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THE LADS WHO LIVE IN IRELAND.

PASTHEEN FION.

My name is Ned O'Manney, I was born in sweet Killarney,

I can fight, dance, or sing, I can plow, reap, or mow; And, if I met a pretty girl, I never practise blarney,

I've something more alluring, which perhaps you'd like to know. I'm none of your Bulgrudderies, nor other shabby families,

But can unto my pedigree a pretty title show: Oh! I'm of the O's and Mac's, and likewise the sturdy Whacks,

That live and toil in Ireland where the apple praties grow,

That live and toil in Ireland where the apple praties grow. I could a deal relate if I could but trace my pedigree:

My mother was a Hogan, but my father I don't know;
I've ninety-nine relations in a place they call Roscarberry,

And each unto their name has a Mac or an 0.
My uncle was a Brallaghan, my aunt she was a Callaghan,

And as to my character, why, I can plainly show. l'n rantin' rovin' blade, and I never was afraid,

For I was born in Ireland where the apple praties grow,
For I was born in Ireland where the apple praties grow.

0, My fair Pastheen is my heart's delight; Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye

bright; Like the apple blossom her bosom white, And her neck like the swan's on a March

morn bright! Then, Oro, come with me! come with me!

come with me! Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And, O! I would go through snow and

sleet If you would come with me, my brown

girl, sweet!

Moy Heaven still protect our hospitable country,
Where tirst I drew my living breath and heard its cocks to

crow!
Adieu to its green hills and its lovely bay of Banty,

Where many a pleasant evening my love and I did goWhere shoals of fish so pleasantly did sport about so merrily,

Beneath its glassy surface their wanton tricks to showOh! those scenes I did enjoy like a gay, unthinking boy,

With the lads who live in Ireland, where the apple praties grow, With the lads who live in Ireland, where the apple praties grow,

Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen!
Her cheeks are as red as the rose's sheen,
But my lips have tasted no more, I ween,
Than the glass I drank to the health of my

queen! Then, Oro, come with me! come with me!

come with me! Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And, O! I would go through snow and

sleet If you would come with me, my brown

girl, sweet!

St. Patrick was our saint, and a blessed man in truth was he,

Great gifts into our country he freely did bestow; He banished all the frogs and toads that sheltered in our country,

And unto other regions it's they were forced to go. There is one fact, undoubtedly, that cannot contradicted be,

For, trace the Irish history, and it will plainly show: Search the universe all round, tighter fellows can't be found Than the lads who live in Ireland, where the apple praties

grow, Than the lads who live in Ireland, where the apple praties grow.

THE RIVER ROE.

Were I in the town where's mirth and glee,
Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree,
With my fair Pastheen upon my knee,
'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me!

come with me! Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And, 0! I would go through snow and

sleet If you would come with me, my brown

girl, sweet!

As I went out one evening, all in the month of June,
The primroses and daisies and violets were in bloom;
I espied a lovely fair one, and her I did not know.
I took her for an angel that was bathing in the Roe.
Her teeth were like ivory, her skin a lily white,
Her cheeks as red as roses, her eyes like diamonds bright;
Her surname I'll not tell, lest you might her know,
But her master's habitation is on the river Roe.

Nine nights I lay in longing and pain,
Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain,
Thinking to see you, love, once again;
But whistle and call were all in vain!
Then, Oro, come with me! come with me!

come with me! Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And, O! I would go through snow and

sleet If you would come with me, my brown

girl, sweet!

I quickly stepped up to her, and this to her did say:
Are you a goddess, or what brought you this way?
She answered me right modestly, and said: I am not so.
I'm but a servant maid that was bathing in the Roe.
I said: My pretty fair maid, if with me you'll agree,
We'll join our hands in wedlock and wedded we will be:
Bly father, he's a nobleman, the country well does know,
And his dwelling lies convenient to the river Roe.
She quickly made me answer, and this to me did say:
My mistress she is waiting, I have no time to stay:
I'll meet you to-morrow and my mistress won't know,
We'll have some conversing on the river Roe.
They both shook hands and parted, from each other did go,
In hopes to meet next morning along the river Roe;
She dressed herself in private, away then she did go,
Her true love he was waiting along the river Roe.

I'll leave my people, both friend and foe;
From all the girls in the world I'll go;
But from you, sweetheart, O never! 0, no!
Till I lie in the coffin stretched, cold and

low! Then, Oro, come with m! come with me!

come with me! Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! And. O! I would go through snow and

sleet If you would come with me, my brown

girl, sweet!

