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And when some rustling, dear,
Fell on thy listening ear,
You thought your brother near,
And named his name.
I could not answer, though,
As luck would have it so,
His name and mine, you know,
Were both the same-
Hearing no answering sound,
You glanced in doubt around,
With timid look, and found
It was not he;
Turning away your head,
And blushing rosy red,
Like a wild fawn you fled
Far, far from me.
The swan upon the lake,
The wild rose in the brake,
The golden clouds that make
The west their throne,
The wild ash by the stream,
The full moon's silver beam,
The ev'ning star's soft gleam,
Shining alone;
The lily robed in white,
All, all are fair and bright;
But ne'er on earth was sight
So bright, so fair,
As that one glimpse of thee,
That I caught then, machree,
It stole my heart from me
That ev'ning there.
And now you're mine alone,
That heart is all my own—
That heart that ne'er hath known
A flame before.
That form of mould divine,
That snowy hand of thine-
Those locks of gold are mine
For evermore.
Was lover ever seen
As blest as thine, Kathleen?
Hath lover ever been

More fond, more true?
Thine is my every vow!
Forever dear, as now!
Queen of my heart be thou!
Mo cailin ruadh!


'Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy
Stepping the mountain statelily-
Though ragged her gown, and naked her

No lady in Ireland to match her is meet.
Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies--
Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of
her eyes;

The child of a peasant-yet England's proud

Has less rank in her heart, and less grace in her mien.

Her brow 'neath her raven hair gleams, just as if

A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff,

And love, and devotion, and energy speak From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion-pale cheek.


As I walked out one morning, all in the month of May,
I met a pretty Irish girl, and thus to her did say;
I put my hand in my pocket, as it happened so,
And pulled out a guinea to treat my Molly, O.


She is young, she is beautiful, she is the fairest one I know, The primrose of Ireland before my guinea go,

And the only one that entices me is my Irish Molly, O.

I said: My pretty fair maid, will you go along with me?
I will show you the straight way across the country.
My parents would be angry if they should come to know,
They will lay all the blame to my Scotch laddie, O.-CHORUS.

When Molly's own father he came to know,
That she had been courted by a Scotch laddie, O,

He sent for young McDonald, and these words to him did say:
If you court my daughter, Mary, I will send you far away.-

Since Molly has deceived me, all by her father's ways,
Through some lonely woods and valleys, it's there I'll spend my


Like some poor forlorn pilgrim I wander to and fro, It's all for the sake of my Irish Molly, O.-CHORUS.

There is a rose in Dublin, I thought she would be mine,
For to come to my funeral is all I do require;
My body shall be ready by the dawning of the day,
It is all for the sake of my bonny Irish maid.-CHORUS.

When that I'm buried, there is one thing more I crave,
To lay a marble tombstone at the head of my grave;
And on this tombstone a prayer shall be said,

That young McDonald lies here for his poor Irish maid—

Come all you pretty, fair maidens, a warning take by me, And never build a nest at the top of any tree;

For the green leaves may wither, and the root it will decay, And the beauty of a fair maid will soon fade away.—CHOrus.


Now it was a Monday morning in the pleasant month of May,
As myself I took a jolly ride with charming Molly Gray;
Whose eyes shone like the stars, and her cheeks were like the


I'll tell you all about it, just as my story goes.


But as I drive my jaunting car, I drive away dull care,
And never can forget the day we went to Donnybrook fair.

Arrah! Molly had on her Sunday gown, and I my Sunday coat,
It as in my breeches pocket I had a one-pound note,
With an odd few shillings or so, and the whip was in my hand;
She jumped upon my Irish car, and away we drove so grand.

But Molly and me both agreed to become man and wife,
So the best we try in every way to be happy all our life;
Or should the times be good or bad, we drive away dull care,
We never shall forget the day we went to Donnybrook fair.

So fill the glasses full, my friends, and give one toast with me; Here's success to dear old Ireland, the bright gem of the sea! Let us hope the day is drawing nigh, and may we live to see That poor, down-trodden Emerald Isle a land of liberty.


But pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her lip,

And her teeth flash as white as the crescent moon's tip, And her form and her step, lke the red deer's go past— As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast. I saw her but once, and I looked n her eye, And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by; The saint of the wayside-she granted my prayer, Though we spoke not a word, for her mother

was there.

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The devil a word I would say at all, although our wages are but If they left us in our cabins, where our fathers drew their breath; When they call upon rent day and the devil a cent you haven't to


They will drive you from your house and home to beg and
starve to death.
What kind of treatment, boys, is that to give an honest Irish Pat?
To drive his family to the road to beg and starve for meat?
But I stood up with heart and hand and sold my little spot of


That is the reason why I left and had to emigrate.

Such sights as that I've often seen, but I saw worse in Skibareen,
In 'Forty-eight (that time is no more), when famine it was great;
I saw fathers, boys, and girls with rosy cheeks and silken curls,
All a-missing and starving for a mouthful of food to eat.
When they died at Skibareen no shrouds or coffins were to be seen,
But patiently reconciling themselves to their desperate, horrid

They were thrown in graves by wholesale which caused many an Irish heart to wail

And caused many a boy and girl to be most glad to emigrate.

Where is the nation or the land that reared such men as Paddy's land?

