Next fair day I'll get a fairing from my hand-
some young man,

Twenty bright kisses from my own darling
John;

Confuse them, consume them that say I'm not
true,

Through green groves and lofty mountains I'll
rove with you.

My love is far fairer than a fine summer day,
His breath is far sweeter than the new mown
hay;
His hair shines like gold when exposed to the

sun,

He is fair as the blossom of the Drinane Dhun.
My love his is going to cross over the main,
May the Lord send him safe to his virtuous
love again;

He is gone and he's left me in grief for to tell,
O'er the green hills and lofty mountains be-
tween us to dwell.

I wish I had a small boat on the ocean to float,

I'd follow my darling wherever he did resort; I'd sooner have my true love to roll, sport and play,

Than all the golden treasure by land or by

THE WEDDING OF BALLYPOREEN.

DESCEND, ye chaste nine, to a true Irish bard,
You're old maids, to be sure, but he sends you a card,
To beg you'll assist a poor musical elf,
With a song ready-made, he'll compose it himself;
About maids, boys, a priest, and a wedding,
With a crowd you could scarce thrust your head in;
A supper, good cheer, and a bedding, which happened at Bally-
poreen.

"Twas a fine summer's morn, about twelve in the day,
All the birds fell to sing, all the asses to bray,
When Patrick, the bridegroom, and Oonagh, the bride,
In their best bibs and tuckers, set off, side by side.
O, the pipers play'd first in the rear, sir,
The maids blushed, the bridesmen did swear, sir;
O, Lord! how the spalleens did stare, sir, at this wedding of
Ballyporeen.

They were soon tacked together, and home did return,

To make merry the day at the sign of the churn;
When they sat down together, a frolicsome troop,
O, the banks of old Shannon ne'er saw such a group.
There were turf-cutters, threshers, and tailors,
With harpers, and pipers, and nailors,

And pedlers, and smugglers, and sailors, assembled at Ballyporeen.

There was Bryan MacDermot and Shaughnessy's brat,
With Terence and Triscol, and platter-faced Pat;
There was Norah Macormic and Bryan O'Lynn,
And the fat, red-haired cook-maid, who lives at the inn.
There was Shelah, and Larry, the genius,
With Pat's uncle, old Derby Dennis;
Black Thady and crooked Macgennis, assembled at Ballyporeen.

Now the bridegroom sat down to make an oration,
And he charmed all their souls with his kind botheration;
They were welcome, he said, and he swore, and he cursed,
They might eat till they swelled, and might drink till they burst.
The first christening I have, if I thrive, sirs,
I hope you all hither will drive, sirs;
You'll be welcome all, dead or alive, sirs, to the christening at
Ballyporeen.

Then the bride she got up to make a low bow,
But she twittered, and felt so-she could not tell how-
She blushed and she stammered-the few words she let fall,
She whispered so low that she bothered them all.
But her mother cried: “ What, are you dead, child?
O, for shame of you, hold up your head, child;
Though sixty, I wish I was wed, child, oh, I'd rattle all Bally-
poreen."

Now they sat down to meat-Father Murphy said grace,
Smoking hot were the dishes, and eager each face;
The knives and forks rattled, spoons and platters did play,
And they elbowed and jostled, and wollopd away.
Rumps, chines, and fat sirloins did groan, sirs,
Whole mountains of beef were cut down, sirs;
They demolished all to the bare bone, sirs, at this wedding at
Ballyporeen.

There was bacon and greens, but the turkey was spoiled,
Potatoes dressed both ways, both roasted and boiled;
Hog's puddings, red herrings-the priest got the snipe,
Culcannon pies, dumpling, cod, cow-heel and tripe.
Then they ate till they could eat no more, sirs,
And the whisky come pouring galore, sirs;
Such piping, such figuring and dancing, was ne'er known at Bally-
poreen.

THE scene is beside where the Avonmore flows'Tis the spring of the year, and the day's near its close;

And an old woman sits with a boy on her knee

Such piping, such figuring and dancing, was ne'er known at Ballp- She smiles like the evening, but he like the poreen.

lea! Her hair is as white as the flax ere it's spun

It is brown as yon tree that is hiding the sun!

SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND.

THE COOLUN.-Continued.
Vibrate into song-'tis the Coolun she sings-
The home-sighing Coolun,
The love-breathing Coolun-
The well of all memory's deep-flowing
springs.

They think of the bright stream they sat down beside,

When he was a bridegroom and she was his bride;

The pulses of youth seem to throb in the strain

Old faces, long vanished, look kindly againKind voices float round them, and grand hills are near,

Their feet have not touched, ah, this many a
year-

And, as ceases the Coolun,
The home-loving Coolun,

Not the air, but their native land faints
on the ear.

Long in silence they weep, with hand clasped in hand

Then to God send up prayers for the far-off
old land;

And while grateful to Him for the blessings
He's sent-

They know 'tis His hand that withholdeth con-
tent-

For the Exile and Christian must evermore sigh

For the home upon earth and the home in the
sky-

So they sing the sweet Coolun,
The sorrowful Coolun,

That murmurs of both homes-they sing
and they sigh.

Heaven bless thee, Old Bard, in whose bosom

were nurst

Emotions that into such melody burst!
Be thy grave ever green!-may the softest of
showers

And brightest of beams nurse its grass and its
flowers-

Oft, oft, be it moist with the tear-drop of love, And may angels watch round thee, forever above!

Old Bard of the Coolun,

The beautiful Coolun,

CUSHLA-MO-CHREE.*

By the green banks of Shannon I wooed thee, dear Mary,
When the sweet birds were singing in summer's gay pride,
From those green banks I turn now, heart-broken and dreary,
As the sun sets to weep o'er the grave of my bride.
Idly the sweet birds around me are singing;
Summer, like winter, is cheerless to me;

I heed not if snow falls or flow'rets are springing,
For my heart's-light is darkened-my Cushla-mo-chree!

O! bright shone the morning when first as my bride, love,
Thy foot, lik a sunbeam, my threshold cross'd o'er,
And blest on our hearth fell that soft eventide, love,
When first on my bosom thy heart lay, asthore!
Restlessly now, on my lone pillow turning,

Wear the night-watches, still thinking on thee;
And darker than night, breaks the light of the morning,
For my aching eyes find thee not, Cushla-mo-chree!

O, my loved one! my lost one! say, why didst thou leave me
To linger on earth with my heart in the grave!

O! would thy cold arms, love, might ope to receive me
To my rest 'neath the dark boughs that over thee wave.
Still from our once happy dwelling I roam, love,
Evermore seeking, my own bride, for thee;

Ah, Mary! wherever thou art is my home, love,
And I'll soon lie beside thee, my Cushla-m-chrce!
THE OLD BOG HOLE.

THE pig is in the mire, and the cow is in the grass,
And a man without a woman through this world will sadly pass;

My mother likes the ducks, and the ducks likes the drakes.

My Judy she's as fair as the flowers on the lea,
Arrah! sweet Judy Flanagan, I'd die for your sakes.
She's neat and complete from the nick to the knee;
We met the other night, our hearts to condole,
And I set my Judy down by the old bog hole.

CHORUS.

Arrah! cushla mavourneen, will you marry me?
Arrah! gramacree mavourneen, will you marry me?
Arrah! cushla mavourneen, will you marry me?
Arrah! would you fancy the bold, bouncing Barney Magee?
Judy, she blushed, and she hung down her head,
Saying: Barney, you blackguard, I'd like to get wed.
But you are such a rogue, and you are such a rake;
Don't believe it, says I, it is all a mistake.
I'll handle a hook, a shovel, and spade;
To kep you genteel, I'll work at my trade,
And the turf I'll procure, which is better than coal,

That's sobbing, like Eire, with Sorrow and And I'll dig to my knees in the old bog hole.
Love.

BARNEY O'HEA.

Now let me alone, though I know you won't,
I know you won't, I know you won't;
Now let me alone, though I know you won't.
Impudent Barney O'Hea.

It makes me outrageous when you're so con-
tagious-

You'd better look out for the stout Corney
Creagh!

