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THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE.-Continued.

BELLEWSTOWN RACES. But many a gallant spirit there retreats across the plain, Who, change but kings, would gladly dare that battle-field again. IF a respite ye'd borrow from turmoil Enough! enough! the victor cries; your fierce pursuit forbear,

sorrow, Let grateful prayer to heaven arise, and vanquished freemen spare. "Tis found in this statement of all the excite

I'll tell you the secret of how it is done;

ment

That Bellewstown knows when the races Hurrah! hurrah! for liberty, for her the sword we drew, And dar'd the battle, while on high our Orange banners flew;

Make one of a party whose spirits are hearty, Woe worth the hour--woe worth the state, when men shall cease

Get a seat on a trap that is safe not to spill, to join

In its well pack a hamper, then off for a scamWith grateful hearts to celebrate the glories of the Boyne!

per,
And hurroo for the glories of Bellewstown

Hill!
PATRICK SHEEHAN.

On the road how they dash on, rank, beauty, My name is Patrick Sheehan, my years are thirty-four,

and fashion, Tipperary is my native place, not far from Galtymore;

It Banagher bangs, by the table o war! I came of honest parents—but now they're lying low

From the coach of the quality, down to the jolAnd many a pleasant day I spent in the Glen of Aherlow.

lity Jogging along on an ould low-backed car.

Though straw cushions are placed, two feet My father died, I closed his eyes outside our cabin door

thick at laste, The landlord and the sheriff, too, were there the day before- It's jigging and jumping to mollify still; And then my loving mother, and sisters three also,

Oh, the cheeks of my Nelly are shaking like Were forced to go with broken hearts from the Glen of Aherlow. jelly,

From the jolting she gets as she jogs to the

Hill. For three long months, in search of work, I wandered far and near,

In the tents play the pipers, the fiddlers and I went then to the poorhouse to see my mother dear;

fifers, The news I heard nigh broke my heart, but still, in all my woe, Those rollicking lilts such as Ireland best I blessed the friends who made their graves in the Glen of knows; Aherlow.

While Paddy is prancing, his co!leen is danc

ing,

Demure, with her eyes quite intent on his Bereft of home, and kith and kin, with plenty all around,

toes. I starved within my cabin, and slept upon the ground;

More power to you, Micky! faith, your foot But cruel as my lot was, I ne'er did hardship know,

isn't sticky; Till I joined the English army, far away from Aherlow.

But bounds from the boards like a pay from

the quill.

Oh, 'twould cure a rheumatic,-he'd jump up “ 'Rouse up there,” says the corporal, “ you lazy Hirish 'ound;

ecstatic Why don't you hear, you sleepy dog, the call 'to arms!' sound ?At “ Tatter Jack Walsh ” upon Bellewstown Alas, I had been dreaming of days long, long ago,

Hill, I woke before Sebastopol, and not before Aherlow.

Oh, 'tis there 'neath the haycocks, all splendid

like paycocks, I groped to find my musket-how dark I thought the night;

In chattering groups that the quality dine: O blessed God, it was not dark, it was the broad daylight!

Sitting cross-legged like tailors the gentlemen And when I found that I was blind my tears began to flow,

dealers I longed for even a pauper's grave in the Glen of Aherlow.

In flattery spout and come out mighty fine. And the gentry from Navan and Cavan are

“having," O blessed Virgin Mary, mine is a mournful tale,

Neath the shade of the trees, an Arcadian A poor blind prisoner here I am, in Dublin's dreary jail,

quadrille. Struck blind within the trenches, where I never feared the foe, All we read in the pages of pastoral ages And now I'll never see again my own sweet Aherlow.

Tell of no scene like this upon Bellewstown

Hill,

A poor neglected mendicant I wandered through the street,
My nine months' pension now being out, I beg from all I meet;
As I joined my country's tyrants, my face I'll never show
Among the kind old neighbors in the Glen of Aherlow.

Arrived at its summit, the view that you come

at, From etherealized Mourne to where Tara

ascends, There's no scene in our Ireland, dear Ireland,

ola Ireland! To which nature more exquisite loveliness

lends. And the soil 'neath your feet has a memory

sweet,

Then, Irish youths-dear countrymen-take heed of what I say,
For if you join the English ranks you'll surely rue the day;
And whenever you are tempted a soldiering to go.
Remember poor blind Sheehan of the Glen of Aherlow.

BELLEWSTOWN RACES.-Continud.

