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WIRRA, wirra, ologone!

Can't ye leave a lad alone, Till he's proved there's no tradition left of

any other girl

Not even Trojan Helen,

In beauty all excellin', Who's been up to half the divilment of Fan

Fitzgerl ?

O, PRAY have you heard of my Bouchellcen Bawn? *
Can you tell me at all of my Bouchelleen Baun?
Have you come by the “ rath,” on the hill of Knock-awn;
Or what can you tell of my Bouchelleen Bawn!
The pulse of my heart was my Bouchelleen Bawn.
The light of my eyes was my Bouchelleen Bawon.
From Dinan's red wave to the tower of Kilvawn,
You'd not meet the like of my Bouchelleen Bawn!
The first time I saw my own Bouchellen Bawn,
Twas a midsummer eve on the fair-green of Bawn.

He danced at the “ Baal-fire," as light as a fawn,
And a way went my heart with my Bouchelleen Bawn.
I loved him as dear as I lved my own life;
And he vowed on his knees he would make me his wife.
I looked in his eyes, flashing bright as the dawn,
And drank love from the lips of my Bouchelleen Bawn.
But, Christ save the hearers! his angel forsook him-
My curse on the Queen of the fairies-she took him!
Last All-hallows' eve as he came by Knock-awn,
She saw-loved, and struck

my poor Bouchelleen Bawn. Like the primrose when April her last sigh has breathed, My Bouchell en drooped and his young beauty faded; He died—and his white limbs were stretched in Kilvawn, And I wept by th grave of my Bouchelleen Bawn. I said to myself, sure it cannot be harm, To go to the wise man and ask for a charm; "Twill cost but a crown, and my heart's blood I'd pawn, *To purchase from bondage my Bouchelleen Bawn. I went to the priest, and he spoke about heaven: And said that my failings would not be forgiven, If ever I'd cross the gray fairy-man's bawn; Or try his weird spells for my Bouchelleen Bawn. I'll take his advice, though God knows my heart's breaking; I start in my sleep, and I weep when I'm waking. 0, I long for the blush of eternity's dawn, When again I shall meet my own Bouchelleen Bawn! * Bovchett en Bawn,-The fair-haired boy, or the white-skinned boy.

Wid her brows of silky black,

Arched above for the attack, Her eyes that dart such azure death on poor

admirin' man;

Masther Cupid, point your arrows,

From this out, agin' the sparrows, For you're bested at Love's archery by young

Miss Fan.

See what showers of golden thread

Lift and fall upon her head, The likes of such a trammel-net at say was

never spread;

For whin accurately reckoned,

'Twas computed that each second Of her curls has cot a Kerryman, and kilt him


Now mintion, if you will,

Brandy Mount and Hungry Hill, Or Magillicuddy's Reeks, renowned for cripplin'

all they can:

Still, the countryside confisses

None of all its precipices Cause a quarter of the carnage of the nose of


But your shattered hearts suppose

Safely steered aghast her nose, She's a current and a reef beyant to wreck

them rovin’ ships.

My meaning it is simple

For that current in her dimple, And the cruel reef will coax ye’s to her coral



As oak-leaves, when autumn is turning them sere,
Is the hue of my own Mary's beautiful hair ;
And light as young ash-sprays, that droop in the grove,
Are the ringlets that wave round the head that I love.
Dear Mary! each ringlet, so silken and fine,
Is a fetter that round my poor heart you entwine;
And if the wide ocean I roamed to the West,
It would still draw me back to the maid I love best.

I might inform ye further,

Of her bosom's snowy murther, And an ankle ambuscadin' through her gown's

delightful whirl;

But what need, when all the village

Has forsook its peaceful tillage, And flown to war and pillage—all for Fan

Fitzgerl !


Like stars that shine out from the calm summer sky
Are the glances that beam from your melting blue eye;
Your lips red as poppies, your cheeks bright as morn;
and your bosom and neck white as blossoms of thorn.
Thus sung the Sage, while, slyly stealing,
The nymphs their fetters round him cast,
And, their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,

Led Liberty's bard their slave at last.
For the poet's heart, still prone to loving,

Was like that rock of the Druid race,
Vhich the gentlest touch at once set moving,

But all earth's power couldn't shake from its base.

While going the road to sweet Athy,

Hurroo! Hurroo!
While going the road to sweet Athy,

Hurroo! Hurroo !
While going the road to sweet Athy,
A stick in my hand and a drop in my eye,
A doleful damsel I heard cry,

Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
With your drums and guns, and guns and

drums, The enemy nearly slew ye, Oh, darling dear, you look so queer,

Faith, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!


