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YE daughters of old Ireland, these lines to you I write,
Concerning your true lovers, who have volunteered to fight
For their country's standard, to face their rebel peers,
Its pretty dame will see again our Irish volunteers.

The worthy son of liberty, who's got the heart to go
To sustain his country's dignity, and face the rebel foe;
He's worthy of a lady's love, we'll call them our dears,
They're strong and bold, and uncontrolled, our Irish volunteers.

The cymbals are sounding, the trumpet shrill doth blow
For each platoon to form, we've got orders for to go;
Each pretty girl says to her love: My darling, never fear,
You will always find us true and kind to the Irish volunteer.

In the fearful hour of battle, when the cannons loud do roar,
We'll think upon our loves that we left to see no more;
And if grim death appears to us, its terrors and its fears
Can never scare in freedom's war, our Irish volunteers.

Come all ye worthy gentlemen, who have the heart and means,
Be kind unto the soldier's wife, they hold your country's reins;
They will come back victorious, those gallant fusileers,
And bring again the flag unstained, our Irish volunteers.


PADDY MCCABE was dying one day,
And Father Mo he came to confess him;
Paddy prayed hard he would make no delay,

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
"Twould throuble you such a long story to hear,
For you've ten long miles o'er the mountains to go,
While the road I've to travel's much longer you know.
So give us your blessin' and get in the saddle,
To tell all my sins my poor brain it would addle;
And the docther gave ordhers to keep me so quiet-
"Twould disturb me to tell all my sins, if I'd thry it;
And your Reverence has towld us, unless we tell all,
"Tis worse than not makin' confession at all.
So I'll say in a word I'm no very good boy-
And therefore your blessin', sweet Father Molloy."

"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,
So you must forgive all your enemies truly;
And promise me also that, if you should live,

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!—
So, now for your blessin', sweet Father Molloy !


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,
Till my brogues were most wore and I scarcely could stand.
He showed me fine houses, were built up so high,
And a man made of stone almost up to the sky,
But the names of them places went out of my brain,
Show him up to the college in Petticoat Lane!

Ri tu ral, ru ral, ri tu ral, ru ral le, etc.

Convenient to Petticoat Lane there is a place,
And as we walked through it we couldn't get peace;
The shops were all full of fine clothes, black and blue,
But the fellows outside nearly tore me in two.
One dragged me this way to get a good frieze,
Another had corduroy breeches my size;
But one chap bawls out, when I wouldn't remain,
Show him up to the college in Petticoat aLne!

We got loose from this spot, myself and my friend,
I couldn't do less than a teaster to spend;

But we spied boys and girls in a laughable group,
Sitting cross-legged and they licking up soup.
Says I: Are these what you call your poorhouse recruits?
Ax the divil! says one, and his bowl at me shoots;
They roared with pleasure, while I roared with pain,
Arrah, Paddy, you're welcome to Petticoat Lane!

My friend thought to drag me away by the sleeve,
When a tartar dropped over my head an old sieve;
I turned for to strike her, but got in the eye
A plaster of what they called hot mutton pie.
I kept groping about, like a man that was blind,
Till I caught hould of somebody coming behind;
I prayed that I might get the strength of a Cain,
To be able to whale him in Petticoat Lane.

I walloped away, and I got walloped, too,
While all sorts of ructions were raised by the crew;
You would swear it was raining brick-bats and stones,
Till I heard my antagonist giving some groans.
Run and be d-d to you! some one did cry,
Sure, I can't for the mutton that's stuck in my eye;
I was led through the crowd, and heard somebody saying,
There's a peeler most killed in Petticoat Lane.

These words like a thunderbolt fell on my ear,
So I scooped all the fat from my eye pretty clear;
My friends tould the crowd that was 'round to be mute,
While we slipped to a house, called "The sign of the boot,"
There I called for a sup, and we both took a seat,
Two or three that had backed us came in for a treat;
When the reckoning was called for, my pockets were clean,
For pounds, shillings, and pence were in Petticoat Lane.

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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!
But the sergeant and twenty more swore it was plain
That I was the bully of Petticoat Lane.

They all swarmed about me, like flies on a cask,
But to prison to take me was no easy task;
When I got there I was charged with the crime,
'Twas my own brother Darby I bate all the time.
Whin he seen me he let out a thundering curse,
On the day that he first went to join in the force;
He released my ould coat and he got me off clean,
To go home and say prayers for sweet Petticoat Lane.


In the merry month of June, when first from home I started,
And left the girls alone, sad and broken-hearted,
Shook hands with father dear, kissed my darling mother,
Drank a pint of beer, my tears and grief to smother;
Then off to reap the corn, and leave where I was born.

I cut a stout black-thorn to banish ghost or goblin;
With a pair of bran new brogues, I rattled o'er the bogs-
Sure I frightened all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin.

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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.


Oн, I'm but a poor man,

And I had but one cow,
And when I had lost her

I could not tell how,
But so white was her face,
And so sleek was her tail,

That I thought my poor drimmin dubh
Never would fail.

Agus oro, drimmin dubh

Oro, ah.

Oro, drimmin dubh
Miel agra.

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

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I soon got out of that, my spirits never failing,

I landed on the quay, just as the ship was sailing.
The captain at me roared, swore that no room had he,
But when I leaped on board, they a cabin found for Paddy.
Down among the pigs I played such rummy rigs,

Danced some hearty jigs, with water round me bubbling,
But when off Holyhead, I wished that I was dead,
Or safely put in bed, on the rocky road to Dublin.

The boys in Liverpool, when on the dock I landed,
Called myself a fool, I could no longer stand it;
My blood began to boil, my temper I was losing,
And poor old Erin's Isle, they all began abusing.
"Hurrah! my boys," says I, my shillelah I let fly,

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.

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PAT O'HARA.-Continued.

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.

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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!


LET Britain boast her British hosts, about them all right little

care we;

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!

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