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"JENNY, I'M NOT JESTING.”

SHAUN'S HEAD-Continued. “ The Scots are on the border, Shaun!”-ye saints, he makes no

breathI remember when that cry would wake him up almost from death; Årt truly dead and cold? O, chief! art thou to Ulster lost? Dost hear-dost hear? By Randolph led, the troops the Foyle

have crossed!" He's truly dead! he must be dead! nor is his ghnat aboutAnd yea no tomb could hold his spirit tame to such a shout! The pale face droopeth northward-ah! his soul must loom up

there, By old Armagh, or Antrim’s glynns, Lough Foyle, or Bann the

fair! I'll speed me Ulster-wards, your ghost must wander there, proud

Shaun, In search of some O'Neill, through whom to throb its hate again.

Az, Jenny, I'm not jesting,
Believe what I'm protesting,
And yield what I'm requesting

These seven years through.'
** Ah, Lawrence, I may grieve you,
Yet, if I can't relieve you,
Sure, why should I deceive you

With words untrue ?
But, since you must be courtin',
There's Rosy and her fortune;
'Tis rumoured your consortin'

With her of late.
Or there's your cousin Kitty,
So charming and so witty,
She'd wed you out of pity,

Kind Kate."

THE “HOLLY AND IVY” GIRL.

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“ Fie! Jenny, since I knew you,
Of all the lads that woo you.
None's been so faithful to you,

If truth were told.
Even when yourself was dartin'
Fond looks at fickle Martin,
Till off the thief went startin'

For Sheela's gold.”
“And if you've known me longest,
Why should your love be strongest,
And his that's now the youngest,

For that be worst?"
* Fire, Jenny, quickest kindled
Is always soonest dwindled :
And thread the swiftest spindled

Snaps first.”
“If that's your wisdom, Larry,
The longer I can tarry,
The luckier I shall marry

At long, long last."
“ I've known of girls amusing
Their minds, the men refusing,
Till none were left for choosing

At long, long last."
Well, since it seems that marriage
Is still the safest carriage.
And all the world disparage

The spinster lone;
Since you might still forsale me,
I think I'll let you take me,
Yes! Larry, you may make me

Your own!”

'Twas thus a dying maiden sung, while the cold hail rattled down, And fierce winds whistled mournfully o'er Dublin's dreary town:One stiff hand clutched her Ivy sprigs and Holly boughs so fair, With the other she kept brushing the haildrops from her hair. So grim and statue-like she seemed, 'twas evident that Death Was lurking in her footsteps--while her hot, impeded breath Too plainly told her early doom-though the burden of her lay Was still of life and Christmas joys, and a Happy New Year's

Day.

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'Twas in that broad, bleak Thomas Street, I heard the wanderer

sing, I stood a moment in the mire, beyond the ragged ringMy heart felt cold and lonely, and my thoughts were far away, Where I was many a Christmas-tide and Happy New Year's Day. I dreamed of wanderings in the woods among the Holly Green; I dreamed of my own native cot and porch with Ivy Screen; I dreamed of lights forever dimm’d-of Hopes that can't return-And dropped a tear on Christmas fires that never more can burn. The ghost-like singer still sung on, but no one came to buy; The hurrying crowd passed to and fro, but did not heed her cry; She uttered one low, piercing moan-then cast her boughs awayAnd smiling, cried—“l'll rest with God before the New Year's

Day! On New Year's Day I said my prayers above a new-made grave, Dug recently in sacred soil, by Litrey's murmuring wave; The Minstrel maid from Earth to Heaven has winged her happy

way, And now enjoys, with sister saints, an endless New Year's Day.

THE MONKS OF THE SCREW. WHEN St. Patrick our order created

And called us the Monks of the Screw, Good rules he revealed to our abbot,

To guide us in what we should do. But first he replenished his fountain

With liquor the best in the sky; And he swore by the word of his saintship

That fountain should never run dry. My children, be chaste-till you're tempted;

While sober, be wise and discreet; And humble your bodies with fisting

Vhene'er you have nothing to eat.
Then be not a glass in the convent,

Except on a festival, found :
And, this rule to enforce, I ordain it

A festival all the year round!

MANTLE SO GREEN.

