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, But enjoying my sweet home in the land of potatoes, oh. CHORUS. Hospitality, all reality, no formality, there you'll ever see, If our friend, Honest Jack, would but take a small hack, 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, 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, CHORUS. Willoo loo! hoo! hoo! we will all enlist, you know, In the Ballyhooley Blue Ribbon Army. When we're out upon patrol and we're under his control, The police, one fine day, faith! they chanced to come our way, 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 DERMOT O'DOWD. WHEN Dermot O'Dowd coorted Molly M'Can That Dermot could storm and that Molly could frown. 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." 66 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." That sticks in the heart of poor Dermot O'Dowd." But all husbands are geese, though our pride it may shock, 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; 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, 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. RORY OF THE HILL.-Continued. She looked at him with woman's pride, 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, Oh! knowledge is a wondrous power, And thrones shall fall and despots bow 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, WRITTEN IN LETTERS OF GOLD. ENGRAVEN in letters of honor and fame, name, Enshrined in the temple of fame one and all, 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, These heroes were fearless and bold; On tablets of love are engraven the names As Goldsmith and Moore, whose poetical aims 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, For twenty-one years at least, so it appears, Says he, it's no use to pop into my shoes, Last winter the snow left provisions so low, The snow coming down he could not go to town, About big dogs, frogs and witches, He heard an uproar just outside of the door, Says Bryan M'Guirk, with a voice like a Turk, Says big Andy Moore, I'll burst open the door, Now Paddy in dread slipt into his bed, And cut them in stripes, by the way, they were tripes, When the tripes were stew'd, on a dish they were strew'd, She thought it high time for to shank it. To see how they smiled, for they thought Pat had boiled 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 Darby, what's that? sure I thought it was fat, My teeth through the flap of his breeches. And from that very night they will knock out your daylight 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, HEENAN AND SAYERS. It was on the sixteenth day of April that they agred to fight, His friends went quickly there and they did bail him out, Then while I have strength I will sing in the They thought for to discourage him, so as to prevent the mill, 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. 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 Poets and statesmen, and valiant men; So that's why I say, and I still will maintain, By a small strip of ocean our lands are apart, And when will you ever forget the Rorke's Or in the Soudan, deeds that never can fade, more, Sayers got home on Heenan's mug, which made the Britons roar; |