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THE SHAMROCK AND LAUREL-Continued.

As the lily was the glory

Of the olden flag of France;
As the rose illumes the story
Of the Albion's advance-
In the shamrock is communion
Of all Irish faith and love;
And the laurel crowns the union
Of grandeurs interwove
'Round the temple of the chainless
To the laurel fill libations,

66

SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND.

The cup with shamrocks wreathing; And before the monarch-nations

Raise the symbol, breathing; Equal Rights "to lordlings gainless!

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THAT ROGUE, REILLY.

THERE'S a boy that follows me every day, although he declares that I use him vilely,

But all I can do he won't go away, this obstinate, ranting Reilly;
In every street 'tis him I meet, in vain the byway path I try,
The very shadow of my feet, 1 might as well attempt to fly,
As that boy that follows me every day, although he declares that
I use him vilely.

Yet all I can say he won't go away, that raking, ranting Reily.

THE DEAR IRISH BOY.

May Connor's cheeks are as ruddy as morn;
The brightest of pearls but mimic his teeth;
While nature with ringlets his mild brow
adorn,

His hair's Cupid's bow strings, and roses his
breath.

My mother she sent me ten miles away in hopes that the fellow would never find me;

But the very next day we were making hay the villain stood close behind me;

For this, says I, you shall dearly pay, how dare you such a freedom take?

Says he, I heard you were making hay, and I thought, my dear, you'd want a rake;

And therefore I followed you here to-day with your diamond eye and your point,

Like a needle concealed in a bundle of hay, but I found you out, said Reilly.

I told him at last, in a rage, to pack, and then for a while he fought more shyly;

But, like a bad shilling, he soon came back, that counterfeit rogue, that Reilly.

Smiling, beguiling, cheering, endearing,
Together oft o'er the mountain we've
strayed;

By each other delighted, and fondly united,
I've listened all day to my dear Irish boy.

To hunt me up he takes disguise, one day a beggar wench appears. 'Twas that rogue himself, but I knew his eyes, and didn't I box the rascal's ears?

Yet still he keeps following every day, plotting and planning so cute and slyly,

And there isn't a fox more tricks can play than raking, ranting Reilly.

No roebuck more swift can flee o'er the mountain,

No Briton bolder 'midst danger or scar;

He's sightly, he's rightly, he's as clear as the

A nunnery, now, my old maiden aunt, declares for young women the best protection,

But shelter so very secure I can't consider without objection. A plague on the fellows, both great and small, they bother us so till they find a wife.

Yet if we should never be bothered at all I think 'twould be rather a stupid life;

fountain,

His eye's twinkling love, and he's gone to the

war.

The soft tuning lark its notes shal cease to mourning,

So the rogue still follows me every day and I continue to use him vilely, But the neighbors all say till I'm turn'd to clay I'll never get rid of Reilly.

The dull screaming owl shall cease its night's sleep; While seeking lone walks in the shades of the evening, If my Connor return not, I'll ne'er cease to weep.

THE IRISH WEDDING.

SURE won't you hear what roaring cheer was spread at Paddy's wedding, O?

And how so gay they spend the day from churching to the bedaing, O? First, book in hand, came Father Quipes with the bride's dadda, While the chaunter with her merry pipes struck up a lilt so gaily, O.

the bailie, O,

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Tiddery, teddery, etc. Now there was Mat and sturdy Pat and merry Morgan Murphy (, And Murdock Maggs, and Tirlogh Shaggs, McLoughlin and Dick Durfy, O;

And then the girls, rigged out in white, led on by Ted O'Rily. (), While the chaunter with her merry pipes struck up a lilt so gaily, O.

When Pat was asked if his love would last, the chapel echoed with laughter, O,

By my soul, says Pat, you may say that to the end of the world and after, 0,

Then tenderly her hand he gripes and kisses her genteely, O, While the chaunter with her merry pipes struck up a lilt so gaily, O.

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By the groans that ascend from your fore-
fathers' grave,
For the country thus left to the brute and the
slave,

Drive the Demon of Bigotry home to his den,
And where Britain made brutes now let Erin
make men.

Let my sons like the leaves of the shamrock unite,

Alas! for poor Erin that some are still seen,
Who would dye the grass red from their hatred
to Green;

Yet, oh! when you're up and they're down, let
them live,
Then yield them that mercy which they would
not give.

Arm of Erin, be strong! but be gentle as brave!
And uplifted to strike, be still ready to save!
Let no feeling of vengeance presume to defile
The cause of, or men of, the Emerald Isle.

A PRIVATE STILL.

AN exciseman, once, in Dublin, at the time that I was there,
lle fancied that a private still was being worked somewhere;
He met me out one morning, perhaps he fancied that I knew,
But I didn't; Never mind that, says he, Pat, how do you do?
Says I: I'm very well, your honor, but allow me for to say,
I don't know you at all, by jove! But, says he, but, perhaps, you
may!

I want to find a something out, assist me if you will,
Here's fifty pounds if you can tell me where's a private still.

The cause it is good, and the men they are true, And the Green shall outlive both the Orange and Blue!

And the triumphs of Erin her daughters shall share,

With the full swelling chest, and the fair flow.

ing hair.

