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At six next morning up we got,
Each man was called to clean his pot,
Then through the yard we did lurch,
All fell in line to go to church;
And there such dresses as met my view,
One arm was red the other was blue-
One leg was yellow, the other was gray,
And then the parson began to pray.
He said that Elijah went up in a cloud,
And Lazarus walked about in his shroud,
And that Jonah he lived inside of a whale,
A dd sight better than County Jail!

At eleven we raised it and quit the house,
All fell in line for pans of skouse.
Then if there's a man, no matter how droll,
We pop him into Pompie's hole,
Where whack and water cocks his tail,
There's glorious times in County Jail!

O, SONS OF ERIN.

O, SONS of Erin, brave and strong,
Upon your prostrate mother gaze;
Her sorrows have been overlong,

"Tis time her beauteous face to raise. When tyranny usurps the right,

And chivalry pines in the jail, There's deep revenge in Freedom's fight'Tis life to win, 'tis death to fail!

The power of monarchy is steel,

And crushing, soul-subduing laws, Whose weight alone the toilers feel,

And murmur oft, and know the cause. And battle oft the despot's might,

MOLLY, ASTHORE.

As down by Banna's banks I strayed one evening in May,
The little birds in blithest notes made vocal every spray:
They sung their little notes of love, they sung them o'er and

o'er

Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.

And scorning torture and the jail, Seek swift revenge in Freedom's fight'Tis life to win, 'tis death to fail!

Wild-wild's the night e'er freedom's sun
Lights up the ramparts of the free;
It rolls away, the battle's won,

And sounds a glorious reveille-
A reveille of hearts full light,

Uncrushed by slavery and the jail, It echoed down the Alpine height,

"Twill glad the hills of Innisfail!

The daisy pied and all the sweets the dawn of nature yields,
The primrose pale, the violet blue, lay scattered o'er the fields,
Such fragrance in the bosom lies of her whom I adore,
Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.

I laid me down upon a bank, bewailing my sad fate.
That doomed me thus a slave to love and cruel Molly's hate;
How can she break the honest heart that wears her in its core,
Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.

Service being over, we all got back
And fell in line for skilly and whack;
We crushed like pigs all in a lump-
At nine each took his hand at pump.
At ten we raised a glorious mill,

Two turtle doves above my head sat courting on a bough,
I envied them their happiness to see them blll and coo;
Soon fondness once for me was shown, but now, alas! 'tis o'er,

And smothered each other with right good Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.

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Oh! had I all the flocks that graze on yonder yellow hill,
Or lowed for me the numerous herds that yon green pasture fill;
With her I love I'd gladly share my kine and fleecy store,
Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.

Then fare thee well, my Molly dear, thy loss I e'er shall mourn,,
While life remains in Stephen's heart 'twill beat for thee alone.
Tho' thou art false, may heaven on thee its choicest blessings

pour,
Ah! gramachree, my colleen oge, my Molly, asthore.

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THE HARP WITHOUT THE CROWN.-Continned.

Our ship cleared out for Quebec port; but thither little bent,
Up some New England river, to run her keel we meant.
We took our course due north as out 'round old Blackhead we
steered,

Till Ireland bore southwest by south, and Fingal's rock appeared.

Then on the poop stood Webster, whle the ship hung flutteringly,
About to take her tack across the wide, wide ocean sea.
He points to the Atlantic-"Yonder's no place for slaves;
Haul down these British badges; for Freedom rules the waves,
Rules the waves!"
Three hundred strong men answered, shouting:

"Freedom rules

""

the waves! Then altogether they arose, and brought the British ensign down;

And up we raised our island Green, without the British Crown;
Emblazoned there a golden harp, like maiden undefiled,
A shamrock wreath around its head, looked o'er the sea and
smiled.

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One broadside volley from our guns swept down the tapering

mast:

"Now, British Tars! St. George's cross is trailing in the sea;
How do you like the greeting, and the handsel of the Free?
Of the Free?
These are the terms and tokens of men who will be free."
They answered us with cannon, their honor to redeem,
To shoot away our Irish flag, each gunner took his aim;
They ripped it up in ribbons, till it fluttered in the air,
And filled with shot-holes, till no trace of golden Harp was

there;

But the ragged holes did glance and gleam, in the sun's golden light,

Even as the twinkling stars adorn God's unfurled flag at night. With drooping fire, we sung: Good-night, and fare-ye-well,

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brave Tars!

Our Captain looked aloft: “By Heaven! the flag is stripes and stars,

Stripes and stars."

Right into Boston port we sailed, below the Stripes and Stars. I'M PROUD I'M AN IRISHMAN BORN.

THE Scotchmen may boast of their snow-covered mountains, Their wild towering rocks, woods and heath-covered dales; With their cataracts and rivers, and clear silver fountains, Their pastures of culture and their flower-covered vales. But give to me old Erin's shore, that's the land I adore,

All countries I have seen, but no such beauties adorn: And where is the Irishman, who loves not his native land, Oh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born.

CHORUS.

For Irishmen never yield when they're on the battlefield,
With a gun, sword or fist, or a twig of blackthorn;
And oft on the battlefield our sires made their foes to yield,
Oh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born.

THE PEASANT'S BRIDE.

I WAS a simple country girl
That loved the morning dearly;
My only wealth a precious pearl
I found one morning early.
I milked my mother's only cow,
My kind poor lovin' Drimin;
I never envied then nor now
The kine of richer women.

The sun shone out in bonny June,

And fragrant were the meadows; A voice as sweet as an Irish tune (I know it was my Thady's), Said, "Mary dear, fain would stay, But where's the use repining? I must away to save my hay

Now while the sun is shining."

