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THE LAND OF POTATOES, OH.

OH, had I in the clear five hundred a year, 'Tis myself would not fear, though not aided one farthing of it; Faith, if such was my lot, little Ireland's the spot

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!
I'd never unto thee come, nor abroad ever roam,

But enjoying my sweet home in the land of potatoes, oh.

CHORUS.

Hospitality, all reality, no formality, there you'll ever see,
But be so free and easy, that we would amaze you;
You'll think us all crazy for dull we can never be.

If our friend, Honest Jack, would but take a small hack,
So get on his back, and in joy ride over full to us,
He, throughout the whole year, should have the best cheer,
But, faith, no one's so dear as our brother, John Bull, to us.
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,
That he'd ne'er wish to shrink from the land of potatoes, oh.

Though I'd frankly agree that I'd more happy be

If some heavenly she, in this country, would favor me; For no spot on the earth can more merits bring forth, If beauty and wealth can embellish, such ss she. Good breeding, good nature, you see in each feature, So nought you've to teach her, so nice and complete she's, oh; Then if fate would but send unto me such a friend, What a life could I spend in the land of potatoes, oh.

BALLYHOOLEY.

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,
The ladies all declare he's the pride of every fair,
Called the Ballyhooley Blue Ribbon Army.
When the temperance brigade go out upon parade,
And he bears the patriotic name of Dooley;
Faith! there's not a sober man in Ballyhooley.

CHORUS.

Willoo loo! hoo! hoo! we will all enlist, you know,
For their principles and elements they charm me;
Sure they don't care what they ate, if they drink their whisky
nate,

In the Ballyhooley Blue Ribbon Army.

When we're out upon patrol and we're under his control,
We take, of course. a most extendid radius;
Although it's very clear we drink only ginger beer,
We find the drinking sometimes rather tadius.

The police, one fine day, faith! they chanced to come our way,
And they said we were behaving most unruly;

When the sargent he did state that we were not walking straight, Faith! we stretched him for a corpse in Ballyhocley.-CHORUS.

Then before the magistrate every one of us did state
That we had taken nothing that could injure;
And as it's very clear we drink only ginger beer,
There must have been some stingo in the ginger.
Some of us did own we were drinking zosodone,
But the police were behaving most unruly:
It was of no avail, and within the county jail
Lies the temperance brigade of Ballyhooley.-CHORUS.

DERMOT O'DOWD.

WHEN Dermot O'Dowd coorted Molly M'Can
They were sweet as the honey and soft as the down;
But when they were wed they began to find out

That Dermot could storm and that Molly could frown.
They would neither give in, so the neighbors gave out—
Both were hot till a coldness came over the two;
And Molly would flusther, and Dermot would blusther,
Stamp holes in the flure, and cry out, "Wirasthru!
O murther! I'm married,

Wish I had tarried;

I'm sleepless and speechless-no word can I say. My bed is no use:

I'll give back to the goose

The feathers I plucked on last Michaelmas day."

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Ah!" says Molly, "you once used to call me a bird." 'Faix, you're ready enough to fly out," says he. "You said then my eyes were as bright as the skies,

And my lips like the rose-now no longer like me."
Says Dermot, "Your eyes are as bright as the morn,
But your brow is as black as a big thunder cloud.
If your lip is a rose, sure your tongue is a thorn

That sticks in the heart of poor Dermot O'Dowd."
Says Molly, "You once said my voice was a trush;
But now it's a rusty old hinge with a creak."
Says Dermot, "You called me a duck when I coorted,
But now I'm a goose every day in the week.

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,

And Eve, with her apple-sauce, cooked him, my dear.”

THE SHAMROCK SHORE.

IN a musing mind with me combine, and grant me great relief, Whilst here alone I sigh and moan, I'm overwhelmed with grief; Whilst here alone I sigh and moan, away from friends at home, With troubled mind, no rest can find, since I left the shamrock shore.

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;
I entered on board as a passenger, to England I sailed o'er,
I bid farewell to all my friends all 'round the shamrock shore.

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They sat around the humble board

Till dawning of the day, And yet not song or shout I heardNo revelers were they;

When young men all, both great and small, go to the fields to Some brows flushed red with gladness,

walk,

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While some were grimly pale; But pale or red, from out those eyes Flashed souls that never quail! "And sing us now about the vow, They swore for to fulfil-” "Ye'll read it yet in history," Said Rory of the Hill.

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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.

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.

On Fontenoy's fields stood the Irish Brigade, While cannons were booming around;

At the word of command not a man was afraid,

Although then in martyrdom crowned. Unheeding the battle, to victory they went, And Ireland remembers to-day

The brave sons she to Fontenoy sent,
Who proved to be first in the fray.
But though they are gone, we remember them
still,

These heroes were fearless and bold;
The Irish Brigade, who fought with a will,
Their names are in letters of gold.

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.

THE OLD LEATHER BREECHES.

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 in—
The morning he died he to his bedside
Called Paddy, his beautiful son,
in.
Advice then he gave ere he went to the grave—
He bid them take care of his riches-

Says he, it's no use to pop into my shoes,
But I'd wish you'd step into my breeches.

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.

WRITTEN IN LETTERS OF GOLD.-Continued. Where could a patriot, so brave and so good As the brave Robert Emmet be found? For he was a martyr, and Irishmen should His praises forever resound.

How great was the speech that he gave at his trial,

Ere he to the cold grave did go;

His heart often bled for the Emerald Isle,
Down-trodden and gored by the foe.

HEENAN AND SAYERS.

It was on the sixteenth day of April that they agred to fight,
The money it was all put up and everything was right;
But Heenan was arrested and brought to the county jail,
Where he was held to keep the peace under three hundred bail.

His friends went quickly there and they did bail him out,
He was forced to change his training ground and take another
route;

Then while I have strength 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
spill.

Of Emmet, the fearless and bold;

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

Are written in letters of gold.

Are written in letters of gold.

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

On the tablets of fame, if you are searching
again,

Poets and statesmen, and valiant men;
Wolfe Tone, Robert Emmet and Brian Boru,
And Wellington great who gained famed
Waterloo.

So that's why I say, and I still will maintain,
Our boys have fought hard in Victoria's reign,
And it is your duty, in truth you'll confess,
To help poor Pat when his land's in dis-
tress.-CHORUS.

By a small strip of ocean our lands are apart,
But no strip at all can divide a true heart;
And that Paddy's heart is both loyal and true,
Is very soon found in the history of you.
On Majuba Hill Mountain their vengeance was
swift,

And when will you ever forget the Rorke's
Drift,

Or in the Soudan, deeds that never can fade,
Were done by the 18th Royal Irish Brigade.
-CHORUS.

more,

Sayers got home on Heenan's mug, which made the Britons roar;
He met him with a right hand blow which sprawled him on the
Heenan followed quickly up, and as Sayers turned around,
ground.

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