This is our share of the Jubilee bounties,

A measure the vilest our land ever saw; Placing each one of the thirty-two counties,

Under the scope of an infamous law.
Will they submit to the act of atrocity?

Will they be crushed by this cowardly blow?
Will they be crushed by this cowardly blow?
Ireland speaks out, and her answer is No!

Dublin will stamp on it,

Wicklow will tramp on it,
Kerry will drag it about through the mire;

Limerick will batter it,
Waterford tatter it,
Wexford will bundle it into the fire.

“JOHNNY I HARDLY KNEW YE."-Cntinued. “ Where are your eyes that looked so mild ?

Hurroo! Hurroo !
Where are your eyes that looked so mild ?

Hurroo! Hurroo!
Where are the eyes that looked so mild,
When my heart you so beguiled ?
Why did you skedaddle from me and the child ?
Why, Johnnie, I hardly knew ye!

With your guns, etc.
" Where are the legs with which you run?

Hurroo! Hurroo!
Where are the legs with which you run?

Hurroo! Hurroo !
Where are the legs with which you run,
When you went to carry a gun-
Indeed, your dancing days are done!
Faith, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With your guns, etc.
“ It grieved my heart to see you sail,

Hurroo! Hurroo !
It grieved my heart to see you sail,

Hurroo! Hurroo !
It grieved my heart to see you sail,
When from my heart you took leg bail-
Like a cod you're now doubled up head and

tail. Faith, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With your guns, etc.
'I'm happy for to see you home,

Hurtoo! Hurroo!
I'm happy for to see you home,
All from the island of Ceylon,
So low in flesh, so high in bone,
Faith, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With your guns,” etc.

Antrim with hatred profound is rejecting it,

Monaghan spurns it as something unclean; Clare has no notion of ever respecting it,

Sligo condemns it as odious and mean. Galway declares it isn't worth a bad penny,

Roscommon salutes it with hiss and with groan; 'Tis laughed at by Cork, 'tis despised by Kilkenny,

'Tis slated and stoned by Armagh and Tyrone.

Cavan let fly at it,

Louth takes a shy at it,
Meath and Westmeath in the sport takes a share;

Kings County jeers at it,
Queens County sneers at it,
Great is the mauling it gets from Kildare.

Down and Fermanagh go in with a stick at it,

Derry has given it a dip in her bogs; * Tip" takes a run and a big swinging kick at it,

Angry Mayo gets it torn by the dogs. Longford and Leitrim keep cutting and hacking it,

'Tis flung in the dust hole by fierce Donegal; Carlow would never get weary of whacking it,

Such is the usage it gets from them all.

Joyous acclaim to them,

Honor and fame to them,
Long may they live the brave thirty-two;

One spirit firing them,
One thought inspiring them,
Standing united, undaunted and true.


THE RAKES OF MALLOW. BEAUING, belling, dancing, drinking, Breaking windows, danıning, sinking, * Ever raking, never thinking,

Live the rakes of Mallow. Spending faster than it comes, Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns, Bacchus's true begotten sons,

Live the rakes of Mallow.
One time nought but claret drinking,
Then like politicians thinking,
To raise the sinking funds when sinking,

Live the rakes of Mallow.
When at home with dadda dying,
Still for Mallow water crying;
But where there's good claret plying,

Live the rakes of Mallow.
Living short, but merry lives;
Going where the devil drives;
Having sweethearts but no wives,

Live the rakes of Mallow.
Racking tenants, stewards teasing,
Swiftly spending, slowly raising,
Wishing to spend all their days in

Raking as at Mallow.
Then, to end this raking life,
They get sober, take a wife,
Ever after live in strife,

And wish again for Mallow.

OH! Erin, my country, altho' thy harp slumbers,

And lies in oblivion near Tara's old hall, With scarce one kind hand to awaken thy slumbers,

Or sound a long dirge of the sons of Fingal, The trophies of warfare they stand still neglected,

For cold lies the warriors to whom they were known; But the harp of old Ireland shall be respected,

While there lived but one bard to enliven its tune.

Oh! Erin, my country! I love thy green bowers,

No music to me like thy murmuring rill; The shamrock to me is the fairest of flowers,

And nothing more dear than thy daisy-clad hill. Thy caves, whether used by warriors or sages,

Are still sacred held in each Irishman's heart; And thy ivy-crowned turrets, the pride of past ages,

Tho' mould'ring in ruin, do grandeur impart.


