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THE RIVER BOYNE.

BRIDE of Loch Ramor, gently seaward stealing, In thy placid depths last thou no feeling

Of the stormy gusts of other days? Does thy heart, 0 gentle, nun-faced river, Passing Shomberg's obelisk, not quiver,

While the shadow on thy bosom weighs ?

TERRY MALONE.-Continued.
If you spake of some one I'll not mention,

It is certain, they say, he'll appear;
And so of the lad I was thinking,
By the bosheen I saw him draw near.
I was pleased and yet sorry to see him,

And he asked me to met him alone; For I very well knew what he wanted,

So avoided poor Terry Malone. Coming home the next ev'ning quite lonely,

All at once who d'ye tihnk I did spy? But Terry himself in a flurry, And oh! such a beam in his eye! Where's the use to descend to partic'lars,

Enough if the end be made knownThat same night, by the moon, consented,

To become Mistress Terry Malone.

Thou hast heard the sounds of martial clangor, Seen fraternal forces clash in anger,

In thy Sabbath valley, River Boyne!
Here have ancient Ulster's hardy forces
Dressed their ranks, and fed their traveled

horses,
Tara's hosting as they rode to join.

DEAR PRATIES.
As a cook, a few dainties I'll here be explaining,

And sure you'll confess that they go in a trice,
They're of true Irish growth, and if you take my meaning,

You'll say they're all the world can think nice; There's some that will eat them well moistened with whiskey,

Some roast them, while others prefer them if boiled, And if you but eat them, they'll make your hearts frisky,

But leave on their jackets or else they'll be spoiled.

Forgettest thou that silent summer morning, When William's bugles sounded sudden warn

ing,

And James's answered, chivalrously clear! When rank to rank gave the death signal duly, And volley answered volley quick and truly,

And shouted mandates met the eager ear?

The thrush and linnet fled beyond the moun.

tains, The fish in Inver Colpa sought their fountains,

The unchased deer scampered through

Tredagh's gates; St. Mary's bells in their high places trembled, And made a mournful music which resembled

A hopeless prayer to the unpitying Fates.

CHORUS.
Dear praties we can't do without them,

They grow in our fields, and our men they employ;
Talk as you will you must say this about them-

That a mealy praty is an Irishman's joy. They make the boys stout, and keep the girls slender,

They soften the hearts, and they strengthen the mind, And the man from the bog, or the lord in high splendor,

All live by the praties, as most folks can find; l'esides, if a foe come to threaten old Erin,

We'll bother his noddle, and soon stop his breath, And at our ammunition he'd soon be found staring, For with praties, dear praties, we'd stone 'em to death.

Dear praties, etc.

Ah! well for Ireland had the battle ended When James forsook what William well de

fended,

Crown, friends, and kingly cause;
Well, if the peace thy bosom did recover
Had breathed its benediction broadly over

Our race, and rites, and laws.

Not in thy depths, not in thy fount, Loch

Ramor! Were brewed the bitter strife and cruel clamor

Our wisest long have mourned;
Foul Faction falsely made thy gentle current
To Christian ears a stream and name abhor.

rent,
And all thy waters into poison turned.

YOU'RE WELCOME AS FLOWERS IN MAY. So, Katty dear, you've told your mother

That I'm a rogue, by that and this,
We'll prove that same somehow or other,

So first of all I'll steal a kiss."
“ Och! Terry dear, don't call it stealing,

A kiss you cannot take away,
The loss of that I'd not be feeling-

You're welcome as the flowers in May."
But, Kitty dear, I'm growing bolder,

A great big thief I mean to start,
And before I am an hour older

I'd like to steal away your heart." “Och! Terry, don't you call it robbin',

My heart you've owned this many a
But if you like to ease its throbbin',

You're welcome as the flowers in May."
But, Katty dear, I am not joking,

My wounded honor you must heal;
I'll not be called such names for nothing,

Sure, it's yourself away I'd steal.”
“Och! Terry, that would be housebreaking,

But if my mother don't say nay,
It's to Father Tom you may be spaking-

You're welcome as the flowers in May.”

But, as of old God's Prophet sweetened Mara, Even so, blue bound of Ulster and of Tara,

Thy waters to our exodus give life; Thrice holy hands thy lineal foes have wedded, And healing olives in thy breast embedded,

And banished far the littleness of strife.

day;

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99

THE RIVER BOYNE.-Continued.

