver the likes of ye has the luck to be born under the

Irish sky."

SAVOURNEEN DEELISH.

AH! the moment was sad when my love

and I parted Savourneen deelish eileen og; As I kissed off her tears, I was nigh

broken-hearted! Savourneen deelish eileen og. Wan was her cheek, which hung on my

shoulder, Damp was her hand, no marble was colder, I felt that again I should never behold her,

Savourneen deelish eileen og.

ST. PATRICK'S MARTYRS.--Continued. Ye see, I was gitting past jokin'-and she sitting there, so aisy

and proud, And me thinking of the Third Avenue, and the procession and

music and crowd; And it crossed me mind that minit consarning Thady Mulligan's

supper and dance; Says I, “ It's not Mary Magee, ma'am, that can stay for the

ladies coming from France." "Mary,” says she, “two afternoons each week—ivery Wednesday

and ivery MondayYe've always had, besides yer early Mass, and yer Vispers ivery

other Sunday, And yer friends have visited at me house, two or three of thim

ivery night.” • Indade thin,” says I. “ That was nothin' at all but ivery dacent

girl's right!'Very well, thin,” says she, “ye can lave the house and be sure to

take wid ye yer 'right'; And if Michael and Nora think just as ye do, ye can all of yo

lave to-night.” So just for St. Patrick's glory we wint; and, as sure as Mary

Magee is me name, It's a house full of nagurs she's got now, which the same is a sin

and a shame. Bad luck to them all! A poor body, I think, had need of a com

ferable glass; It's a miserable time in Ameriky for a dacent Irish-born lass. If she sarves the saints,, and is kind to her friends, then she loses

her home and her pay, And there's thousands of innocent martyrs like me on ivery St.

Patrick's Day.

66

When the word of command put our inen

into motion, Savourneen deelish eileen og; I buckled on my knapsack to cross the wide

ocean, Savourneen deelish eileen og. Brisk were

our troops, all roaring like thunder, Pleased with the voyage, impatient for

plunder; My bosom with grief was almost torn asun

der, Savourneen deelish eileen og.

Long I fought for my country, far, far from

my true love, Savourneen deelish eileen og; All my pay and my booty I hoarded for you,

love, Savourneen deelish eileen og. Peace was proclaimed, escaped from the

slaughter, Landed at home, my sweet girl, I sougbt

her; But sorrow, alas! to the cold grave bad

brought her, Savourneen deelish eileen og.

ACUSHLA GAL MACHREE.

THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH.
OCH, love is the soul of a nate Irishman,
He loves all the lovely, loves all that he can,

With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green?”
His heart is good-humor'd, 'tis honest and sound,
No malice or hatred is there to be found.
He courts and marries, he drinks and he fights,
For love, all for love, for in that he delights,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.
Who has e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair,
An Irishman all in his glory is there,

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green;
His clothes spick and span, new without e'er a speck,
A neat Barcelona tied 'round his white neck,
He goes to a tent and he spends half a crown,
He meets with a friend, and for love knocks him down

With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.
At evening returning, as homeward he goes,
His heart light with whisky, his head soft with blows

From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.
He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile,
Cries: “Get you gone, Pat!” yet consents all the while;
To the priest then they go, and nine months after that
A fine baby cries out: "How d'ye do, father Pat,

With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.” Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak and its neighboring earth,

Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green; Mas the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon, Drub the foes who dare plant on our confines a cannon; United and happy at loyalty's shrine, May the rose, leek, and thistle long Hourish and twine

Round a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.

The long, long wished-for hour has come,

But come, asthore, in vain,
And left thee but the wailing hum

Of sorrow and of pain;
My light of life, my only love,

Thy portion sure must be
Man's scorn below, God's wrath above-

Acushla gal machree.

'Twas told of thee the world around,

Was hoped for thee by all, That with one gallant sunward bound

Thou'd burst long ages' thrall; Thy fate was tried, alas! and those

Who periled all for thee Were cursed and branded as thy foes,

Acushla gal machree.

What fate is thine, unhappy isle,

That e'en the trusted few Should pay thee back with fraud and guile

When most they should be true? 'Twas not thy strength or courage failed

Nor those whose souls were free; By moral force wert thou betrayed,

Acushla gal machree.