THE LAND OF POTATOES, OH.
The patriots' deeds they hallow it still;
Eighty-two’s volunteers (would to-day saw 011, had I in the clear five hundred a year,
their peers!)

'Tis myself would not fear, though not aided one farthing of it; Marched past in review upon Bellewstown Faith, if such was my lot, little Ireland's the spot Hill.

Where I'd build a snug cot with a bit of garden to it.
As for Italy's dales, their Alps and high vales,

And their fine squalling gales, their signoras to beat us, oh! But hark! there's a shout-the horses are I'd never unto thee come, nor abroad ever roam, out,

But enjoying my sweet home in the land of potatoes, oh. 'Long the ropes, on the stand, what a hullaballoo!

CHORUS. To old Cock-a-Fatha, the people that dot the

Broad plateau around are all for a view. Hospitality, all reality, no formality, there you'll ever see, Corne, Ned, my tight fellow, I'll bet on the

But be so free and easy, that we would amaze you; yellow!

You'll think us all crazy for dull we can never be. “Success to the green! faith, we'll stand by If our friend, Honest Jack, would but take a small hack,

it still!' The uplands and hollows they're skimming like

So get on his back, and in joy ride over full to us, swallows,

He, thronghout the whole year, should have the best cheer, Till they flash by the post upon

Bellewstown

But, faith, no one's so dear as our brother, John Bull, to us.
Hill,

And we'd teach him when there, both to blunder and swear,
And our brogue with him share, which both genteel and neat

is, oh;

By St. Patrick, I think, when we'd teach him to drink,
ERIN-GO-BRAGH.

That he'd ne'er wish to shrink from the land of potatoes, oh.

Ye sons of Hibernia, howe'er low in station, Though I'd frankly agree that I'd more happy be

Or where'er you be come attend to my call; If some heavenly she, in this country, would favor me; Resist all attempts, and unshackle your na- For no spot on the earth can more merits bring forth, tion,

If beauty and wealth can embellish, such ss she. Old Ireland, I mean, or, alas! she must fall. Good breeding, good nature, you see in each feature, With burdens so great, and her liberty sinking, So nought you've to teach her, so nice and complete she's, oh; Its beauty nigh gone-on destruction it's Then if fate would but send unto me such a friend, brinking;

What a life could I spend in the land of potatoes, oh. Then on, my brave boys, don't let's stand idly thinking,

BALLYHOOLEY. While Ireland's our country, dear Erin-gobragh.

There's a dashing sort of boy, who is called his mother's joy,

His ructions and his elements they charm me;

He takes the chief command in a water-drinking band, Oh! Erin, my country, once happy and free,

Called the Ballyhooley Blue Ribbon Army. With pleasure I stood on thy once native The ladies all declare he's the pride of every fair,

shore; But, alas! cruel fortune has turned foe to thee, When the temperance brigade go out upon parade,

And he bears the patriotic name of Dooley: Oh! Erin Mavourneen, thy case I deplore.

Faith! there's not a sober man in Ballyhooley. Bound down by a shackle that's linked to a snare,

CHORUS. By foes base and keen, who have filled thee with care;

Willoo loo! hoo! hoo! we will all enlist, you know, Then on, my brave boys, we'll show we play For their principles and elements they charm me; fair,

Sure they don't care what they ate, if they drink their whisky For Ireland's our country, dear Erin-go

nate, bragh.

In the Ballyhooley Blue Ribbon Army.

When we're out upon patrol and we're under his control, Oh! England, your taunts and your censures We take, of course, a most extendid radius; give o'er,

Although it's very clear we drink only ginger beer, And spite not that country that's equal to We find the drinking sometimes rather tadius. you;

The police, one fine day, faith! they chanced to come our way, But join hand in hand, each day and each And they said we were behaving most unruly; hour,

When the sargent he did state that we were not walking straight, With Scotland, our friends--all to each other Faith! we stretched him for a corpse in Ballyhocley.-CHORUS.

true. United by friendship, we'll join in a band, Then before the magistrate every one of us did state Determined to fight for our kings, laws and That we had taken nothing that could injure; land;

And as it's very clear we drink only ginger beer, Then on, my brave boys, don't let us here There must have been some stingo in the ginger. stand,

Some of us did own we were drinking zosodone, While Ireland's our country, dear Erin-go- But the police were behaving most unruly: bragh.

It was of no avail, and within the county jail

Lies the temperance brigade of Ballyhooley.--CHORUS.