THE SACRET YEZ TRUSTED TO ME.
Our trust is not in musket or in saber-
Our faith is in the fruitfulness of labor,

If it's thrue it's the “silence that gives the consint,"
The soul-stirred, willing soil;

It's yerself, Dennis dear, should be mighty contint,

For it's niver a word I have said thro' your say,
In Homes and granaries by justice guarded,
In fields from blighting winds and agents Tho' yez stopp'd to fetch breath, before namin' the day;
warded,

Whin a purty Colleen, whom the boys are all praisin’
In franchised skill and manumitted toil.

Shall be yez, wid the pig, for the rint I am raisin',
The fayther I'll tell what ye’ve trusted to me,

And ask wid a kiss, if I married may be.
Grant us, O God, the soil, and sun, and sea-

sons! Avert Despair, the worst of moral treasons, Now avick! don't yez look wid that sheep-castin' eye, Make vaunting words be vile.

It bothers entirely a Colleen that's shy; Grant us, we pray, but wisdom, peace, and An' Pathric is comin', who will have his joke, patience,

And guess be me blushes, the words ye have spoke;
And we wil yet relift among the nations And the boy will be tazin', the while I am sazin'
Our fair and fallen, but unforsaken Isle! The moment the whisky my father is plazin',

To tell him the sacret yez trusted to me,
KATHLEEN'S FETCH.

And ask wid a kiss, if I married may be.
The reaper's weary task was done;
And down to repose suink the autumn sun; It's the pity, alanna, time makes men forgit
And the crimson clouds, in the rich-hued west, How swate was their joy when two tinder hearts met,
Were folding like rose-leaves round his rest. For I'm shure he wil say I am foolish to waste
My heart was light, and I hummed a tune, My love on a spalpeen an' marry in haste;
As I hied me home by the harvest moon; For it's thrue, Denis dear, that the ould will be preachin'
And I bless'd her soft and tender ray,

To the young who still think they've grown out ov their tachin', That rose to lighten my lone pathway.

I'll tell him the sacret yez trusted to me,

And coax wid a kiss that I married may be. Then I thought on my Kathleen's winning

smile (And I felt my heart grow sad the while),

THE EMERALD ISLE. Of her cheek, like the fading rose-clouds glowing,

OF all nations under the sun, Of her hair, like the dying sunlight flowing;

Dear Erin does truly excel; And her words like the song of a

For friendship, for valor, for fun, bird,

'Tis fam'd, as the world can tell; And her air and step, like the fawn's, when

The boys are all hearty, the girls stirred

Sweet daughters of beauty they prove, By the hunter's horn, as it boometh o'er

The lads they ne'er dread any perils, The woody glens of the steep Sliabh-mor.

The lasses are brimful of love.

summer

CHORUS.

The broad Lough Mask beneath me lay,
Like a sheet of foam in the silver ray;
And its yellow shores were round it rolled,
As a gem enclosed by its fretted gold.
And there, where the old oaks mark the spot,
Arose my Kathleen's sheltered cot;
And I bounded on, for my hopes were high,
Though still at my heart rose the boding sigh.

Then hurrah! for the Emerald Isle!

Where shillelahıs and shamrocks abound,
May peace and prosperity smile

O’er the land and its natives around.

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sure.

THE WHISTLING THIEF.

Farewell, dear friends, we meet no more, WHEN Pat came o'er the hills, his colleen fair to see,

Wirrasthrue! wirrasthrue! llis whistle, loud and shrill, his signal was to be.

My husband's horse is at the door; (Shrill whistle.)

Wirrasthrue! wirrasthrue! “Oh! Mary,” the mother cried, “there's some one whistling, Ah, love! ah, love! be kind to me,

For by this breaking heart you see " Oh! mother, you know it's the wind that's whistling through How dearly I have purchased thee! the door."

Wirrasthrue! wirrasthrue! (Whistles Garryowen.“ I've lived a long time, Mary, in this wide world, my dear,

THE JUG OF PUNCH. But the wind to whistle like that, I never yet did hear." “ But, mother, you know the fiddle hangs just behind the chink,

'Twas very early in the month of June, And the wind upon the string is playing a tune, I think.”

As I was sitting in my room, (Dog barks.)

I heard a thrush sing in a bush, * The dog is barking now, and the fiddle can't play that tune.” And the song he sung was a jug of punch.