TEDDY O'NEAL.

ACUSHLA GAL MACHREE-Continued. Ive given thee my youth and prime,

And manhood's waning years;
I've blest thee in thy sunniest time,

And shed for thee my tears;
And mother, tho' thou'st cast away

The child who'd die for thee, My fondest wish is still to pray

For Cushla gal machree.

I DREAMT but last night, oh! bad cess to the dreaming,

Sure I'd die if I thought 'twould come truly to pass; I dreamt, while the tears down my pillow were streaming,

That Teddy was courting another fair lass. Oh! didn't I wake with a weeping and wailing,

The grief of the thought was too much to conceal;
My mother cried, Norah, child, what is your ailing?

But all I could utter was Teddy O'Neal-
My mother cried, Norah, child, what is your ailing?

But all I could utter was Teddy O'Neal.

I've tracked for thee the mountain sides

And slept within the brake, More lonely than the swan that glides

On Lua's fairy lake;
The rich have spurned me from their door

Because I'd set thee free,
Yet do I love thee more and more-

Acushla gal machree.

I went to the cabin he danc'd his wild jigs in,

As neat a mud palace as ever was seen; Considering it served to keep poultry and pigs in,

I'm sure you'll allow 'twas most decent and clean; But now all around it looks cold, sad, and dreary,

All sad, and all silent, no piper, no ieel ; Not even the sun through the casement shines cheery,

Since I lost the dear darling boy, Teddy O'NealNot even the sun through the casement shines cheery,

Since I lost the dear darling boy, Teddy O'Neal.

Shall I ever forget when the big ship was ready,

And the moment was come for my love to depart; How I sobbed like a spalpeen, good-by to you, Teddy,

With a tear on my cheek, and a stone on my heart! He said 'twas to better his fortune he wander’d,

But what would be gold to the joy I should feel If he'd only come back to me, honest and loving,

Still poor, yet my own darling Teddy O'NeilIf he'd only come back to me, honest and loving,

Still poor, yet my own darling Teddy O'Neal.

OH, MOLLY, I CAN'T SAY YOU'RE

HONEST.
Ou, Molly, I can't say you're honest,

You've stolen my heart from my breast; I feel like a bird that's astonished

When young vagabones rob its nest. My brightest of sunshine at night is,

'Tis just between midnight and dawn,
For then, Molly dear, my delight is
To sing you my little cronawn-

Weirasthru!
Phillilew!
But I'm kilt-

May the quilt
Lie light on your beautiful form

When the weather is hot,

But, my love, when 'tis not,
May it rowl you up cosey and warm!
Now, if you are sleepin', dear Molly,

Oh, don't let me waken you, dear;
Some tindher memorial I'll lave you,

To just let you know I was here.
So I'll throw a big stone at the windy,

And if any glass I should brake,
"Tis for love all the panes I am takin'--
What wouldn't I smash for your sake?

Weirasthru!
Phillilew!
But I'm kilt-

May the quilt
Lie light on your beautiful form

When the weather is hot,

But, my love, when 'tis not,
May it rowl you up cosey and warm!

NELL FLAHERTY'S DRAKE. My name it is Nell, right candid I tell,

And I live near a cool hill I never will deny, I had a large drake, the truth for to spake,

My grandfather left me when going to die; He was merry and sound, and would weigh twenty pound,

The universe round would I rove for his sake. Bad luck to the robber, be he drunken or sober,

That murdered Nell Flaherty's beautiful drake.

His neck it was green, and rare to be seen,

He was fit for a queen of the highest degree. His body so white, it would you delight,

He was fat, plump, and heavy, and brisk as a bee. This dear little fellow, his legs they were yellow,

He could fly like a swallow, or swim like a hake, But some wicked habbage, to grease his white cabbage,

Has murdered Nell Flaherty's drake!

May his pig never grunt, may his cat never hunt,

That a ghost may him haunt in the dark of the night. May his hens never lay, may his horse never neigh,

May his goat fly away like an old paper kite; May his duck never quack, may his goose be turned black

And pull down his stack with her long yellow beak. May the scurvy and itch never part from the britch

Of the wretch that murdered Nell Flaherty's drake!