OH, ERIN MY COUNTRY.--Continued. Britannia may boast of her lion and armor,

And glory, when she her old wooden walls views; Caledonia may boast of her pibroch and clambour,

And pride in her philabeg, kilt and hose. But where is the nation can rival old Erin?

Or where is the country such heroes can boast? In battle, they're fierce as the lion and tiger,

And bold as the eagle that flies round her coast.

I am a boy from ould Ireland,
Where good nature and morn shines on every

face; And the pride of my father, And the girl's own joy, And the darlings they call me the Castlebar boy.

For my name it is Pat,
I am proud out of that,

My country I will never deny;
I will fight for the sod
Where my forefathers trod,

Sing hurrah for the Castlebar boy.

The breeze oiten shakes both the rose and thistle,

Whilst Erin's green shamrock lies hushed in the dale; Contented it grows whilst the wintry iwnd whistles,

And lies undisturbed in the moss of the vale. Then hail, dearest, island in Neptune's proud ocean,

The land of my forefathers, my parents agra! Cold, cold must the heart be and devoid of emotion,

That loves not the music of Erin-go-bragh.

I was born one evening
In the middle of June,
They took me to town
And they christened me soon;
What name shall we call him? says Father

Monnadowl, call him Paddy, the Castlebar


When I landed in England
It was a beautiful morning,
They gave me a job at reaping the corn;
At reaping and mowing to beat me they tried,
But the Omadhauns
They could not touch the Castlebar boy:-


You Englishmen, poor Paddy don't scorn,
For Paddy was not always a big Omadhaun;
For his heart is in the right place,
For a friend he would die;
I think I have pleased you, the best I did try,
Grant your applause to the Castlebar boy.-


In the gap of Dunlo

There's an echo, or so,
And some of them echoes is very surprisin’;

You'll think, in a stave

That I mane to desaive,
For a ballad's a thing you expect to find lies in.

But visible thrue

In that hill forninst you There's an echo as plain and as safe as the bank, too;

But civilly spake

“How d'ye do, Paddy Blake?” The echo politely says: “Very well, thank you!

One day Teddy Keogh

With Kate Conner did go
To hear from the echo such wonderful talk, sir.

But the echo, they say,

Was conthrairy that day,
Or perhaps Paddy Blake had gone out for a walk, sir.

So Ted says to Kate:

' 'Tis too hard to be bate By that deaf and dumb baste of an echo, so lazy,

But if we both shout

At each other, no doubt,
We'll wake up an echo between us, my daisy!'

“Now, Kitty," says Teddy,

"To answer be ready." “Oh, very well, thank you,” cried out Kitty, then, sir;

“Would you like to wed,

“Kitty darling? “Oh, very well thank you,” says Kitty again, sir; “D'ye like me?"

says Tddy; And Kitty, quite ready, Cried: “Very well, thank you! " with laughter beguiling.

Now won't you confess,

Teddy could not do less
Than pay his respects to the lips that were smiling?

Oh, dear Paddy Blake,

May you never forsake
Those hills that return us such echoes endearing;

And, girls, all translate

The sweet echoes like Kate,
No faithfulness doubting, no treachery fearing.

And, boys, be you ready,

Like frolicsome Teddy,
Be earnest in loving, though given to joking;

And, when thus inclined,

May all true lovers find
Sweet echoes to answer from hearts they're invoking.

says Ted.

The old man he knelt at the altar,

His enemy's hand to take,
And at first his weak voice did falter,

And his feeble limbs did shake;
For his only brave boy, his glory,

Had been stretched at the old man's feet A corpse, all so haggard and gory,

By the hand which he now must greet. And soon the old man stopt speaking,

And rage, which had not gone by,
From under his brows came breaking

Up into his enemy's eye-
And now his limbs were not shaking,

But his clinch'd hands his bosom crossid, And he looked a fierce wish to be taking

Revenge for the boy he had lost.

But the old man he looked around him,

And thought of the place he was in, And thought of the promise which bound

him, And thought that revenge was sin And then, crying tears, like a woman, “ Your hand! "

he said--"ay, that hand! And I do forgive you, foeman,

For the sake of our bleeding land ! "

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Wid my brogues, etc.

Then up comes the Colonel to give me his

thanks, He bade me take arms and fall into ranks. Arrah, Colonel, achree, won't you lave me

alone, Don't you see that I've arms and legs of my


Wid my brogues, etc.