BRIAN THE BRAVE.

THE RIVER ROE.-Continued. When she came up to him he thus to her did say: I'm glad to meet you here, my love, on this very day. I'm glad to meet you here, love, the way that I will know, If you're going to wed with me and dwell beside the river Roe. She modestly did answer, and said she was content, I kissed and embraced her, and away both went: We were married next evening, as you will shortly know, She has servants to attend her, and she dwells upon the Roe. It was within ten miles of Newton, convenient to the tide, You'll find my habitation convenient to the soil, You'll see ships from Limerick sailing down the silvery tide, And the lads and the lassies sparking along the river side. Farewell to friends and parents, and to the flowing quay, Likewise my old acquaintance, and I have no time to stay; Here is health to my own sweetheart, the girl that you know, And we will sing to the maid that dweils along the river Roe.

REMEMBER the glories of Brian the brave,

Tho' the days of the hero are o'er; Tho’ lost to Mononia and cold in the grave,

He returns to Kinkora no more. That star of the field which so often hath

pour’d Its beam on the battle, is set; But enough of its glory remains on each

sword, To light us to victory yet.

.

Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the tint

Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should

print The footstep of slavery there? No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never

resign, Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy

shrine, Than to sleep but a moment in chains.

Forget not our wounded companions, who

stood In the day of distress by our side; While the moss of the valley grew red with

their blood, They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died. That sun which now blesses our arms with

his light, Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain ;0! let him not blush, when he leaves us

to-night, To find that they fell there in vain.

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

PADDY AT THE THEATER.
From the county of Monaghan lately I came,
I'm a tinker by trade, Larry Dooly's my name;
My cousin, Tim Murphy, I met yesterday,
Says he, Mr. Dooly'll come to the play?

Derry down, down, down, Derry down.
Is it the play that you mean, are you sure that you're right?
They're treating the town to Pizzaro to-night;
But the treat, as he called it, and the one that I mean,
Bad luck to his treat, it cost me all my tin.

Derry down, down, down, Derry down.
Well, the green curtain drew up, and a lady I spied,
When a man came to kiss her she scornfully cried:
Get out, you big blackguard, I'll bother your jig!
When in comes Pizzaro with a grunt like a pig.

Derry down, down, down, Derry down.
In the days of ould Goury, a long time ago,
The Spaniards claimed war 'gainst Peru, you know;
They demanded its cash, its jewels and keys,
When a boy, they called Rowler, says: No, if you please.

Derry down, down, down, Derry down.
Then Rowler came in, like a day-star appeared,
He made a long speech and the sojers all cheered ;
Says he, Beat well the Spaniards, and do the neat thing,
And then, boys, stand up for your country and king.

Derry down, down, down, Derry down.
Then Mr. Murphy Alonzo somehow went to jail,
He got out by a back door without giving bail;
While Rowler was jumping o'er bridges and greens,
He was shot by some blackguard behind the big screens.

Derry down, down, down, Derry down. Then Rowler came forward, and with him a child, Looking all for the world like a man that was wild; Here's your gossoon, dear Cora, it's my own blood that's spilt In defense of your child, blood an' ounds, I'm kilt!

Derry down, down, down, Derry down.
Then Alonzo and Pizzaro had a terrible fight,
Pizzaro got killed, that seemed perfectly right;
For the audience came down with showers of applause,
They were all enlisted in the Peruvian's cause.

Derry down, down, down, Derry down.
Then Alonzo came forward and handsome!y bowed,
Saying: Ladies and gentlemen, meaning the crowd,
By your kind permission, to-morrow, then,
We will murder Pizzaro over again.

Derry down, down, down, Derry down.

Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight?

Who blushes at the name? When cowards mock the patriot's fate,

Who hangs his head for shame? He's all a knave, or half a slave,

Who slights his country thus ; But a true man, like you, man,

Will fill your glass with us.

We drink the memory of the brave,

The faithful and the few-
Some lie far off beyond the wave

Some sleep in Ireland, too;
All--all are gone--but still lives on

The fame of those who died All true men, like you, men,

Remember them with pride.

Some on the shores of distant lands

Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands

Their lonely graves were made; But, though their clay be far away

Beyond the Atlantic foamIn true men, like you, men,

Their spirit's still at home.

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UP FOR THE GREEN.