As I went a-walking, one evening in June,
To view the fair fields and meadows so green,
I spied a young damsel, she appeared like a queen,
With her costly fine robes and her mantle so green.

I stood in amaze I was struck with surprise-
I thought her an angel that fell from the skies;
Her eyes like the diamond, her cheeks like the rose,
She is one of the larrest that nature composed.

Said I, Pretty fair maid if you come with me,
We will join in wedlock, and married will be;
I'll dress you in rich attire, and you'll appear like a queen,
With your costly tine robes and your mantle so green!

She answered me, Young man you must be refused,
For, I'll wed with no man, you must me excuse;
To the green hills I'll wander to shun all men's view,
For, the lad that I love lies in famed Waterloo.

Since you are not married tell me your love's name,
I have been in battle, I might know the same;
Draw near to my garment, and there you will see
His name is embroidered on my mantle so green!

ERIN'S GREEN SHORE. ONE evening, so late, as I rambled

On the banks of a clear purling stream, I sat myseli down on a bed or primi oses,

And so gently fell into a dream. I dreamt I beheld a fair female,

Her equals I ne'cr saw before, As she sighed for the wrongs of her country,

As she strayed along Erin’s green shore. I quickly addressed this fair female,

My jewel, come tell me your name, For here in this country, I know, you're a

stranger, Or I would not have asked you the same." She resembled the Goddess of Liberty,

And of Freedom the nuantle she wore, As she sighed for the wrongs of her

country, As she strayed along Erin's green shore. “I know you're a true son to Granue,

And my secrets to you I'll unfold; For here in the midst of all dangers,

Not knowing my friends from my foes, I'm the daughter of Daniel O'Connell,

And from England I lately came o'er, I've come to awake my brethren

That slumber on Erin's green shore.” Her eyes were like two sparkling diamonds

Or the stars of a cold frosty night; Her cheeks were two blooming roses,

And her teeth of the ivory so white. She resembled the Goddess of Freedom,

And green was the mantle she wore, Bound 'round with the shamrock and roses That grew along Erin's green shore.

PADDY'S PASTORAL RHAPSODY. WHEN Molly, th' other day, sir, Was makin' of the hay, sir, I ask'd her for to be my bride, And Molly she began to chide: Says she, “ You are too young, dear Pat.” Says I, “My jew'l, I'll mend o' that.”

You are too poor,” says she, beside; When to convince her, then, I tried, That wealth is an invintion The wise should never mintion, And flesh is grass, and flowers will fade, And it's better be wed than die an owld

maid. The purty little sparrows Have neither plows nor hurrows, Yet they live at aise, and are contint, Bekase, you see, they pay no rint; They have no care nor flustherin' About diggin' or industherin’; No foolish pride their comfort hurtsFor they cat the flax, and wear no shirts

For wealth is an invintion, etc.
Sure, Nature clothes the hills, dear,
Without any tailor's bills, dear;
And the bees they sip their sweets, my

sow).
Though they never had a sugar bowl;
The dew it feeds the rose of June,
But 'tis not with a silver spoon:
Then let us patthern take from those,
The birds and bees, and lovely rose-

For wealth is an invintion, etc.

On the raising of her mantle, it's there I behold His name and his surname, in letters of gold, Young William O'Reilly appeared in my view, He was my chief comrade in famed Waterloo.

We fought so victorious where bullets did fly,
And, in the field of Nervon, your true lover does lie;
We fought for three days to the fourth afternoon,
He received his death summons on the 18th of June.

As he was a-dying, I heard his last cry:
Were you here, lovely Nancy, content I would die-
Peace is proclaimed, and the truth I'll declare,
Here is your love's token, the gold ring I wear.

I stood in amazement, the paler she grew,
She flew from my arms with her heart full of woe;
To the green hills I'll wander for the lass that I love!
Rise up! lovely Nancy, your grief I'll remove.

Oh! Nancy lovely Nancy it was I won your heart
In your father's garden, that day we did part;
In your father's garden, within a green shadow tree,
Where I rolled you in my arms in your mantle so green!

This couple has got married ; I heard people say
They had nobles to attend them on their wedding day,
Now peace is proclaimecl, and the war is all o'er,
You are welcome to my arms, lovely Nancy, once more!

