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THE IRISH VOLUNTEER.
YE daughters of old Ireland, these lines to you I write,
The worthy son of liberty, who's got the heart to go
The cymbals are sounding, the trumpet shrill doth blow
In the fearful hour of battle, when the cannons loud do roar,
Come all ye worthy gentlemen, who have the heart and means,
PADDY MCCABE was dying one day,
But forgive him his sins and make haste for to bless him. "First tell me your sins," says Father Molloy, "For I'm thinking you've not been a very good boy."
'Oh," says Paddy, so late in the evenin', I fear
"Well, I'll read from a book," says Father Molloy,
"The manifold sins that humanity's heir to; And when you hear those that your conscience annoy,
You'll just squeeze my hand, as acknowledging thereto." Then the father began the dark roll of iniquity, And Paddy, thereat, felt his conscience grow rickety,
And he gave such a squeeze that the priest gave a roar—
Oh, murdher!" says Paddy," don't read any more, For, if you keep readin', by all that is thrue, Your Reverence's fist will be soon black and blue; Besides, to be throubled my conscience begins, That your Reverence should have any hand in my sins, So you'd betther suppose I committed them all, For whether they're great ones, or whether they're small, Or if they're a dozen, or if they're fourscore, 'Tis your Reverence knows how to absolve them, astore; So I'll say in a word, I'm no very good boyAnd therefore your blessin', sweet Father Malloy."
"Well," says Father Molloy, "if your sins I forgive,
You'll leave off your old tricks, and begin to live newly."
"I forgive ev'rybody," says Pat, with a groan, Except that big vagabone Micky Malone;
And him I will murdher if ever I can—”
Tut, tut! says the priest, "you're a very bad man; For without your forgiveness, and also repentance, You'll ne'er go to heaven, and that is my sentence." "Poo! says Paddy McCabe, "that's a very hard caseWith your Reverence and heaven I'm content to make pace; But with heaven and your Reverence I wondher-Och honeYou would think of comparin' that blackguard MaloneBut since I'm hard press'd and that I must forgive, I forgive-if I die-but as sure as I live
That ugly blackguard I will surely desthroy!—
WHEN to Dublin I came from the sweet County Down, I called on a friend for to show me the town;
He brought me thro' streets, lanes, and alleys so grand,
Ri tu ral, ru ral, ri tu ral, ru ral le, etc.
Convenient to Petticoat Lane there is a place,
We got loose from this spot, myself and my friend,
But we spied boys and girls in a laughable group,
My friend thought to drag me away by the sleeve,
I walloped away, and I got walloped, too,
These words like a thunderbolt fell on my ear,
SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND.
The reckoning it came to a hog and a groat,
For which the landlord he took the lend of my coat; I started without, still cursing the town,
Says he: You have killed C. 106
Arrah, be aisy, sir, I want none of your tricks!
They all swarmed about me, like flies on a cask,
ROCKY ROAD TO DUBLIN.
In the merry month of June, when first from home I started,
I cut a stout black-thorn to banish ghost or goblin;
JUDY MCCARTY.-Continued. Twelve months after we were wed, What do you think she brought, sir? But a pair of twins as like their dad, As ever soup's like broth, sir. And now I'll finish my little song, My song so gay and hearty; The Irish boys such devils are For getting the young McCartys. Whack fal la, etc.
On one of straw I'll lie, and the berries won't be troubling; He drove me out as far, upon an outside car,
Faith! such jolting never wor on the rocky road to Dublin.
DRIMMIN DUBH DHEELISH.
Oн, I'm but a poor man,
And I had but one cow,
I could not tell how,
That I thought my poor drimmin dubh
Agus oro, drimmin dubh
Oro, drimmin dubh
Returning from mass,
On a morning in May, I met my poor drimmin dubh Drowning by the way.
I roared and I brawled,
And my neighbors did call To save my poor drimmin dubh, She being my all.
Ah, neighbor! was this not A sorrowful day,
A coachman raised his hand as if myself was wanting, I went up to a stand, full of cars for jaunting; says he; "Ah, ah! that I will with pleasure," "Step up, my boy! "And to the strawberry beds, I'll drive you at your leisure." "A strawberry bed?" says I, "faith, that would be too high!
When I gazed on the water
Where my drimmin dubh lay? With a drone and a drizzen, She bade me adieu. And the answer I made Was a loud pillalu
ROCKY ROAD TO DUBLIN.-Continued.
I soon got out of that, my spirits never failing,
I landed on the quay, just as the ship was sailing.
Danced some hearty jigs, with water round me bubbling,
The boys in Liverpool, when on the dock I landed,
Some Galway boys were by, they saw I was a hobble in; 'Then with a loud hurrah! they joined me in the fray. Faugh-a-ballagh! clear the way for the rocky road to Dublin.
And on a pattern day my heart is light and gay,
I frisk across the green sod light and gaily;
I am always up to fun, but was never known to run,
For that would be disgrace to my shillalah.
If a colleen, too, you see that's looking after
And faix, her name is Kitty McNamara; With two eyes as black as sioes, that wherever I may go, They are always chasing after Pat O'Hara.-CHORUS.
FAR away from Erin's strand, and valleys wide and sounding waters,
Still she is, in every land, one of Erin's real daughters;
Oh, to meet her here is like a dream of home and natal mountains, On our hearts their voices strike, we hear the gushing of their fountains
Yes! our Irish Mary dear! our own, our real Irish Mary!
A flower of home, fresh blooming come, art thou to us, our Irish Mary!
Round about us here we see bright eyes like hers, and sunny faces Charming all! if all were free of foreign airs, of borrowed graces. Mary's eye it flashes truth! and Mary's spirit, Mary's nature, Irish lady, fresh in youth, have beam'd o'er every look and feature, Yes! our Irish Mary dear, when La Tournure doth make us weary, We have you to turn unto for native grace, our Irish Mary.
Sighs of home! her Erin's songs o'er all their songs we love to listen; Tears of home! her Erin's wrongs subdue our kindred eyes to glisten.
Oh! should woe to gloom consign the clear fireside of love and honor,
You will see a holier sign of Irish Mary bright upon her! Yes, our Irish Mary dear, will light that home, though e'er so dreary,
Shining still o'er clouds of ill, sweet star of life, our Irish Mary!
THE MEN OF TIPPERARY.
LET Britain boast her British hosts, about them all right little
Not British seas nor British coasts can match the man of Tipperary.
Tall is his form, his heart is warm, his spirit light as any fairy. His wrath is fearful as the storm that sweeps the hills of Tip
Lead him to fight for native land, his is no courage cold and wary, The troops live not on earth would stand the headlong charge of Tipperary.
Yet meet him in his cabin rude, or dancing with his dark-haired Mary,
You'd swear they knew no other mood but mirth and love in Tipperary.
You're free to share his scanty meal, his plighted word he'll never
In vain they tried with gold and steel to shake the faith of Tipperary.
Soft is his cailin's sunny eye, her mien is mild, her step is airy, Her heart is fond, her soul is high-oh! she's the pride of Tip perary!
Let Britain, too, her banner brag, we'll lift the green more proud and airy;
Be mine the lot to bear that flag and head the men of Tipperary.
Though Britain boasts her British hosts, about them all right little care we; Give us, to guard our native coasts, the matchless men of Tipperary!