'Tis the green, oh, the green is the color of the true, And we'll back it 'gainst the orange and we'll raise it o'er the

blue; For the color of old Ireland alone should here be seen, 'Tis the color of the martyr'd dead, our own immortal green. Then up for the green, boys, and up for the green, Oh, 'tis down to the dust, and a shame to be seen; But we've hands, oh, we've hands, boys, full strong enough, I

ween, To rescue and raise again our own immortal green.

They may say they have powers 'tis vain to oppose,
'Tis better to obey and live than sure to die as foes;
But we scorn all their threats, whatever they may mean,
For we trust in God above us and we dearly love the green.
So we'll up for the green, boys, and we'll up for the green!
Oh! to die is far better than to be curst as we've been ;
And we've hearts, oh, we've hearts, boys, full true enough, I

ween,
To rescue and to raise again our own immortal green.

THE BLARNEY. THERE's a castle in Dublin, convenient to

Cork And Killarney, Killarney ; There's a stone in its tower that a wonder

can work And that's blarney, that's blarney. There's a neat little village in which stands

a mill, That goes grinding out cloth and that's

grinding there still; And a plaising discoorse you can larn, if

you will, And that's blarney, that's blarney. There are tie-ups and strikes in all parts of

the land, Let them warn yer, yes, warn yer, That the rich and the poor must each one

understand, And no blarney, no blarney. For when labor and capital each has their

right, There's no striking by day or no burning by

night; We will all live in peace without dynamite,

And no blarney, no blarney. Uncle Sam got his dander rize way up on

end, And says, darn yer, yes, darn yer; A stout helping hand to ould Ireland I'll

lend, And no blarney, no blarney. I've helped with cash, and I've helped with

corn, And I've helped her while starving, dis

tressed and forlorn; And I'll help her a nation once more to be

born. That's no blarney, no blarney. The great statue of Liberty enlightening

the world, Is all blarney, all blarney; Though the star-spangled banner is boldly

unfurled, It don't consarn yer, consarn yer. Tho' Liberty's torch may light Bedloe's lone

isle, 'Tis a will-o'-the-wisp that burns but to be

guile; For 'tis boodle that wins in the end all the

while,
And no blarney, no blarney.

They may swear, as they often did, our wretchedness to cure,
But we'll never trust John Bull again, nor let his lies allure;
No, we won't--no, we won't, Bull, for now nor evermore!
For we've hopes on the ocean and we've trust on the shore.
Then up for the green, boys, and up for the green!
Shout it back to the Sassanach: we'll never sell the green!
For our Tone is coming back, and with men enou2h, I ween,
To rescue and avenge us and our own immortal green.

Oh, remember the days when their reign we did disturb,
At Limerick and Thurles, Blackwater and Benburb;
And ask this proud Saxon if our blows he did enjoy,
When we met him on the battle-field of France--at Fontenoy.
Then we'll up for the green, boys, and up for the green!
Oh, 'tis still in the dust, and a shame to be seen;
But we've hearts and we've hands, boys, full strong enough, I

ween,
To rescue and to raise again our own unsullied green!

THE BARD OF ARMAGH.

On, listen to the lay of a poor Irish harper,

And scorn not the strains of his old withered hands, But remember those fingers they once could move sharper

In raising the merry strains of his dear native land; It was long before the shamrock, dear isle, lovely emblem,

Was crushed in its beauty by the Saxon's lion paw, And all the pretty colleens around me would gather,

Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh.

NORA MCSHANE.

I've left Ballymornach a long way behind

me, To better my fortune I've crossed the big

sea; But I'm sadly alone, not a creature to mind

me, And faith, I'm as wretched as wretched

How I love to muse on the days of my boyhood,

Though fourscore and three years have flew by them, It's king's sweet reflection that every young joy,

For the merry-hearted boys make the best of old men. At a fair or a wake I could twist my shillelah,

And trip through a dance with my brogues tied with straw, There all the pretty maidens around me would gather,

Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh.

can be.

I think of the buttermilk, fresh as the daisy,

The beautiful hills and the emerald plain, And, ah! don't I oftentimes think myself

crazy About that black-eyed rogue, sweet Norah

McShane.

In truth I have wandered this wide world over,

Yet Ireland's my home and a dwelling for me, And, oh, let the turf that my old bones shall cover

Be cut from the land that is trod by the free; And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms doth embrace,

And lulls me to sleep with old Erin-go-bragh! By the side of my Kathleen, my dear pride, oh, place me, Then forget Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh.