DERMOT O'DOWD.

RORY OF THE HILLS.

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WHEN Dermot O'Dowd coorted Molly M'Can

“That rake up near the rafters, They were sweet as the honey and soft as the down;

Why leave it there so long? But when they were wed they began to find out

The handle, of the best of ash,
That Dermot could storin and that Molly could frown.

Is smooth, and straight, and strong;
They would neither give in, so the neighbors gave out- And, mother, will you tell me,
Both were hot till a coldness came over the two;

Why did my father frown,
And Molly would flusther, and Dermot would blusther,

When to make the hay in summer time
Stamp holes in the flure, and cry out,“ Wirasthru!

I climbed to take it down?”
O murther! I'm married,

She looked into her husband's eyes,
Wish I had tarried ;

While her own with light did fill;
I'm sleepless and speechless-no word can I say.

“ You'll shortly know the reason, boy!” My bed is no use:

Said Rory of the Hill.
I'll give back to the goose
The feathers I plucked on last Michaelmas day."
says Molly, “ you once used to call me a bird.”

The midnight moon is lighting up “Faix, you're ready enough to fly out,” says he.

The slopes of Sliev-na-mon“You said then my eyes were as bright as the skies,

Whose foot affrights the startled hares And my lips like the rose—now no longer like me.”

So long before the dawn? Says Dermot, “ Your eyes are as bright as the morn,

He stopped just where the Anner's stream But your brow is as black as a big thunder cloud.

Winds up the woods anear, If your lip is a rose, sure your tongue is a thorn

Then whistled low, and looked around That sticks in the heart of poor Dermot O'Dowd.”

To see the coast was clear. Says Molly, “You once said my voice was a trush;

A sheeling door flew openBut now it's a rusty old hinge with a creak.”

In he stepped with right good willSays Dermot, “ You called me a duck when I coorted,

“God save all here, and bless your work," But now I'm a goose every day in the week.

Said Rory of the Hill. But all husbands are geese, though our pride it may shock,

From the first 'twas ordained so by nature, I fear. Ould Adam himself was the first of the flock,

Right hearty was the welcome
And Eve, with her apple-sauce, cooked him, my dear.”

That greeted him, I ween,
For years gone by he fully proved

How well he loved the Green;
THE SHAMROCK SHORE.

And there was one among them

Who grasped him by the handIn a musing mind with me combine, and grant me great relief,

One who, through all that weary time, Whilst here alone I sigh and moan, I'm overwhelmed with grief;

Roamed on a foreign strand Whilst here alone I sigh and moan, away from friends at home,

He brought them news from gallant friends With troubled mind, no rest can find, since I left the shamrock

That made their heart-strings thrill; shore.

My sowl! I never doubted them!

Said Rory of the Hill. In the blooming spring, when the small birds sing, and the lambs

did sport and play, My way I took, and friends forsook, till I came to Dublin Quay; They sat around the humble board I entered on board as a passenger, to England I sailed o'er,

Till dawning of the day, I bid farewell to all my friends all 'round the shamrock shore.

And yet not song or shout I heard

No revelers were they ;
When young men all, both great and small, go to the fields to Some brows flushed red with gladness,
walk,

While some were grimly pale;
Whilst here alone I sigh and moan, to none of them can talk;
Whilst I remain but to bewail, for the mould that I adore,

But pale or red, from out those eyes
With a troubled mind, no rest can find, since I left the shamrock" And sing us now about the vow,

Flashed souls that never quail! shore.

They swore for to fulfil” To Glasgow fair I did repair, some pleasure for to find,

“ Ye'll read it yet in history,

Said Rory of the Hill.
I own it was a pleasant place, down by the flowery Clyde;
I own it was a pleasant place, for rich attire they wore.
There's none so rare as can compare to the girls of shamrock Next day the ashen handle,
shore.

He took down from where it hung,
One evening fair, to take the air, down by yon shady grove,

The toothed rake, full scornfully,

Into the fire he flung,
I heard some lads and lasses gay a-making to them love;

And in its stead a shining blade
It grieved me so, rejoiced to see, as I had once before,
Has my heart betrayed, that I left on the shamrock shore.

Is gleaming once again,
(Oh! for a hundred thousand of

Such weapons and such men!)
So now to conclude, and make an end, my pen begins for to fail, Right soldierly he wielded it.
Farewell, my honored mother, dear, and for me don't bewail; And going through his drill-
Farewell, my honored mother, dear, and for me grieve no more, Attention “charge” “ front point”-
When I think long, I'll sing my song in praise of the shamrock " advance!”
shore.