MCFADDEN'S PICNIC.

Near the beautiful town of Killybeys,

In the county of Donegal, The McFaddens, the Maloneys,

With their children large and small, Gave over their daily labor,

Sorra stroke of work would they do; But betook themselves to the fields and

woods For to kick up a hubbubaloo.

THE BANKS OF CLAUDY. It was on a summer morning, all in the month of May, Down by yon flowery-garden, where Betsey she did stray, I overheard a damsel in sorrow to complain, All for her absent lover, that plows the raging main. I went up to this fair maid and put her in surprise, I own she did not know me, I being in disguise. Said I: My charming creature, my joy and heart's delight, How far do you travel this dark and rainy night? The way, kind sir, to Claudy, if you please to show, Pity a maid distracted, for I have to go; I am in search of a faithless young man, Johnny is his name, All on the banks of Claudy I am told he does remain. If Johnny was here this night, he would keep me from all harm, He's in the field of battle all in his uniform; And he's in the field of battle, his foes he will destroy, Like a ruling king of honor he fought in the wars of Troy. It's six weeks and better since your true love left the shore, He is cruising the wide ocean where foaming billows roar; He is cruising the wide ocean for honor and for gain, I was told the ship was wrecked all off the coast of Spain. When she heard the dreadful news she fell into despair, To wringing of her hands and tearing of her hair; Since he has gone and left me no man I will take, In some lonely valley I will wander for his sake. His heart was filled with joy, no longer he could stand, He flew into her arms, saying, Betsey, I am the man; I am the faithless young man whom you thought was slain, And since we are met on Claudy's banks, we'll never part again.

There was all the McFaddens, both young

an'l old,
And Terence O'Flaherty's niece;
A hundred and fifty Maloneys.

Wid a peck of praties a piece ;
Ind father O'Toole from Carrigaline,

The Gilhooleys of Borrisokane,
And Patsey Maloy, that broth of a boy,

Wid the elegani Widow McShane.

'Neath the shade of a tree, by a clear run.

ning brook, On the turf a cloth they spread. The same that generally covered the limbs

Of the young McFaddens in bed. Then they emptied their packs of the sweet

est of cakes, And the choicest of bacon and meat; And, for two hours, though divil a bit did

they do But drink whisky and gabble and eat.

THE GRAVE OF WOLFE TONE.
In Bodenstown churchyard there is a green grave,
And wildly along it the winter winds rave;
Small shelter, I ween, are the ruined walls there,
When the storm sweeps down on the plains of Kildare.
Once I lay on that sod-it lies over Wolfe Tone-
And thought how he perished in prison alone,
His friends unavenged, and his country unfreed
“Oh, bitter,” I said, is a patriot's meed.
“ For in him the heart of a woman combined
With a heroic life, and a governing mind-
A martyr for Ireland-his grave has no stone,
His name seldom named, and his virtues unknown.”
I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread
Of a band, who came into the home of the dead;
They carried no corpse, and they carried no stone,
And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe Tone,
There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave,
And an old man who knew him from cradle to grave,
And the children who thought me hard-hearted; for they
On that sanctified soil were forbidden to play.
But the old man, who saw I was mourning there, said:

We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe Tone is laid,
And we're going to raise him a monument, too-
A plain one, yet fit for the simple and true.”
My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand,
And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his band.
“ Sweet! sweet! 'tis to find that such faith can remain
To the cause, and the man so long vanquished and slain.”
In the Bodenstown churchyard there is a green grave,
And freely around it let winter winds rave;
Far better they suit him-the ruin and gloom-
Till Ireland, a nation, can build him a tomb.

By the pipes of McGorrisk they danced and

sung, Like divils, wid mad possessed; And Father O'Toole, in the widow's em

brace, Was shaking his foot wid the best. Ould Scally, the tailor, released from his

goose, Had the wife of McFadden in tow; And they lathered the gravel in style that

bedad! Ye can't see in a travelin' show.

The woods they presented a leautiful sighi

All thickened with maidens so sweet, And Mick Hogan a-courtin' O'Flaherty's

niece In a nate little shady retreat. Ould McFadden dead drunk and laid out

like a corpse, Wid a dozen Maloneys or more; And the swate little brats playing toy wid

potheen Wid the end of in innocent straw.