DARLING OLD STICK.

NORAH MCSHANE-Continued. I sigh for the turf pile so cheerfully burn

ing, When barefoot I trudged it from toiling

afar; When I toss'd in the light the thirteen I'd

been earning, And whistled tnc anthem of Erin-go

bragh. In truth, I believe that I'm half broken

hearted, To my country and love I must get back

again. For I've never been happy at all since I

parted From sweet Ballymornach and Norah

McShane.

My name is bold Morgan McCarthy from Trim,
My relations all died except one brother, Jim;
He is gone a-sojering out to Cow Bull,
I dare say he's laid low with a kick in the skull.
But let him be dead or be living,
A prayer for his corpse I'll be giving,
To send him soon home or to heaven,

For he left me his darlin' ould stick.

Oh! there's something so sweet in the cot I

was born in, Though the walls are but mud and the

roof is but thatch; How familiar the grunt of the pigs in the

mornin', What music in lifting the rusty old latch. 'Tis true I'd no money, but then I'd no

sorrow, My pockets were light, but my head had

no pain; And if I but live till the sun shine to

morrow I'll be off to ould Ireland and Norah

McShane.

If that stick had a tongue it could tell you some tales,
How it battered the countenances of the O'Neils;
It made bits of skull fly about in the air,
And it's been the promoter of fun at each fair.
For I swear by the toenail of Moses
It has often broke bridges of noses
Of the faction that dared to oppose us-

It's the darlin' kippeen of a stick.
The last time I used it 'twas on Patrick's Day,
Larry Fagan and I got into a shilley;
We went on a spree to the fair of Athboy,
Where I danced, and when done, I kissed Kate McEvoy.
Then her sweetheart went out for his cousin,
And by Jabers! he brought in a dozen;
A doldhrum they would have knocked us in

If I hadn't the taste of a stick.

KATE OF ARRAGLEN.

WHEN first I saw thee, Kate,
That summer ev'ning late,
Down at the orchard gate

Of Arraglen,
I felt I'd ne'er before
Seen one so fair, asthore,
I fear'd I'd never more

See thee again,
I stopped and gazed at thee,
My footfall luckily
Reach'd not thy ear, though we

Stood there so near; While from thy lips a strain, Soft as the summer rain, Sad as a lover's pain

Fell on my ear.

War was the word when the factions came in,
And, to pummel us well, they peeled off to their skin;
Like a Hercules there I stood for the attack,
And the first that came up I sent on his back.
Then I shoved out the eye of Pat Clancy,
(For he once humbugged sister Nancy);
In the meantime poor Kate took a fancy

To myself and a bit of a tick.
I smathered her sweetheart until he was black,
She then tipped me the wink-we were off in a crack;
We went to a house t'other end of the town,
And we cheered up our spirits by letting some down.
When I got her snug into a corner,
And the whisky beginning to warm her;
She told me her sweetheart was an informer,

Oh, 'twas then I said prayers for my stick.
We got whiskificated to such a degree,
For support my poor Kate had to lean against me;
I promised to see her safe to her abode,
By the tarnal, we fell clean in the mud on the road.
We were roused by the magistrate's order
Before we could get a toe further-
Surrounded by peelers for murther,

Was myself and my innocent stick.
When the trial came on, Kate swore to the fact
That before I set to I was decently whacked;
And the Judge had a little more feeling than sense
He said what I done was in my own defense.
But one chap swore again me, named Carey,
(Though that night he was in Tipperary);
He'd swear a coal porter was a canary

To transport myself and my stick.
When I was acquitted I leaped from the dock,
And the gay fellows all around me did flock;
I'd a pain in my shoulder, I shook hands so often,
For the boys all imagined I'd see my own coffin.
I went and bought a gold ring, sir,
And Kate to the priest I did bring, sir;
So next night you come, I will sing, sir,

The adventure of me and my stick.

I've heard the lark in June, The harp's wild plaintive tune, The thrush, that aye too soon

Gives o'er his strainI've heard in hush'd delight The mellow horn at night, Waking the echoes light

Of wild Loch Lene. But neither echoing horn, Nor thrush upon the thorn, Nor lark at early morn,

Hymning in air, Nor harper's lay divine, E’er witch'd this heart of mine, Like that sweet voice of thine,

That ev'ning there.

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