Cried Rory of the Hill.

66

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THE OLD LEATHER BREECHES.

RORY OF THE HILL.-Continued. She looked at him with woman's pride,

With pride and woman's fears; She flew to him, she clung to him,

And dried away her tears; He feels her pulse beat truly,

While her arms around him twine“Now God be praised for your stout heart,

Brave little wife of mine."
He swung his first born in the air,
While joy his heart did fill-
“You'll be a FREEMAN yet, my boy,"

Said Rory of the Hill.

It was at the sign of the Bell, on the road to Clonmel,

Paddy Hegarty kept a neat shebeen; He sold pig's meat and bread, kept a good lodgin' bed,

And so well liked round the country had been,
Himself and his wife both struggled thro' life,

In the week days Pat mended the ditches;
But on Sunday he dressed in a coat of the best,

But his pride was his old leather breeches.

For twenty-one years at least, so it appears,

His father those breeches had run inThe morning he died he to his bedside

Called Paddy, his beautiful son, in. Advice then he gave ere he went to the gravem

He bid them take care of his richesSays he, it's no use to pop into my shoes,

But I'd wish you'd step into my breeches.

Oh! knowledge is a wondrous power,

And stronger than the wind;
And thrones shall fall and despots bow

Before the might of mind;
The poet and the orator

The heart of man can sway, And would to the kind Heavens

That Wolfe Tone were here to-day! Yet trust me, friends, dear Ireland's strength,

Her truest strength, is still, The rough-and-ready roving boys,

Like Rory of the Hill.

WRITTEN IN LETTERS OF GOLD.

ENGRAVEN in letters of honor and fame,

In history's pages may be seen, The men, who for daring have gained a great

name, Enshrined in the temple of fame one and all,

Its memory is written with pride; And Ireland to-day with respect does recall

Her sons who have gallantly died. In art or in science, with sword or with pen,

Those men have proved fearless and bold; So I will to-night sing in praise of the men

Whose names are in letters of gold.

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Last winter the snow left provisions so low,

Poor Paddy was eat out complately;
The snow coming down he could not go to town,

Thoughts of hunger soon bothered him greatly.
One night as he lay dreaming away

About big dogs, frogs and witches,
He heard an uproar just outside of the door,

And he jumped to steal on his ould leather breeches.
Says Bryan M'Guirk, with a voice like a Turk,

Paddy, come get us some eating;
Says big Andy Moore, I'll burst open the door,

For this is no night to be waiting.
Scarce had he spoke when the door went in, broke,

And they crowded 'round Paddy like leeches;
By the great moral gob, if he didn't get them prog,

They'd eat him clean out of his breeches.
Now Paddy in dread slipt into his bed,

That held Judy, his darling wife, in;
And there he agreed to get them a feed-

He slipt out and brought a big knife in.
He took up the waist of his breeches—the baste,

And cut out the buttons and stitches;
And cut them in stripes, by the way, they were tripes,

And boiled them, his ould leather breeches.
When the tripes were stew'd, on a dish they were strew'd,

The boys all cried out, Lord be thanked;
But Hegarty's wife was afraid of her life,

She thought it high time for to shank it.
To see how they smiled, for they thought Pat had boiled

Some mutton and beef of the richest;
But little they knew it was leather burgoo

That was made out of Paddy's ould leather breeches.
They wollipt the stuff, says Andy, it's tough,

Says Paddy, you're no judge of mutton;
When Bryan McGuirk, on the point of a fork

Lifted up a big ivory button.
Says Darby, what's that? sure I thought it was fat,

Bryan leaps on his legs, and he screeches,
By the powers above, I was trying to shove

My teeth through the flap of his breeches.
They made at Pat, he was gone out of that,

He run when he found them all rising--
Says Bryan, make haste and go for the priest,

By the holy Saint Jackstone, I'm poisoned.
Revenge for the joke they had, for they broke

All the chairs, tables, bowls and dishes; And from that very night they will knock out your daylight

If they catch you with leather breeches.

On tablets of love are engraven the names

Of men of such paramount works, As Goldsmith and Moore, whose poetical aims

Have ranked with the finest on earth. Burke, Grattan, Wallace, Fitzgerald and Swift

Are men whose bright intellect shone, Endeavoring with honor the curtain to lift,

Which gloomed down dear old Ireland upon. There's Balfe, the compossr, Wolfe Tone and

the rest, All true Irishmen will uphold; But now they're at rest and at peace with the

blest, Their names are in letters of gold,

WRITTEN IN LETTERS OF GOLD.-Continued.

