BRIDGET MOLLOY.

IN an ivy clad cabin there dwelt a colleen,
Fresh and fair as the goddess of morn,
In whose eyes full of witchery, roguish and dark,
Young cupids each moment were born.

In the village she reigned like a beautiful queen,
She was every one's treasure and joy,

And there was not a boy but would die for a smile
From the lips of sweet Bridget Molloy-

And there was not a boy but would die for a smile
From the lips of sweet Bridget Molloy.

When the birds in the springtime were choosing their mates,
Young Dermot won her virgin heart;

And they vowed as they stood hand in hand by the brook
There was nothing could tear them apart.

And they'd picture the time when united they'd be,
For a lifetime of love and joy;

And no happier lovers there ever was seen,
Than young Dermot and Bridget Molloy-
And no happier lovers there ever was seen,
Than young Dermot and Bridget Molloy.

When his hopes were the brightest misfortune came 'round,
And a boy couldn't well live at home,

So a pathway of fortune he tried to cut out,

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For his love in a land o'er the foam.

"Heaven bless you, my Dermot asthore,
Your affections and faith will you buoy.

And may fortune to you be as constant and true
As the heart of your Bridget Molloy-
And may fortune to you be as constant and true
As the heart of your Bridget Molloy."

With a heart beating high he returned for his love,
He was fortunate over the wave,

But the form of his loved one was gone from his sight,
He was led to a newly made grave.

She left him a message, a lock of her hair,

With the words: For my own darling boy!" And the hopes of his life have been sunk in the grave Of his own darling Bridget Molloy

And the hopes of his life have been sunk in the grave Of his own darling Bridget Molloy.

THE BANTRY GIRLS' LAMENT FOR JOHNNY.

Он, who will plow the field, or who will sell the corn?
Oh, who will wash the sheep, an' have 'em nicely shorn?
The stack that's on the haggard unthrashed it may remain,
Since Johnny went a-thrashing the dirty King o' Spain.

The girls from the bawnoge in sorrow may retire,

And the piper and his bellows may go home and blow the fire;
For Johnny, lovely Johnny, is sailin' o'er the main,
Along with other pathriarchs, to fight the King o' Spain.

The boys will sorely miss him, when Moneyhore comes round,
And grieve that their bould captain is nowhere to be found;
The peelers must stand idle, against their will and grain,
For the valiant boy who gave them work now peels the King o'
Spain.

At wakes or hurling-matches your like we'll never see,
Till you come back to us again, astore gra-gal-machree;
And won't you throunce the buckeens that show us much disdain,
Bekase our eyes are not so black as those you'll meet in Spain.

If cruel fate will not permit our Johnny to return,
His heavy loss we Bantry girls will never cease to mourn;
We'll resign ourselves to our sad lot, and die in grief and pain,
Since Johnny died for Ireland's pride in the foreign land of
Spain.

RIDING DOUBLE.-Continued.

On my happy heart; Til widout reflectin',

'Twasn't quite the vogue, Somehow, I'm suspectin'

That I snatched a pogue.

Trottin' to the fair, etc.

A SWEET IRISH GIRL IS THE DARLING.

IF they talk about ladies, I'll tell them the plan

Of myself to be sure I'm a nate Irishman;
There is neither sultana nor foreign ma'mselle
That has charms to please me, or can coax me
so well

As the sweet Irish girl, so charming to see;
Och a tight Irish girl is the darling for me.
And sing filliloo, fire away, frisky she'll be,
Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me;
For she's pretty,
She's witty,
She's hoaxing

And coaxing,

She's smiling,

Beguiling to see, to see;

She rattles,

She prattles,

She dances

And prances,

Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me.

ALONE, all alone, by the wave-washed strand, And alone in the crowded hall!

The hall it is gay, and the waves are grand, But my heart is not there, at all.

It flies far away, by night and by day,

To the time and the place that are gone
Oh, I never can forget the maiden I met
In the valley near Sliebh na m-ban!

It was not the grace of her queenly ar,
Nor her cheek like the rose's glow,
Nor was it the wave of her braided hair,

Nor the gleam of her lily white brow;
"Twas the soul of truth, and the melting ruth,
And the eye like the summer dawn,
That stole my heart away, one mild day,
In the valley near Sliebh na m-ban!