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The stranger in old Ireland is sure to find a welcome hand,
And kindly they'll treat him until he departs:
Be he heathen, Russian, Jew or Turk, no hatred in the Irish
lurk,

For love truth and friendship doth reign in their hearts,
So Irishmen of each degree, come join in Erin's praise with me,
For wherever I am, my heart to Erin doth turn;
For no nation upon the earth unto such heroes has given birth,
Oh, boys, but I'm proud that I'm an Irishman born.

THE FOX HUNT.

THE first morning of March in the year '33
There was frolic and fun in our own country:
The King's County hunt over meadows and rocks
Most nobly set out in the search of a fox.

Hullahoo! harkaway! hullahoo! harkaway!
Hullahoo! harkaway, boys! away, harkaway!

When they started bold Reynard he faced Tullamore,
Through Wicklow and Arklow along the sea-shore;
There he brisked up his brush with a laugh, and says he,
""Tis mighty refreshing this breeze from the sea."
Hullahoo! harkaway! etc.

With the hounds at his heels every inch of the way,
He led us by sunset right intot Roscrea.
Here he ran up a chimney and out of the top,
The rogue he cried out for the hunters to stop
From their loud harkaway! &c.

""Twas a long thirsty stretch since we left the sea-shore,
But, lads, here you've gallons of claret galore;
Myself will make free just to slip out of view,
And take a small pull at my own mountain dew,"
So no more hullahoo! etc.

One hundred and twenty good sportsmen went down, And sought him from Ballyland through Ballyboyne; We swore that we'd watch him the length of the night, So Reynard, sly Reynard, lay hid till the light. Hullahoo! harkaway! etc.

But the hills they re-echoed right early next morn With the cry of the hounds and the call of the horn, And in spite of his action, his crft, and his skill, Our fine fox was taken on top of the hill.

Hullahoo! harkaway! etc.

When Reynard he knew that his death was so nigh,
For pen, ink, and paper he called with a sigh;
And all his dear wishes on earth to fulfil,
With these few dying words he declared his last will,
While we ceased harkaway! etc.

"Here's to you, Mr. Casey, my Curragmore estate,
And to you, young O'Brien, my money and plate,
And to you, Thomas Dennihy, my whip, spurs, and cap,
For no leap was so cross that you'd look for a gap."

And of what he made mention they ound it no blank,
For he gave them a check on the National Bank.

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""Twill tell me of a mother's love; forgive me, O thou sacred sign!

"Twill tell me more than mother's love-'twill tell me of a love divine;

"Twill tell me of a captive bound, a captive bound by ruthless hands

The thorny crown, the draught of gall, the ruffian jeers o fribald bandsThe shame, the agony, the death! ah, me! the years have rolled and rolled,

And still in this most awful type, unselfish love thy fate behold!

These it will tell, and oh! perchance, a softer thought 'twill whisper too—

Father, forgive, forgive even them, for ah! they know not what they do.

But ah! I faint, mine eyes grow dim, my lease of life is well nigh o'erOh! let me wear the little cross, that once a happy child I wore!

ני

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A thousand bright streams on the mountains awake,
Whose waters unite in O'Donoghue's Lake—
Streams of Glanflesk and the dark Gishadine
Filling the heart of that valley divine!
Then rushing in one mighty artery down
To the limitless ocean by murmuring Lowne!
Thus Nature unfolds in her mystical plan
A type of the Chieftain of wild Darrynane!
In him every pulse of our bosoms unite-
Our hatred of wrong and our worship of right—
The hopes that we cherish, the ills we deplore,
All center within his heart's innermost core,
Which gathered in one mighty current, are flung

To the ends of the earth from his thunder-toned tongue!
Till the Indian looks up, and the valiant Affghan
Draws his sword at the echo from far Darrynane!

But here he is only the friend and the father,
Who from children's sweet lips truest wisdom can gather,
And seeks from the large heart of Nature to borrow
Rest for the present and strength for the morrow!
Oh! who that e'er saw him with children about him,
And heard his soft tones of affection, could doubt him?
My life on the truth of the heart of that man
That throbs like the Chieftain's of wild Darrynane!

Oh! wild Darrynane, on thy ocean-washed shore,
Shall the glad song of mariners echo once more?
Shall the merchants, and minstrels, and maidens of Spain,
Once again in their swift ships come over the main?
Shall the soft lute be heard, and the gay youths of France
Lead our blue-eyed young maidens again to the dance?
Graceful and shy as thy fawns, Killenane,

Are the mind-molded maidens of far Darrynane!

Dear land of the South, as my mind wandered o'er
All the joys I have felt by thy magical shore,
From those lakes of enchantment by oak-clad Glena
To the mountainous passes of bold Iveragh!
Like birds which are lured to a haven of rest,
By those rocks far away on the ocean's bright breast-
Thus my thoughts loved to linger, as memory ran
O'er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane!

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OULD IRELAND, YOU'RE MY DARLIN'.
OULD Ireland, you're my jewel, sure,
My heart's delight and glory;
Till time shall pass his empty glass,
Your name shall live in story.
And this shall be the song for me,
The first my heart was larnin
Before my tongue one accent sung.
"Ould Ireland, you're my darlin'."
My blessings on each manly son

Of thine, who will stand by thee;
But hang the knave and dastard slave,
So base as to deny thee.
Then bould and free, while yet for me
The globe is 'round us whirlin
My song shall be Gra Galmachree,
Ould Ireland, you're my darlin'."

Sweet spot of earth that gave me birth, Deep in my soul I cherish,

While life remains within these veins,
A love that ne'er can perish.

If it was a thing that I could sing,
Like any thrush or starlin',
In cage or tree, my song should be:
"Ould Ireland, you're my darlin'."

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