HEENAN ANU SAYERS. Where could a patriot, so brave and so good

As the brave Robert Emmet be found? It was on the sixteenth day of April that they agred to fight, For he was a martyr, and Irishmen should The money it was all put up and everything was right; His praises forever resound.

But Heenan was arrested and brought to the county jail, How great was the speech that he gave at his Where he was held to keep the peace under three hundred bail.

trial, Ere he to the cold grave did go;

His friends went quickly there and they did bail him out, His heart often bled for the Emerald Isle, He was forced to change his training ground and take another Down-trodden and gored by the foe.

route; Then while I have stiength I will sing in the They thought for to discourage him, so as to prevent the mill, praise

But having a brave heart in him, swore that Sayers' blood he'd Of Emmet, the fearless and bold;

spill. His name and his fame, and the pluck of his days

To see those heroes in the ring it would make your heart feel gay, Are written in letters of gold.

Each bore a smile upon him face in honor of the day;
Are written in letters of gold.

The spectators they were eager those champions for to see,
For they both said that they'd either die or gain the victory.

SEARCH THE PAGE OF HISTORY.

Time was called, they both stood up, the excitement it was great,

To see those champions seeking to seal each other's fate; If an Irish lad just a word might say, Sayers he made a left hand punch at Heenan's pretty face, I'll sing to you now a peculiar lay,

Who quickly dodged and with a blow laid Tommy near a case. Of my country, where tears wipe out every smile,

But when the second round came on the Briton was up to time, Which is known to the world as the emerald Heenan made a pass at him, which slightly bruised his dial; isle;

His friends they began to cheer, which made Sayers feel sad, Where the girls are the fairest you ever did For he thought that he'd easily win, which would make the see,

Yankees mad. But with England somehow we

agree, Bad luck to the quarrels, it keeps us all Sayers was up to time again, and his face it bore a smile, down,

Heenan made a pass at him, which slightly bruised his dial; Sure the shamrock's a friend to the rose and He made a terrific right hand punch, which got home on Heenan's

jowl, the crown.

But quickly a sldge-hammer blow caused Sayers for to howl.

can

never

odd.

more,

CHORUS.

A look of melancholy was upon each Briton's face,

They thought that Sayers would get whipped and to England If you search the page of history, there

be a disgrace; you'll find,

But then he got a handsome blow on brave Heenan's nob, Irishmen were never behind;

Their faces bore a smile again, and the betting on Sayers was With his bayonet by his side, Pat has often

turned the tide, And helped to build the honor of old Eng. Time was called, they both were up to toe the scratch once land.

Sayers got home on Heenan's mug, which made the Britons roar;

Heenan followed quickly up, and as Sayers turned around, On the tablets of fame, if you are searching He met him with a rigħt hand blow which sprawled him on the again,

ground. Poets and statesmen, and valiant men; Wolfe Tone, Robert Emmet and Brian Boru, And Wellington great who gained famed Bold Sayers was up to time again, and he looked very bad, Waterloo.

Heenan looked as fresh again, which made the Britons mad; So that's why I say, and I still will maintain, They had a little false sparring, then at each other did gaze, Our boys have fought hard in Victoria's reign, When Heenan sprawled him out again, which did the bulls And it is your duty, in truth you'll confess, To help poor Pat when his land's in distrezs.-CHORUS.

Then the cheers and bawls of Heenan's friends would make your

heart feel gay;

For they were sure, they had not doubt, but he would gain the By a small strip of ocean our lands are apart, day; B:1t no strip at all can divide a true heart; The friends of Sayers began to think that he would soon give in, And that Paddy's heart is both loyal and true, And to think their champion would get beat it caused them to Is very soon found in the history of you.

grin. On Majuba Itill Mountain their vengeance was swift,

The fight was drawing to a close, the excitement growing worse, And when will you ever forget the Rorke's The friends of Heenan they did cheer--and of Sayers, they did

Drift, Or in the Soudan, deeds that never can fade, The bulls were sure that Heenan would win, which caused them Were done by the 18th Royal Irish Brigade. all to fret, -CHORUS.

For every cent that they were worth on Sayers it was bet.

amaze.

curse,

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