THE HUSBAND'S DREAM.

WHY, Dermot, you look healthy, now your dress is neat and clean,
I never see you drunk about, oh, tell me where you've been;
Your wife and family all are well, you once dia use them strange,
Oh, you are kinder to them now, how came the happy change?
It was a dream, a warning voice, which heaven sent to me,
To snatch me from a drunkard's curse, grim want and misery;
My wages were all spent in drink, oh, what a wretched view!
I almost broke my Mary's heart, and starved my children, too.
What was my home or wife to me? I heeded not her sigh,
Her patient smile has welcomed me when tears bedimmed her

eye;

My children, too, have oft awoke, Oh, father, dear, they've said,
Poor mother has been weeping so because we've had no bread.
My Mary's form did waste away, I saw her sunken eye,

On straw my babes in sickness laid, I heard their wailing cry;
I laughed and sung in drunken joy, while Mary's tears did
stream,
Then like a beast I fell asleep and had this warning dream:

I thought I once more staggered home, there seemed a solemn gloom,

I missed my wife, where can she be? and strangers in the room;
Then I heard them say: Poor thing, she's dead, she led a wretched
life,
Grief and want has broken her heart-who'd be a drunkard's
wife?

I saw my children weeping 'round, I scarcely drew my breath,
They called and kissed her lifeless form forever stilled in death;
Oh, father, come and wake her up, the people say she's dead,
Oh, make her smile and speak once more, we'll never cry for

bread.

She is not dead, I frantic cried, and rushed to where she lay,
And madly kissed her once warm lips, forever cold as clay;
Oh, Mary, speak once more to me, no more I'll cause you pain,
No more I'll grieve your loving heart, nor ever drink again.
Dear Mary, speak, 'tis Dermot calls. Why, so I do, she cried,

I awoke, and true, my Mary, dear, was kneeling at my side;
I pressed her to my throbbing heart, while joyous tears did
stream,
And ever since I've heaven blessed for sending me that dream.

TIPPERARY.

WERE you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields are so sunny and green,

And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees look down with so proud a mien?

'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish ground— God bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where could your match be found?

They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in your eye:
But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and bitter a lie.
Oh! no, machusla storin! bright, bright, and warm are you,
With hearts as bold as the men of old, to yourselves and your

country true.

ROSANNA CARNEY.

Is there any one here that's in love? If so, you can guess how I feel, When I say I've a charming young girl, And her age it is sweet seventeen. When Cupid his arrow did fire,

THE BANKS OF SWEET DUNDEE.

Is the elegant Rosanna Carney.

CHORUS.

Handsome and tall, waist very small,

Brim full of real Irish blarney;

The bells they will ring, the birds they will sing,

The morn I wed Rosanna Carney.

Her father is a man of great wealth,
And climbed up the ladder of fame;
Some say he carried a hod-

There's lots of good men done the same.
And brim full of real Irish blarney;
His daughter's the hard-working girl,
All the dudes down our street are in love
With the elegant Rosanna Carney.

THE SHILLALEH.

On the beautiful banks of the Shannon
There grows such an illigant tree,
And the fruit that it bears is shillaleh,
I've a sprig of it here, you may see.
'Tis the remnant of all my large fortune,
It's the friend that ne'er played me a trick,
And I'd rather lose half my supportin'

Than part with this illigant stick.

It's the porter that carried my luggage,
For I've shouldered it many a mile,
And from thieves it will safely protect me,
In a beautiful delicate style.
It is useful for rows in the summer,

And when winter comes on with a storm,
If you're short of a fire in the cabin,

You can burn it to keep yourself warm.
It's a friend both so true and so constant,
Its constancy pen cannot paint;
For, it always is there, when it's wanted,
And sometimes it's there when it ain't.
It beats all your guns and your rifles;

For, it goes off whene'er you desire,

And it's sure to hit whate'er it's aimed at-
For, shillalehs they never miss fire.

It's a talisman so upright and honest,
Twenty shillings it pays to the pound:
So if ever it gets you in debt, sir,

You are sure to be paid, I'll be bound.
It never runs up a long score, sir,
In trade it's not given to fail,
There's no danger of its being insolvent;
For, it always pays down on the nail.

And, faith! at an Irish election,

An argument striking it's there;

For with brickbats and sprigs of the Shannon,
We see things go all right and square.
It's then there's no bribery at all, sir,
They vote as they like, every soul;

But it's no use opposing shillaleh,

Or it's sure to come down on the poll.