One Sunday morning into Youghall walking,

I met a maiden upon the way,
Her little mouth sweet as fairy music,

Her soft cheeks blushing like dawn of day.
I laid a bold hand upon her bosom,

And ask'd a kiss; but she answered, “No: Fair sir, be gentle, do not tear my mantle;

'Tis none in Erin my grief can know. 'Tis but a little hour since I left Youghall,

And my love forbade me to return;
And now my weary way I wander

Into Cappoquin, a poor girl forlorn.
Then do not tempt me; for, alas! I dread them

Who with tempting proffers teach girls to roam, Who'd first deceive us, then, faithless, leave us,

And send us shamefaced and barefoot home.”

The first thing they gave it was a red coat, Wid a great strap of leather to tie up my

throat; They gave me a quare thing, I axed 'em

“ What's that? And they told me it was a cockade for my hat.

Wid my brogues, etc.

The next thing they gave me it was a great

gun, Wid powder and trigger and on her my thumb; An' first she spit fire and then she spit smoke, Wid a noie then like thunder my shoulder she


Wid my brogues, etc.

“My heart and hand here! I mean you marriage;

I have loved like you and known love's pain; If you turn back now to Youghall Harbor

You ne'er shall want house or home again. You shall have a lace cap like any lady,

Cloak and capuchin, too, to keep you warm, And, if God please, maybe, a little baby

By and by to nestle within your arm.”



The first place they sent me was ever so far,
In a quare thing they said was the King's Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best;

If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest:
Three sticks in the middle, and on her a sheet, Be what it may the time o' day, the place be where it will,
And she walked on the water widout any feet. Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.
Wid my brogues, etc.

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, We fought many battles wid pretty good luck, How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many At Vinegar Hill and at Ballinamuck,

a shock: The balls and the powder they all were so hot Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower I sneaked round behind them in dread of bein' Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.

Wid my brogues, etc.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up;

Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup; Now war is all over and peace is come in, Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine; I'm paid all my wages, and God save the King! It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine. I'm nine years in glory, and glad it's not ten, And now I'm back diggin' praties agin. The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before:

Wid my brogues so well greased and No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor;
My face just as dirty.

But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh, but she was gay!
She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.


When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,

The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet; Och hone, and it's Biddy McClooney

The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised: For whom me sowl is disazed,

But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she And the heart in me head is grown looney,

raised. And the brains in me bosom is crazed. I have lost all me love for pertaties

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,

YO My affiction for inyuns and pork,

smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; For she is the finest of ladies

But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your That walks on the State of Ne' York.


And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.
Me life with her worship runs over,
Like a hod full of mortar; I'm sick;

Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town!
And me moments with mimeries of her The higher I exalt you, the lower l’m cast down.
Are as full as a hod full of brick.

If some breat lord should come this way, and see your beauty I think of her always and longer,

bright, From night until morning, and back;

And you to be his lady I'd own it was but right.
My love than good whisky is sthronger,
And burdens me down like a pack.

Oh, might we live together in a lofty palace hall,

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! Her mouth is so sweet, and her kisses

Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
Are the rarest and best of the sort;

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!
And her voice, when she's washing the dishes,
Makes me jump like the cry of

“ More Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress!

It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less; Her hair is as red as the raven's,

The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; And faith don't I worship the same

But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go. When 'tis curled just like carpenter's shav

ings, Or I see 't in the butther or crame!


Her eyes when she's mad they are firish,

And had they a voice they could speak. She's the best of her sex, and that's Irish,

And she's thirty almost to a week. She can take her own part at the table

In a way that could never be bate, And I wish 'twas myself that was able

To buy all the vituals she'd ate.

Now I'm of age I'll come into my property,

Devil a ha'penth I'll think of but fun;
'Tis myself will be putting the ladies in papoutry,

Just to prove I'm my daddy's own son.
Och, now, Klistress IIoney, I'll teach ye civility,

Judy O'Doole, escape if you can-
I'm the boy that will show you the sweets of gentility,

Loving most women and fearing no man.


She has sworn on a stack of pertaties

Some day to be mine she'd consint;
And shure as me name is O'Gradies

If she could change her intint
I would grow to the weight of a shadder,

And hardly know what I was at;
I'd drop from a six-story ladder,

And make it the last of poor Pat.

Hooroo! hack!
For, that was the way with the flaming O'Flanagans,

From the first illigant boys of that name;
For kissing and courting, and filling the can again,
Drinking and fighting like cocks of the game.

Hoor00! hack!

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