Tul looral, etc. But, mother,

you know that dogs will bark, when they see the moon; “Now how can he see the moon, when you know he's old and What more diversion can a man desire, blind?

Than to be seated by snug coal fire, Blind dogs can't see the moon, nor fiddles be played by the Upon his knee a pretty wench, wind.

And on the table-a jug of punch? (Pig grunts.)

Tul looral, etc. * And now th is the pig, onaisy in his mind."

If I were sick and very bad, But, mother, you know they say that pigs can see the wind.” And was not able to go or stand, That's all very well in the day, but then, I may remark, I would not think it at all amies, That pigs, no more than we, can see anything in the dark.” To pledge my shoes for a jug of punch.

Tul looral, etc. “Now I'm not such a fool as you think; I know very well it is

Pat. Be off, you whistling thief! and get along home out of that! When I am dead and in my grave, And you be off to your bed, and don't bother me with your tears, No costly tombstone will I have, For though I've lost my eyes, I have not lost my ears.” But I'll dig a grave both wide and deep,

With a jug of punch at my head and feet.

Tul looral, etc. Now, boys, too near the house don't courting go, d'ye mind, Unless you're certain sure the old woman's both deaf and Now you jovial topers as you pass by, blind;

If you are thirsty, step in and try, The days when they were young, forget they never can

And with your sweethearts never flinch They're sure to tell the difference twixt a fiddle, a dog, or a To dip your bills in a jug of punch.

Tul looral, eto.

MORAL

man.

DARBY KELLY.

PADDY'S PANACEA.

My grandsire beat a drum so neat,

His name was Darby Kelly, 0! No lad so true at rat tat too,

At roll-call or reveille, O! When Marlbro's name first raised his fame,

My grandy beat the point of war; At Blenheim he, at Ramilie,

Made ears to tingle near and far; For with his wrist, he'd such a twist,

The girls would leer, you don't know how; They laugh’d, and cried, and sigh’d, and died,

To hear him beat his row dow dow.

A son he had which was my dad,

As tight a lad as any, 0! You e'er would know, though you should go

From Chester to Kilkenny, 0! When great Wolf died, his country's pride,

To arms my dapper father beat; Each dale and hill remembers still

How loud, how long, how strong, how neat, With each drum-stick he had the trick,

The girls would leer, you don't know how; Their eyes would glisten, their ears would

listen, To hear nim beat his row dow dow.

Yet ere I wed, ne'er be it said,

But that the foe I dare to meet, With Wellington, Old Erin's son,

To help to make them beat retreat. King Arthur once, or I'm a dunce,

Was call'd the hero of the page; But what was he to him we see

The Arthur of the modern age. For, by the pow'rs, from Lisbon's towers

Their trophies bore to grace his brow; He made Nap prance right out of France,

With his English, Irish, row dow dow.

LET your quacks in newspapers

Be cutting their capers, 'Bout curing the vapors, the scurvy, or gout,

Wid their powders and potions,

Their balsams and lotions,
Och hone! in their notions they're mightily out.

Would you know the true physic

To bother the phthisic,
And pitch to the devil cramp, colic, and spleen?

You'll find it, I think,

If you take a big drink,
With your mouth to the brink of a jug of poteen.

Then stick to the cratur,

The best thing in natur,
For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys.

Och! whack! botheration!

No dose in the nation
Can give consolation like whisky, my boys!

Oh, no liquid cosmetic

For lovers athletic
Or ladies pathetic can give such a bloom;

And for sweets, by the pow'rs,

A whole garden of flow'rs Never gave their own bow'rs such a darling perfume.

Then the liquor so rare,

If you're wishing to share,
To be turning your hair when it's grizzled or red;

Sure the sod has the merit

To make the true spirit
So strong it'll turn both your hair and your head.

Then stick to the cratur,

The best thing in natur,
For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys.

Oh! since 'tis perfection,

No doctor's direction
Can guard the complexion like whisky, my boys!

Whilst a child in the cradle,

My nurse wid a ladle
Was filling my mouth wid an ocean of pap,

When a drop from the bottle

Slipp'd into my throttle,
I caper'd and wriggled clane out of her lap.

On the floor I lay sprawling,

And kicking and bawling,
Till father and mother were both to the fore,

All sobbing and sighing,

Conceived I was dying,
But soon found I only was screeching for more.

Then stick to the cratur,

The best thing in natur
For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys.

Oh, whack, how they'd chuckle

If babes in their truckle
They only could suckle wid whisky, my boys!