Their bosom heaves high for the worthy and

brave.

But no coward shall rest in that soft-swelling

wave;

Men of Erin! awake, and make haste to the
blest,
Rise-Arch of the Ocean and Queen of the
West!

Give me the fifty pounds, says I, upon my soul! I can,
I'll keep my word, the devil a lie, as I'm an Irishman!
Said I: Now, button up your coat and straightway follow me.
The fifty pounds he then put down, I pocketed the fee.
I took him walking up the street, and talking all the while,
Says he: How much further, Pat? for I am getting very tired.
He little thought I'd got to take him a thund'ring many miles.
And a jaunting car he hired.
Said I: Then let us have a car.

Hold your wist! says I, old chap! and I will plainly show
That in the army, why, of course, promotion is very slow.
Said the exciseman, Yes, I'm sure it is they're only meant to kill;
But never mind your brother, tell me where's the private still?
Said I, I'm coming to it; the barrack's close at hand,
And, if you look straight thro' the gates you'll see and hear

the band,

A partition of sects from one footstalk of right,
Give each his full share of the earth and the
sky,

And when the band's done playing, you'll see the soldiers drill.
The blazes take the soldiers! tell me, where's the private still?
Half a minute more, says I, I'll point him out to you,

Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would Faith! there he is, says I, old chap, standing 'twixt them two!
Who the blazes do you mean? said he. I said: My brother Bill.
Well! says he. Well, says I, they won't make him a corporal, so
he's a private still!

die.

The exciseman stamped and-and said he'd have his money back,
But I jumped in the car myself, and off was in a crack!
And the people, as he walked along, tho' much against his will,
Shout after him: Exciseman, have you found the private still?

TERRY O'RANN.

TERRY O'RANN was a fine young man, and from a boy it was his
joy
To tipple and drink, and lovingly wink at all the gay lasses in
And when his first love he was making, the girls for him had such
Derry;
a taking.

If he'd just wink his eye, och, wouldn't they sigh, you'd think all
their backs was a-breaking.

He

took whisky punch every night to his lunch, all the thoughts

of his love to bury,

And

then he would roam far away from his home, to the grief

of the lasses of Derry.

Where is this blessed private still? don't take me for a flat.
As soon as we got in the car, said he: Now tell me, Pat,
A flat! your honor, no! says I, but hear me, if you will,
And I, at once, will tell you, sir, where there's a private still.
Go on at once, says he. Says I: All right, now mark me well,
I nave a brother that is close by here, in the barracks he does
dwell;

I assure you he's a soldier, though he went against his will.
The devil take your brother! says he, where's the private still?

Day and night 'twas his delight to play this game, without any
shame,
Till stopped by death, which took his breath, and killed him with
whisky in Derry;

His

loss to the lasses was grievous, but from death there is nothing can save us,

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I was buried to-day, but where I lay the ground was damp and gave me the cramp.

All over my body the wet did get, there was water enough for a

ferry;

And besides my feelings to harrow, I was doubled up as if in a barrow,

I was wedged in tight-bound, I couldn't turn 'round, my coffin was too devilish narrow.

It was made of bad stuff, not half long enough, and as sure as my name it is Terry,

I will not lay quiet, but I'll kick up a riot, I'll haunt all the people in Derry.

Pray, says the Mayor, now take a chair, if you'll allow, I'll measure you now,

For a new coffin, longer and broader and stronger, if that'll make your heart merry;

Then the ghost brightened up in a jiffy, his frolicksome spirits grew frisky.

Says he: With pleasure, you make take my measure, and I'll take a measure of whisky;

For you needn't be told that the grave's very cold, and doesn't agree with poor Terry.

I'm a comical elf, so I'll drink a good health to all the live lasses in Derry.

While the bottle and glass merrily pass, and Terry was ripe for a song or a fight,

The clock struck one, and ended the fun of the frolicksome corpse of poor Terry;

For the sound of the clock was a warning that no ghost e'er was scorning.

So tipsy and drunk away he slunk to get into his grave before morning.

But the old women say that he missed his way, for the coffin they did bury

Was quite empty found in the turned-up ground, to the grief of the lasses in Derry.

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MRS. MCLAUGHLIN'S PARTY.

OULD Ireland is the place for a frolic,
The boys and the girls are frisky;
They never can feel melancholic,
They're the divils for tippling the whisky.
For a row or a ruction, oh, murther!

Moll Dolan, a buxom young craythur,

Had lately been raising my dandher;
I met her going down to McGuffin's
To borry the loan of a gandher.
The gandher the geese had been coorting,
She sould it to Paddy McCarty;
To buy her a pair of white slippers
To go to McLaughlin's party.

He told all the house he was but a poor ghost, but they wouldn't believe him, poor Terry..

With hearts hard as stones, cut the flesh off his bones, and anatomised Terry of Derry.

The boys they go in strong and hearty;
Now I'll tell yez, before I go further,
Of Mrs. McLaughlin's party.

CHORUS.

Whoo! it's welt the flure, Peter O'Doherty,
Shake your leg, Biddy McCarty;
Dance to your partners, ye divils,
At Mrs. McLaughlin's party.

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