TO SUSTAIN THE FAMILY REPUTA

TION.

KILL OR CURE.

I'm a roving Irish boy, I was born in Ballaraghan,
And christened with much joy, after my father, Patrick Fagan;
I had a sweetheart, Kitty, and I courted her so gaily,
Divil a thought I had of trouble as I twisted my shillelah,

Musha, Kitty O'Shaughnessy, she's the girl for me,

Whack fal de daddy, musha, O'Shaughnessy. Och, 'twas herself I courted, a girl so neat and cozy, She said she loved me in return-her cheeks were red and rosy: Of sovereigns I had twenty, says she, I've seventeen, We'll join ourselves and them together and live like king and

queen!

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So we both set sail for Liverpool, and packed our kits together,
And married got, so neat and cool, in spite of wind or weather ;
With our money we opened a shop, in business not amiss,
We sold oysters, haddocks, mack’rel, mussels, praties and fried

fish.

CHORUS.

Och, yez may talk o' Ballyhooley, an' of

Enniscorthy, too, And the Killaloe Mounseer's exter

mination; Faix, I leave them miles behind, now

that I've made up me mind To maintain the family reputation.

In business we did well, till one day she was taken ill, sirs,
And the doctor always ruined me by sending in his bills, sirs;
So I made a bargain with him, kill or cure for twenty pounds so

frisky He was a decent sort, so I tho't I'd stand a noggin of Irish whisky. But she grew worse and worse, which made me quake with fear,

sir,
The doctor he attended her for more than half a year, sir;
Till one fine morn she died, and myself it did bewilder,
And the doctor he wanted his twenty pounds in silver.

SPOKEN-Says I, you never cured her! No, says he. Then, says I (singing) you dare not say you killed her!

Sure, me promise I will keep, an' each

night before I sleep If I'm not John Sullivan I'll be disap

pointed; An' I swore my ould dad's ghost won't lay

quiet unless I boast That daily some one's brain-box I've dis

jointed. By the magistrate one day I'll be wanted

so they say; Bu, his honor, shure, will grasp the sit

uation When I tell him wid a smile, please, I've

come to stay awhile,
To maintain the family reputation.

So, gentlemen, enjoy yourselves, the whisky drink like thunder; You cannot help but own yourselves there's mirth in an Irish

blunder; But when for your wives a doctor you want, mind and yer be

sure, Make the bargain, as I did myself, wid the doctor, kill or cure.

THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.

CHORUS.

FAREWELL, for I must leave thec, my own, my native shore,
And doom'd in foreign lands to dwell, may never see thee more;
For laws, our tyrant laws have said, that seas inust roll between
Old Erin and her faithful sons, that love to wear the Green.
O, we love to wear the Green! O, how we love the Green ;
Our native land we cannot stand, for wearing of the Grein;
Yet wheresoe'er the exile lives though oceans roll between,
Thy faithful sons will fondly sing, “ The wearing of the Green.”

Och, yez may talk o' Ballyhooley, an' of

Enniscorthy, too, And the Kilaloe Mounseer's exter

mination ; But he never went to jail, or drank

“ Guinness ” from a pail, To maintain the family reputation.

My father lov'd his country, and sleeps within her breast,
While I, that would have died for her, must never so be blest;
Those tears my mother shed for me, how bitter had they been,
If I had prov'd a traitor to “ The wearing of the Green."
There were some who wore the Green, who did betray the Green,
Our native land we cannot stand, though traitors to the Green.
Yet whatsoe'er our fate may be, when oceans roll let veen,
Her faithful sons will ever sing, “ The wearing of the Green.”

It's mesilf ye may have seen, down at

Conn O'Moy's shebeen, Informing the boys 'twas my ambition Some one's batter-box to break-then we

might enjoy a wakeWhat's more-I didn't mean to ask per

mission. Gad, I'd hardly said the word, when a loud

hooroo I heard. Jerry Foley yelled, “ I'll send you to tar

naíion!" He tried-that's all he said; I lit candles

on his head To maintain the family reputation.