THERE were once two Irish laboring men, to America they came over,

And they tramped about in search of work from New York to Dover;

Said Paddy to Mick, "I'm tired of this, we're both left in the lurch,

And if we don't get work, bedad! I'll go and rob a church!" "What! rob a church!" said Mick to Paddy, "how could you be so vile?

Sure something bad will happen you when in the sacred aisle; But if ye do, I will go with you, we'll get safe out, I hope," So listen, and I'll tell ye true, how Paddy stole the rope:

When Paddy reached the belfry-ropes, "Be jabers! 66 stop,

" said he,

To get a piece that's long enough I must climb to the top;"
So like a sailor up he went, and when near the end said he:
"I think the piece that's underneath quite long enough will be."
So holding by one arm and leg, he pulled his clasp-knife out,
And right above his head and hand he cut the rope so stout;
He quite forgot it held him up. By the powers of Doctor Pope!
Down to the bottom of the church fell Paddy and the rope.

Says Mick to Paddy, "Come out of that! as he on the floor lay groaning,

"Is that the way to steal a rope? No wonder now ye're moaning;

I'll how yez how to cut a rope. There! just lend me your knife." "Yerra, Mick, be careful! " cried out Paddy, "or else you'll lose your lite!"

Mick bounded up the rope, and, like an artful thief,
Instead of cutting it up above, he cut it underneath;

The piece fell down, and he was left to hang up there and mope"Bad cess unto the day," said he, "when we came stealing rope."

There was Paddy groaning on the floor, while Mick hung up on high, "for if I drop

"Come down," says Paddy. "I can't," says Mick,

I'll die;"

Their noise soon brought the preacher 'round, the sexton and police,

But they set poor Micky free, the pair got no release;

They took them to the station, where their conduct they now rue,
For if they had no work before, they've plenty now to do;
And for their ingenuity they have a larger scope

Than when they broke into the church and tried to steal the rope.

THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.

Он, Paddy, dear, and did you hear the news that's going 'round?
The shamrock is forbid, by law, to grow on Irish ground;
No more St. Patrick's day we'll keep-his color last be seen,
For there's a bloody law agin the wearing of the green.
Oh! I met with Napper Tandy, and he tuk me by the hand,
And he says: How is poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand?
She's the most distressed country that ever I have seen,

For they are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.

And since the color we must wear is England's cruel red,

Ould Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed;

Then take the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
It will take root, and flourish still, tho' under foot 'tis trod.
When the law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they

grow,

And when the leaves in summer time their verdure do not show, Then I will change the color I wear in my caubeen,

But till that day, plaze God, I'll stick to the wearing of the green.

Blessed hour when he's out of your sight!

THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE.

A. D. 1690.

IT was upon a summer's morn, unclouded rose the sun.
And lightly o'er the waving corn their way the breezes won;
Sparkling beneath that orient beam, 'mid banks of verdure gay,
Its eastward course a silver stream held smilingly away.

A kingly host upon its side a monarch camp'd around,
Its southern upland far and wide their white pavilions crowned;
Not long that sky unclouded show'd, nor long beneath the ray
That gentle stream in silver flowed, to meet the new-born day.

Through yonder fairy-haunted glen, from out that dark ravine,*
Is heard the tread of marching men, the gleam of arms is seen;
And plashing forth in bright array along yon verdant banks,
All eager for the coming fray, are rang'd the martial ranks.
Peals the loud gun-its thunders boom the echoing vales along,
While curtain'd in its sulph'rous gloom moves on the gallant
throng;

And foot and horse in mingled mass, regardless all of life,
With furious ardor onward pass to join the deadly strife.

For yiz neither can read nor can write. Sure 'twas only last week you protested, Since he courted fat Jinney M'Cray, That the sight o' the scamp you detestedWith abuse sure your tongue never rested

Daughter. But, mother!
Mother. Oh, bother!

Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away.
[Mother, speaking again with peculiar parental
picty.] May he never come back!
Daughter. And I dream of his ghost,

Walking round my bedpost

Oh, mother, he's going away.

In vain the sword green Erin draws, and life away doth flingOh! worthy of a better cause and of a bolder king.

In vain thy bearing bold is shown upon that blood-stain'd ground;

Thy tow'ring hopes are overthrown, thy choicest fall around: Nor, sham'd, abandon thou the fray, nor blush, though conquer'd there,

A power against thee fights to-day no mortal arm may dare.

Nay, look not to that distant height in hope of coming aidThe dastard thence has ta'en his flight, and left his men betray'd. Hurrah! hurrah! the victor shout is heard on high Dunore; Down Platten's vale, in hurried rout, thy shatter'd masses pour.