Where is the man more noble than he they called poor Irish Pat? We have fought for England's queen and beat her foes wherever


We have taken the town of Delhi, if you please, come tell me that! We have pursued the Indian chief and Nena Sahib, that cursed thief,

Who skivered babes and mothers and left them in their gore;
But why should we be so oppressed in the land St. Patrick
The land from which we love the best poor Paddy must emigrate.
There is not a son from Paddy's land but respects the memory of

Who fought and struggled hard to part that poor and plunder'd country.

He advocated Ireland's rights with all his strength and might,
And he was but poorly recompensed for all his toil and pains.
He told us for to be in no haste, and in him for to place our

And he would not desert us or leave us to our fate;

But death to him no favor showed, from the begging to the throne.

Since they took our liberator poor Pat must emigrate.

With spirits bright and purses light, my boys, we can no longer


For the Shamrock is immediately bound for America;

For there is bread and worth which I cannot get in Donegal,
I told the truth, by great Saint Ruth, believe me what I say.
Good night, my boys, with hand and heart, all you who take old
Ireland's part.

I can no longer stay at home, for fear of being too late;

If ever again I see this land I hope it will be with a Fenian band, So God be with old Ireland, poor Pat must emigrate!

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Now, boys, if you will listen to the story I'll relate,
I'll tell you of the noble men who from the foe escaped;
Though bound with Saxon fetters in the dark Australian jail.
They struck a blow for freedom, and for Yankee land set sail,
On the 17th of April last the Stars and Stripes did fly
On board the bark "Catalpa," waving proudly to the sky;
She showed the green above the red, as she did calmly lay
Prepared to take the Fenian boys in safety o'er the sea.

When Breslin and brave Desmond brought the prisoners to the


They gave one shout for freedom-soon to bless them evermoreAnd manned by gallant hearts, they pulled toward the Yankee flag,

For well they knew, from its proud folds no tyrant could them drag.

They have nearly reached in safety the "Catalpa," taut and trim,
When fast approaching them they saw a vision dark and dim;
It was the steamer "Georgette," and on her deck there stood
One hundred hired assassins, to shed each patriot's blood.

The steamer reached the bounding bark and fired across her bow,
Then in loud voice commanded that the vessel should heave to;
But noble Captain Anthony, in thunder tones did cry:
You dare not fire a shot at that bright flag that floats on high;
My ship is sailing peacefully beneath that flag of stars,
It's manned by Irish hearts of oak, and manly Yankee tars;
And that dear emblem at the fore, so plain now to be seen,
'Tis the banner I'll protect, old Ireland's flag of green.

The Britisher he sailed away-from the stars and stripes he ran—
He knew his chance was slim to fight the boys of Uncle Sam;
So Hogan, Wilson, Harrington, with Darragh off did go,
With Hassett and bold Cranston, soon to whip the Saxon foc.
Here's luck to that noble Captain, who well these men did free,
He dared the English man-of-war to fight him on the sea.
And here's to that dear emblem which in triumph shall be seen,
The flag for which those patriots fought, dear Ireland's flag of



NEAR a bog in sweet Ireland, I am told, sure there born 1 was,
Well I remember a bright Monday morn it was;
My daddy, poor man, would cry: What a greenhorn I was
Three months I am married, hurrah! how they laugh.
Says he to my mother: Troth, Judy, I'll leave you joy.
Says Judy to him: Oh! the devil may care, my boy.
By St. Patrick, I'll leave you both here to weep and ery,
What shall we do for our daddy O'Gaff?

With my didrewhack off I am, none of your blarney, man,
Keep your brat to your chat all the day so you may:
By the powers! I won't tarry; so he left little Larry,
I never saw more of my daddy O'Gaff.

Och! it's then I grew up, and a sweet looking child I was,
Always the devil for handling the stick I was;
But somehow or other, my numbskull so thick it was.
Go where I would, all the folks they did laugh.

I rambled to England, where I met with a squad of boys,
They got me promoted to carry the hod, my boys;
I crept up a ladder like a cat newly shod, my boys,
A steep way to riches, says Larry O'Gaff.
With my didrewhack in and out, head turning round about,
Ladder crack, break your back, tumble down, crack your crown.
My dear Mr. Larry, this hod that you carry
Disgraces the shoulders of Mr. O'Gaff.

LARRY O'GAFF.-Continued.

They made me a master, then dressed like a fop I was,
Bran new and span new from bottom to top I was;
But the old fellow popt in as taking a drop I was,

Says he: Mr. Larry, you bog-trotting calf,
Get out of my house, or I'll lay this about your back;
With the twig in his hand like the mast of a herring smack,
Over my napper he made the switch for to crack:

Said I: This don't suit you, Mr. O'Gaff.

With my didrewhack hub bub bo, drums beating row de row,
O dols my life plays the fife, Patrick's day, fire away;
In the army so frisky, we'll tipple the whisky,
With the whack for ould Ireland and Larry O'Gaff.

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"TWAS night. On Antietam's height
The weary warriors lay,

Tired, where the long and bloody fight
Had tried their worth that day.
Darkness had stilled the strife's alarm,
Though streams of life-blood yet were warm,
Where the drowsy out-post sank,
And shook his sleeping comrade's arm:
"You're surely dreaming, Frank."

And then I went to Liverpool, walking thro' the street,
Not a penny in my pocket, not a mouthful for to eat;

Bad luck to the Josh. A. Walker, and the day that she set sail, For the dirty sailors broke open my chest and stole my yellow meal.

But now I'm in America, and working upon the canal,

To cross the stream in one of these boats, I know I never shall; But I'll cross it in a great big ship that carries both meat and


Where I'll get lashings of corned meat and none of your yellow meal!

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