THE KILRUDDERY HUNT.

HARK! hark! jolly sportsmen, a while to my tale,
Which to gain your attention I'm sure cannot fail:
"Tis of lads and of horses, and dogs hat ne'er tire,
O'er stone walls and hedges, thro' dale, bog, and brier;
A pack of such hounds, and a set of such men,
'Tis fifty to one if you meet with again;

Had Nimrod, the mightiest of hunters, been there,
Fore-gad he'd have shook like an aspen for fear.

In seventeen hundred and forty and four,
The fifth of December, I think 'twas no more,
At five in the morning, by most of the clocks,
We rode from Kilruddery in search of a fox.
The Leighlinstown landlord, the brave Owen Bray,
And Johnny Adair, too, were with us that day;
Joe Debil, Hal Preston-those huntsmen so stout-
Dick Holmes, some few others: and so we set out.

We cast off our hounds for an hour or more;
When Wanton set up a most tuneable roar,
"Hark! Wanton," cried Joe, and the rest were not slack;
For Wanton's no trifler esteemed by the pack;
Old Bounty and Collier came readily in,
And every hound joined in the musical din:
Had Diana been there, she'd been pleased to the life,
And one of the lads got a Goddess to wife.

Ten minutes past nine was the time of the day
When Reynard broke cover, and this was his way-
As strong from Kilegar, as tho' he feared none,
Away he brush'd round by the house of Kilternan,
To Carrickmines thence, and to Cherrywood then,
Steep Shankhill he climbed, and to Ballyman glen,
Bray Common he crossed, leap'd Lord Anglesey's wall,
And seemed to say, "Little I care for you all."

He ran Bushes Grove up to Carbury Byrns-
Joe Debil, Hal Preston, kept leading by turns;
The earth it was open, yet he was so stout,

Tho' he might have got in, still he chose to keep out;
To Malpas high hills was the way that he flew,
At Dalkey's stone common we had him in view;
He drove on to Bullock, then slunk Glenagarry,
And so on to Monkstown, where Laura grew weary.

Thro' Rochestown wood, like an arrow he passed,
And came to the steep hills of Dalkey at last;
There gallantly plunged himself into the sea,
And said in his heart, " None can now follow me;
Could stop the pursuit of the stanch-mettled hounds:
Could stop the pursuit of the staunch-mettled hounds:
His policy here did not serve him a rush,
Five couple of Tartars were hard at his brush.

MORNING ON THE IRISH COAST.
TH' anam au Dhia! but there it is,
The dawn on the hills of Ireland!
God's angels lifting the night's black veil
From the fair, sweet face of my sireland;
Oh, Ireland, isn't it grand you look,

Like a bride in her rich adornin',
And with all the pent-up love of my heart,
I bid you the top o' the mornin'.
This one short hour pays lavishly back
For many a year of mourning;
I'd almost venture another flight,

There's so much joy in returning-
Watching out for the hallowed shore,
All other attractions scornin'
Oh, Ireland, don't you hear me shout?
I bid you the top o' the mornin'.
Ho-ho! upon Cleena's shelving strand,
The surges are grandly beating,
And Kerry is pushing her headlands out
To give us the kindly greeting;

Into the shore the sea-birds fly

On pinions that know no drooping;
And out from the cliffs, with welcomes charged,
A million of waves come trooping.

Oh, kindly, generous Irish land,
So leal and fair and loving,

No wonder the wandering Celt should think
And dream of you in his roving!
The alien home may have gems and gold--
Shadows may never have gloomed it;
But the heart will sigh for the absent land,
Where the love-light first illumed it.
And doesn't old Cove look charming there,
Watching the wild waves' motion,
Leaning her back up against the hills,
And the tip of her toes on the ocean?
I wonder I don't hear Shandon's bells,
Ah, maybe their chiming's over,
For it's many a year since I began
The life of a Western rover.

For thirty summers, astore machree,

Those hills I now feast my eyes on,
Ne'er met my vision, save when they rose
Over Memory's dim horizon.

E'en so, 'twas grand and fair they seemed
In the landscape spread before me;

But dreams are dreams, and my eyes would