Thro' my youthful progression

To years of discretion
My childhood's impression still clung to my mind;

For at school or at college

The bolus of knowledge
I never could gulp till wid whisky combined.

And as older I'm growing,

Time's ever bestowing
On Erin's potation a flavor so fine,

That howe'er they may lecture

'Bout Jove and his nectar,
Itself is the only true liquor divine.

Then stick to the cratur,
The best thing in natur

OH, STEER MY BARK TO ERIN'S ISLE.

OH, I have roamed o'er many lands,

And many friends I've met! Not one fair scene or kindly smile

Can this fond heart forget.
But I'll confess that I'm content,

No more I wish to roam:
Oh, steer my bark to Erin's isle,

For Erin is my home.

In Erin's isle there's manly hearts,

And bosoms pure as snow:
In Erin's isle there's right good cheer,

And hearts that overflow.
In Erin's isle I'd pass my time;

No more I wish to roam :
Oh, steer my bark to Erin's isle,

For Erin is my home.

If England were my place of birth,

I'd love her tranquil shore;
If bonny Scotland were my home,

Her mountains I'd adore.
But pleasant days in both I've past;

I'll dream of days to come: Oh, steer my bark to Erin's isle,

For Erin is my home.

PADDY'S PANACEA.-Continued.
For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys.

Oh, whack! 'tis delighting

For courting or fighting
There's nought so exciting as whisky, my boys!

Let philosophers dabble

In science, and babble 'Bout Oxygin, Hydrogin, Nitrogin's fame;

For their gin, to my thinking,

Is not worth the drinking;
Their labor's all lost, and their learning a drame.

They may prate by the score

Of their elements four,
That all things earth, air, fire, and water must be;

For their rules I don't care,

For in Ireland, I'll swear, By St. Pat there's a fifth, and that's whisky, machree!

Then stick to the cratur,

The best thing in natur
For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys.

Och! whack! art and science

Myself bids defiance
To yield in appliance to whisky, my boys!

Come guess me this riddle

What bates pipe and fiddle? What's stronger than mustard and milder than crame?

What best wets your whistle?

What's clearer than crystal, And sweeter than honey, and stronger than stame?

What'll make the dumb talk?

What'll make the lame walk?
What's th’ Elixir of Life and Philosopher's Stone!

And what help'd Mr. Brunel

To dig the Thames Tunnel !
Sure wasn't it the spirit of nate Innishowen!

Then stick to the cratur,

The best thing in natur
For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys.

Oh! whack! I'd not wonder

If lightning and thunder
Was made from the plunder of whisky, my boys!

THE COLLEEN BAWN.
Ocu! Patrick darlin', would you lave me

To sail across the big salt sea?
I never thought you'd thus decave me;

It's not the truth you're tellin' me!
Though Dublin is a mighty city,

It's there I should be quite forlorn, For, poor and friendless, who would pity

Left lonely there—your Colleen Bawn? You tell me that your friends are leaving

The dear green isle, to cross the main, But don't you think they'll soon be grieving

For dear ould Ireland once again? Can they forget each far-famed river ?

Each hill a thousand songs adorn? Can you depart from them for ever

Could you forget your Colleen Bawn? Sure, Patrick, me you've been beguiling,

It's not my heart you mane to break, Tho' fortune may not now be smiling,

Your Colleen Bawn you'll not forsake; I'll go with you across the sea, dear,

If brighter days for us wont dawn; No matter where our home may be, dear,

I still will be your Colleen Bawn.

DUBLIN BAY.

He sailed away in a galant bark

Roy Neill and his fair young bride, He had ventur'd all in that bounding ark,

That danced o'er the silver tide.
But his heart was young and his spirit light,

And he dashed the tear away,
As he watch'd the shore recede from sight,

Of his own sweet Dublin Bay.

THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May morning long ago,

When first you were my bride.
The corn was springing fresh and green,

And the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip Mary,

And the love light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary,

The day as bright as then; The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again! But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

And your breath warm on my cheek, And I still keep list’ning for the words

You never more may speak. "Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near;
The church where we were wed, Mary,

I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,

And my step would break your rest, For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,

With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends; But oh! they love the better far,

The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessing and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,

Since my poor Mary died.
I'm bidding you a long farewell,

My Mary, kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,

In the land I'm going to!
They say there's bread and work for all,

And the sun shines always there; But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair!

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