I know that your father is stingy,

And likewise your mother the same; 'Tis very small change that you'll bring me,

Exceptin' the change o' your name; So be quick with the change, dearest Molly,

Be the same more or less as it may,
And my own name, my darlin', I'll give you
The minnit that you name the day!

Weirasthru!
Phillilew!
But I'm kilt-

May the quilt
Lie light on your beautiful form

When the weather is hot,

But, my love, when 'tis not,
May it rowl you up cosey and warm!

May his rooster ne'er crow, may his bellows not blow,

Nor potatoes to grow-may he never have none May his cradle not rock, may his chest have no lock,

May his wife ave no frock for to shade her backbone. That the bugs and the fleas may this wicked wretch tease,

And a piercing north breeze make him tremble and shake. May a four years old bug build a nest in the lug

Of the monster that murdered Vell Flaherty's drake.

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Then the boy set up such a-bawling, And such a-squalling, and caterwauling, For he got such a mauling,

Oh, that was the day of great joy. Then the piper set up such a-moaning, And such a-droning, and such a-croning, In the corner his comether was turning, When they christened sweet De

nis, the boy.

TIIE IRISHI GIRL.

The aristocracy came to the party,
There was McCarty, light and hearty,
With Florence Berdelia Fogarty,

Who said that was French for a name;
Dionysius Alphonso Mulrooney,
Oh, so spooney and so looney,
With the charming Evangeline Mooney,

Of society she was the cream.

ONE evening, as I strayed down the river's side,
Looking all around me an Irish girl I spied ;
So red and rosy were her cheeks, and yellow was her hair,
And costly were the robes which iny Irish girl did wear.
Her shoes of Spanish leather were bound round with spangles gay,
The tears came down her crystal eyes, and she began to say:
Ochone, and alas! asthore areen machree,
Why should you go and leave me, and slight your own Molly?
The first time that I saw my love, I was sick and very bad,
All the request I asked was that she might tie my head;
I asked her if one as bad as me could ever mend again,
For love's a sore disorder—did you ever feel the pain ?
My love she'll not come nigh me for all the moan I make,
Nor neither will she pity me if my poor heart should break;
But was I of some noble blood and she of low degree,
She would hear my lamentation and come and pity me.
My only love is fairer than the lilies that do grow,
She has a voice that's clearer than any winds that blow;
She's the promise of this country, like Venus in the air,
And let her go where'er she will, she's my joy and only dear.
Be it so, or be it not, of her I take my chance,
The first time that I saw my love she struck me in a trance;
Her ruby lips and sparkling eyes have so bewitched me,
That were I king of Ireland, queen of it she should be.

Cora Teresa Maud McCann,
Angelina Rocke, and Julia McCafferty,
Rignold Mormon Duke, Morris McGan,

And Clarence Ignatius McGurk; Cornelius Horatio Flaherty's wife, Adolphus Grace, and Dr. O'Rafferty, Eva McLaughlin, and Cora Muldoon,

And Brigadier-General Burke;

THE LAKES OF COLD FINN.

They were dancing the polka-mazurka,
'Twas a worker, not a shirker,
And a voice of Vienna, la Turker,

And the polka-redowa divine;
After dancing, they went in to lunching,
Oh, such munching, and such crunching,
They were busy as bees at a lunching,

With their coffee, tea, whisky, and wine.

It was early one morning young William had rose,
Straightway to his comrades' bed-chamber he goes,
Saying: Comrades, royal comrades, let nobody know,
For it's a fine morning and a bathing we'll go.
So they walked right along till they came to Long Lane,
And the first that they met was the keeper of the game;
He advised them for sorrow to turn back again,
For their doom was to die on a watery main.
So young William stepped off and swam the lake 'round,
He swam 'round the island, but not the right ground,
Saying: Comrades, royal comrades, don't you venture in,
For there's depth in false water, in the lakes of Cold Finn.

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"They came with ready hands our toil tu i

share'Twas then I missed him most-my own

right hand; I felt, although kind hearts were 'round me

there,
The kindest heart beat in a foreign land.
Strong hand! brave heart! oh, severed

far from me,
By many a weary league of shore and

Now, death, you are coming, you are welcome to me,
From the pains of love I'm sure you'll set me free;
There is more trouble on my mind than my poor tongue can tell,
And these are my dying words: Johnny Doyle, fare you well!

sea.

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