Fine children we will have, for you must mind that,
There will be Darby, Judy, Barney, Pat;
There will be Mary, so meek, and Kitty, so bluff,
And-Stop, stop! she cries, have you not got enough?
I will not, says I, nor I won't be content,

Till once I have as many as there's days in Lent;
How the people they will stare when we go for a stroll,
When we are promenading by the old bog hole.

By the hokey, says she, I can scarcely refuse,
For Barney the blarney he knows how to use;
He has bothered my heart with the picture he has drawn,
For he is the boy that believes I'm his joy- If I thought I could trust you the job might be done.
So you'd better behave yourself, Barney Holy murthur! says I, do you doubt what
If I thought I could trust you, I'd swear half a day;
O'Hea.
Impudent Barney, none of your blarney, Oh! no, she says, it's of no use at all-
Impudent Barney O'Hea.

say,

And she gave her consent by the old bog hole.

1

BARNEY O'HEA.-Continued.

I hope you are not going to Brandon fair,
To Brandon fair, to Brandon fair;
For sure I'm not wanting to meet you there,
Impudent Barney O'Hea.

For Corney's at Cork, and my brother's at
work,

And my mother sits spinning at home all the
day,

So no one will be there, of me to take care,
And I hope you won't follow me, Barney
O'Hea.

Impudent Barney, none of your blarney,
Impudent Barney O'Hea.

When I got to the fair, sure the first I met
there,

The first I met there, the first I met there-
When I got to the fair, the first I met there,
Was impudent Barney O'Hea.
He bothered and teased me, though somehow
he pleased me,

Till at last-oh! the saints-what will poor
Corney say!

But I think the boy's honest, so on Sunday I've
promised,

For better or worse to take Barney O'Hea.
SO sweet was his
Impudent Barney,
Impudent Barney O'Hea.

blarney,

CORMAC.

THE BIRTH OF IRELAND.

"WITH due condescension, I'd call your attention to what I shall mention of Erin so green,

And, without hesitation, I'll show how that nation became, of creation, the gem and the queen.

""Twas early one morning, without any warning, that Vanus was born in the beautiful Say,

And, by the same token, and sure 'twas provoking, her pinions were soaking, and wouldn't give play.

"Old Neptune, who knew her, began to pursue her, in order to woo her-the wicked old Jew

And almost had caught her atop of the water-great Jupiter's daughter!-which never would do!

66

"A star that was flying hard by him espying, he caught with small trying and down let it snap;

It fell quick as winking on Neptune a-sinking, and gave him, I'm thinking, a bit of a rap.

"That star it was dryland, both lowland and highland, and formed a sweet island, the land of my birth:

Thus plain is the story that, sent down from glory, old Erin asthore is the gem of the earth!

OCH! Cormac O'Grady, do cease your wild talk-"Upon Erin nately jumped Vanus so stately, but fainted kase ing,

Your likes at the blarney I niver did see; Your tongue's a machine that is always a-goin', And grindin' out nonsinse you're givin' to

lately so hard she was pressed;

Which much did bewilder, but, ere it had killed her, her father distilled her a drop of the best.

AN Irish girl, and proud of it, a word I'd like to say
About the state of Erin's isle, my native place, to-day;
And those with Irish blood in them will understand me best,
And feel for those poor peasants who are starving in the west-
Rack-rented, oft evicted, and turned out in the snow;
The sky their only shelter, not knowing where to go.
'Tis scenes like these that shake our faith in England and its
throne;

Oh! is the good time coming when the land shall be our own?

CHORUS.

For John Bull lives in England, Taffy lives in Wales,
Sandy lives in Scotland, and weathers all the gales;
Paddy fights for England, as everybody knows,
Then give to him old Ireland where the shamrock grows.

I've seen the big ship crowded and ready for to start,
I've seen the aged mother from her only darling part;
I've seen the bitter tears that fell upon the big ship's deck,
From a soldier-lad whose new-made bride was clinging 'round his
neck.

In days gone by, they tell us, in story-book and rhyme,
The hangman and his rope were very busy all the time;
But, thanks to Dan O'Connell, whose picture you have seen,
There's not a pow'r can hang us now for wearing of the green.―
CHORUS.