"Ah! won't you take my ivy?-the loveliest ever seen! Ah! won't you have my Holly boughs?-all you who love the Green! Do!-take a little bunch of each, and on my knees I'll pray, That God may bless your Christmas, and be with you New Year's Day. "This wind is black and bitter, and the hail-stones do not spare My shivering form, my bleeding feet, and stiff, entangled hair; Then, when the skies are pitiless, be merciful, I say— So heaven will light your Christmas and the coming New Year's Day." 'Twas thus a dying maiden sung, while the cold hail rattled down, And fierce winds whistled mournfully o'er Dublin's dreary town:One stiff hand clutched her Ivy sprigs and Holly boughs so fair, With the other she kept brushing the haildrops from her hair. So grim and statue-like she seemed, 'twas evident that Death Was lurking in her footsteps-while her hot, impeded breath Too plainly told her early doom-though the burden of her lay Was still of life and Christmas joys, and a Happy New Year's Day. "Twas in that broad, bleak Thomas Street, I heard the wanderer sing, I stood a moment in the mire, beyond the ragged ring- I dreamed of wanderings in the woods among the Holly Green; The ghost-like singer still sung on, but no one came to buy; On New Year's Day I said my prayers above a new-made grave, Dug recently in sacred soil, by Lifey's murmuring wave; The Minstrel maid from Earth to Heaven has winged her happy way, And now enjoys, with sister saints, an endless New Year's Day. "JENNY, I'M NOT JESTING." Ан, Jenny, I'm not jesting, But, since you must be courtin', Or there's your cousin Kitty, "Fie! Jenny, since I knew you, Even when yourself was dartin' "And if you've known me longest, Why should your love be strongest, And his that's now the youngest, For that be worst?" "If that's your wisdom, Larry, At long, long last." "Well, since it seems that marriage The spinster lone; Since you might still forsale me, THE MONKS OF THE SCREW. WHEN St. Patrick our order created And called us the Monks of the Screw, Good rules he revealed to our abbot, To guide us in what we should do. But first he replenished his fountain With liquor the best in the sky; And he swore by the word of his saintship That fountain should never run dry. My children, be chaste-till you're tempted; While sober, be wise and discreet; And humble your bodies with fistingWhene'er you have nothing to eat. Then be not a glass in the convent, Except on a festival, found: And, this rule to enforce, 1 ordain it A festival all the year round! ERIN'S GREEN SHORE. ONE evening, so late, as I rambled On the banks of a clear purling stream, I sat myself down on a bed or primroses, And so gently fell into a dream. I dreamt I beheld a fair female, Her equals I ne'er saw before, As she sighed for the wrongs of her country, As she strayed along Erin's green shore. I quickly addressed this fair female, 66 My jewel, come tell me your name, For here in this country, I know, you're a stranger, Or I would not have asked you the same." She resembled the Goddess of Liberty, And of Freedom the mantle she wore, As she sighed for the wrongs of her country, As she strayed along Erin's green shore. "I know you're a true son to Granue, And my secrets to you I'll unfold; For here in the midst of all dangers, Not knowing my friends from my foes, I'm the daughter of Daniel O'Connell, And from England I lately came o'er, I've come to awake my brethren That slumber on Erin's green shore." Her cheeks were two blooming roses, PADDY'S PASTORAL RHAPSODY. WHEN Molly, th' other day, sir, I ask'd her for to be my bride, And Molly she began to chide: Says she, "You are too young, dear Pat." Says I, "My jew'l, I'll mend o' that." You are too poor," says she, beside; When to convince her, then, I tried, That wealth is an invintion The wise should never minion, And flesh is grass, and flowers will fade, And it's better be wed than die an owld maid. The purty little sparrows Have neither plows nor harrows, Yet they live at aise, and are contint, No foolish pride their comfort hurts- Sure, Nature clothes the hills, dear, And the bees they sip their sweets, my sowl. Though they never had a sugar bowl; For wealth is an invintion, etc. MANTLE SO GREEN. As I went a-walking, one evening in June, I spied a young damsel, she appeared like a queen, I stood in amaze-I was struck with surprise- Said I, Pretty fair maid if you come with me, She answered me, Young man you must be refused, Since you are not married tell me your love's name, On the raising of her mantle, it's there I behold His name and his surname, in letters of gold, Young William O'Reilly appeared in my view, He was my chief comrade in famed Waterloo. We fought so victorious where bullets did fly, As he was a-dying, I heard his last cry: I stood in amazement, the paler she grew, She flew from my arms with her heart full of woe; Oh! Nancy lovely Nancy it was I won your heart This couple has got married; I heard people say THE BANKS OF CLAUDY. IT was on a summer morning, all in the month of May, All for her absent lover, that plows the raging main. I went up to this fair maid and put her in surprise, Said I: My charming creature, my joy and heart's delight, The way, kind sir, to Claudy, if you please to show, I am in search of a faithless young man, Johnny is his name, If Johnny was here this night, he would keep me from all harm, And he's in the field of battle, his foes he will destroy, His heart was filled with joy, no longer he could stand, I am the faithless young man whom you thought was slain, "For in him the heart of a woman combined I was woke from my dream by the voices and tread And they stopped when they came to the grave of Wolfe Tone. There were students and peasants, the wise and the brave, But the old man, who saw I was mourning there, said: My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand, In the Bodenstown churchyard there is a green grave, Far better they suit him-the ruin and gloom Till Ireland, a nation, can build him a tomb. KILL OR CURE. TO SUSTAIN THE FAMILY REPUTA TION. I'm a roving Irish boy, I was born in Ballaraghan, Och, 'twas herself I courted, a girl so neat and cozy, queen! Make the bargain, as I did myself, wid the doctor, kill or cure. THE WEARING OF THE GREEN. FAREWELL, for I must leave thec, my own, my native shore, My father lov'd his country, and sleeps within her breast, My own, my native island, where'er I chance to roam, seen, When Erin's sons may boldly sing, "The wearing of the Green." When all her sons may proudly sing, "The wearing of the Green." MOLLY BRALLAGHAN. An! then, mam, dear, did you never hear of purty Molly Brallaghan? Troth, dear! I have lost her, and I'll never be a man again; Not a spot on my hide will another summer tan again, Since Molly she has left me alone for to die. The place where my heart was, you might easy rowl a turnip in, And not leave me here all alone for to die. Mam, dear, I remember, when the milking time was past and gone, one, After all that she has left me here alone to die. I went and told my tale to Father McDonnell, mam, And thin I wint and axed advice of Counselor O'Connell, mam; Must my corduroys to Molly go? in troth, I'm bothered what to do: I can't afford to lose both my heart and my breeches, too- THE EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed when, at twilight, repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose on its own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin-gobragh. Oh! sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger, The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine or dan They died to defend me, or live to deplore. Where now is my cabin door, so fast by the wildwood? Sisters and brothers did weep for its fall; Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is my bosom friend-dearer than all? Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleas ure, Why did it dote on the fast-fading treasure? Tears like the rain, may fall without meas[ call. ure, But rapture and beauty they cannot reBut yet all its fond recollections suppressing. One dying wish my fond bosom shall draw; Erin, an exile, bequeaths thee his blessing. Land of my fathers, Erin-go-bragh. Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle in the ocean, And the harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin, mavourneen sweet Erin-go bragh. |