My own, my native island, where'er I chance to roam,
Thy lonely hills shall ever be my own beloved home;
And brighter days must surely come, then those that we have

seen,
When Erin's sons may boldly sing, “ The wearing of the Green.”
For we love to wear the Green, O, how we love the Green!
Our native land we cannot stand, for wearing of the Green;
But brighter days must surely come, than those that we have

seen, When all her sons may proudly sing, “ The wearing of the Green.”

MOLLY BRALLAGHAN.

Al! then, mam, dear, did you never hear of purty Molly Bralla

ghan? Troth, dear! I have lost her, and I'll never be a man again; Not a spot on my hide will another summer tan again,

Since Molly she has left me alone for to die. The place where my heart was, you might easy rowl a turnip in, As big as any pavin' stane, and from Dublin to the Devil's Glin; If she chose to take another, sure, she might have sent mine back

again, And not leave me here all alone for to die.

THE EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor exile of

Erin, The dew on his robe was heavy ard chill; For his country he sighed when, at twilight,

repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill, But the day-star attracted his eye's sad

devotion, For it rose on its own native isle of the

ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emo

tion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go

bragh. Oh! sad is my fate, said the heart-broken

stranger, The wild deer and wolf to a covert can

Mam, dear, I remember, when the milking time was past and gone, We went into the meadows, where she swore I was the only man That ever she could love-yet, oh! the base, the cruel one,

After all that to leave me here alone for to die, Mam, dear, I remember as we came home the rain began, I rolled her in my coat, tho’ devil a waistcoat I have on; And my shirt was rather fine--dran-yet, oh! the base and cruel

one, After all that she has left me here alone to die,

flee;

I went and told my tale to Father McDonnell, mam,
And thin 1 wint and axed advice of Counselor ('Connell, manı;
He told me promise-breeches had been ever since the world began,

Now I have only one pair, mam, and they are corduroy.
Arrah! what could he mean, mam, or what would you advise me

to do? Must my corduroys to Molly go? in troth, I'm bothered what to

do: I can't afford to lose both my heart and my brecches, too

Yes, what need I care, when I've only to die!

But I have no refuge from famine or den

ger, A home and a country remains not so:

me. Ah! never again in the gre?n shady bowers Where my forefathers lived, shall I send

the sweet hours. Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flov.

ers, And strike the sweet numbers of Erin-go

bragh. Oh! Erin, my country, though sad and for

saken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me

no more. And thou, cruel fate, wilt thou never re

place me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can

chase me? Ah! never again shall my brothers embrace

Oh! the left side of my carcass is as weak as water-gruel, mam, The devil a bit upon my bones since Molly's proved so cruel,

mam; I wish I had a carabine, I'd go and fight a duel, mam.

Sure it's better far to kill myself than stay here to die. I'm hot and determined as a live salamander, mamWon't you come to my wake when I go my long meander, mam ? Oh! I'll feel myself as valiant as the famous Alexander, mam.

Whin I hear yiz crying 'round me: “ Arrah! why did ye die?”

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THE COUNTY OF MAYO.

On the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woful plight,
Through my sighing all the weary day, and weeping all the night,
Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go,
That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my sweet Mayo.

When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound, In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to

go, And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.

They died to defend me, or live to de

plore. Where now is my cabin door, so fast by the

wildwood ? Sisters and brothers did weep for its fall; Where is the mother that looked on my

childhool? And where is my bosom friend-dearer

than all? Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleas

ure, Why did it dote on the fast-fading treasure? Tears like the rain, may fall without meas

ure, But rapture and beauty they cannot reBut yet all its fond recollections suppress

ing. One dying wish my fond bosom shall

draw; Erin, an exile, bequeaths thee his blessing.

Land of my fathers, Erin-go-bragh. Buried and cold, when my heart stills its

motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle in the

ocan, And the harp-striking bards sing aloud wit'

devotion, Erin, mavour neen sweet Erin-go bragh.

[call.

They are altered girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and

high, With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles

byBut it's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so, That I must depart for foreign lands, and leave my sweet Mayo.

'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl in Irrul still,
And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill;
And that Colonel Hugh MacGrady should be lying dead and low,
And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.

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