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THE SHAMROCK AND LAUREL-Continued.
As the lily was the glory
Of the olden flag of France;
SONGS AND BALLADS OF IRELAND.
The cup with shamrocks wreathing; And before the monarch-nations
Raise the symbol, breathing; Equal Rights "to lordlings gainless!
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;
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;
His hair's Cupid's bow strings, and roses his
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,
By each other delighted, and fondly united,
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;
His eye's twinkling love, and he's gone to the
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,
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.
By the groans that ascend from your fore-
Drive the Demon of Bigotry home to his den,
Let my sons like the leaves of the shamrock unite,
Alas! for poor Erin that some are still seen,
Yet, oh! when you're up and they're down, let
Arm of Erin, be strong! but be gentle as brave!
A PRIVATE STILL.
AN exciseman, once, in Dublin, at the time that I was there,
I want to find a something out, assist me if you will,
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.
Their bosom heaves high for the worthy and
But no coward shall rest in that soft-swelling
Men of Erin! awake, and make haste to the
Give me the fifty pounds, says I, upon my soul! I can,
Hold your wist! says I, old chap! and I will plainly show
A partition of sects from one footstalk of right,
And when the band's done playing, you'll see the soldiers drill.
Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would Faith! there he is, says I, old chap, standing 'twixt them two!
The exciseman stamped and-and said he'd have his money back,
TERRY O'RANN was a fine young man, and from a boy it was his
If he'd just wink his eye, och, wouldn't they sigh, you'd think all
took whisky punch every night to his lunch, all the thoughts
of his love to bury,
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.
I assure you he's a soldier, though he went against his will.
Day and night 'twas his delight to play this game, without any
loss to the lasses was grievous, but from death there is nothing can save us,
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
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.
MRS. MCLAUGHLIN'S PARTY.
OULD Ireland is the place for a frolic,
Moll Dolan, a buxom young craythur,
Had lately been raising my dandher;
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;
Whoo! it's welt the flure, Peter O'Doherty,