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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.

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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.

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THE BANTRY GIRLS' LAMENT FOR JOHNNY.

On, 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.

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And prances,

Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me. Now, some girls they are little and some they are tall,

Och, others are big, sure, and others are small;
And some that are teasing are bandy, I tell;
Still none can please me, or can coax me so
well,

As the dear Irish girl, so charming to see;
Och! a sweet Irish girl is the darling for me;
For she's pretty,
She's witty,

She's hoaxing

And coaxing,

Beguiling to see, to see;

She rattles,

She prattles,

She's smiling,
She dances

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THE LAMENT OF GRANU WAIL. JOHN BULL was a bodach, as rich as a Jew, As griping, as grinding, as conscienceless, too; A wheedler, a shuffler, a rogue by wholesale, And a swindler, moreover, says Granu Wail!

John Bull was a banker, both pursy and fat,
With gold in his pockets, and plenty of that;
And he tempted his neighbors to sell their entail:
'Tis by scheming he prospers, says Granu Wail!

John Bull was a farmer, with cottiers galore-
Stout chawbacons once that like bullocks could roar;
Hard work and low wages, and Peel's sliding scale,
Have bothered their courage, says Granu Wail!

John Bull was a bruiser, so sturdy and stout,
A boisterous bully-at bottom a clout--
For when you squared up he was apt to turn tail-
Brother Jonathan lashed him, says Granu Wail!

John Bull was a merchant, and many his ships, His harbors, his dock-yards, and big building slips; And the ocean he claimed as his rightful entailMonsieur Parley-vouz bars that, says Granu Wail!

John Bull had dependencies, many and great-
Fine, fertile, and fat-every one an estate;
But he pilfered and plundered wholesale and retail-
There's Canada signs on it, says Granu Wail!

John Bull was a saint in the western clime,
Stood fast for the truths of the Gospel sublime,
Vowed no other faith in the end could avail-
Isn't the Jugghernaut champion? says Granu Wail!

John Bull had a sister, so fair to be seen,
With a blush like a rose, and a mantle of green.
And a soft, swelling bosom! on hill or in dale,
Oh! where could you follow, sweet Granu Wail!

And John loved his sister, without e'er a flaw,
Like the fox and the pullet, the wolf and the lamb;
So he paid her a visit-but mark her bewail:
My title deeds vanished! says Granu Wail!

Then he rummaged her commerce and ravaged her plains, Razed her churches and castles-her children in chains; With pitch-caps, triangles, and gibbets wholesale, Betokened John's love to poor Granu Wail!

But one of her children more bould than the rest,
Took it into his head for to make a request!
Our rights, Uncle John! Else our flag on the gale?
Faix, he got an instalment, says Granu Wail!

And now he is at the Ould Growler again,

With his logic and law, and three millions of men! And nothing will plaise him, just now, but repale,

66

'Mo seast or anam astig tu," says Granu Wail!

SONG OF THE IRISH EXILE.-Continued. Alone, all alone, by the wave-washed shore, My restless spirit cries

My love, oh, my love, will I never see you

more?

And my land! will you ever uprise?

By night and by day I ever pray,

While lonelily the time rolls on,

To see our flag unrolled and my true love to Perhaps you've read his speeches in the Irish history,
This hero's name was Robert Emmet.

unfold

In that valley near Sliebh na m-ban!

THE GLASS OF WHISKY.

AT the side of the road, near the bridge of
Drumcondra,

Was Murrough O'Monaghan stationed to
beg;

He brought from the wars, as his share of the plunder,

A crack on the crown and the loss of a leg. Oagh, Murrough! " he'd cry, "musha nothing may harm ye! What made you go fight for a soldier on sea? You fool, had you been a marine in the army, You'd now have a pinsion and live on full pay.' "But now I'm a cripple,-what signifies thinking?

The past I can never bring round to the fore;

The heart that with old age and weakness is sinking

Will ever find strength in good whisky

galore.

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PATRIOTS OF IRELAND.

Now, friends, if you will listen, I will sing to you a song
Of Ireland and her sons we loved so dear;

There were patriots and heroes, and their names we love to hear,
For the green, they were not afraid to wear.

There was one so young and noble, who for his country died,
To remember him the Irish won't forget;

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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.

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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'.

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