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Antrim with hatred profound is rejecting it,
Monaghan spurns it as something unclean; Clare has no notion of ever respecting it,
Sligo condemns it as odious and mean. Galway declares it isn't worth a bad penny,
Roscommon salutes it with hiss and with groan; "Tis laughed at by Cork, 'tis despised by Kilkenny, "Tis slated and stoned by Armagh and Tyrone.
Cavan let fly at it,
Louth takes a shy at it,
Meath and Westmeath in the sport takes a share;
Kings County jeers at it,
Queens County sneers at it,
Great is the mauling it gets from Kildare.
Down and Fermanagh go in with a stick at it,
"Tip" takes a run and a big swinging kick at it,
Angry Mayo gets it torn by the dogs. Longford and Leitrim keep cutting and hacking it, "Tis flung in the dust hole by fierce Donegal; Carlow would never get weary of whacking it, Such is the usage it gets from them all.
Joyous acclaim to them, Honor and fame to them,
Long may they live the brave thirty-two;
One thought inspiring them,
OH, ERIN, MY COUNTRY.
OH! Erin, my country, altho' thy harp slumbers,
For cold lies the warriors to whom they were known;
Oh! Erin, my country! I love thy green bowers,
And nothing more dear than thy daisy-clad hill. Thy caves, whether used by warriors or sages,
Are still sacred held in each Irishman's heart; And thy ivy-crowned turrets, the pride of past ages, Tho' mould'ring in ruin, do grandeur impart.
"Now, Kitty," says Teddy,
Oh, very well, thank you," cried out Kitty, then, sir;
"Would you like to wed,
"D'ye like me?" says Tddy;
Than pay his respects to the lips that were smiling?
"with laughter beguiling.
THE old man he knelt at the altar,
And at first his weak voice did falter,
Had been stretched at the old man's feet A corpse, all so haggard and gory,
By the hand which he now must greet. And soon the old man stopt speaking, And rage, which had not gone by, From under his brows came breaking Up into his enemy's eyeAnd now his limbs were not shaking,
But his clinch'd hands his bosom cross'd, And he looked a fierce wish to be taking Revenge for the boy he had lost.
LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.
OH, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best;
Her eyes when she's mad they are firish,
And had they a voice they could speak.
In a way that could never be bate,
She has sworn on a stack of pertaties Some day to be mine she'd consint; And shure as me name is O'Gradies
Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock:
If she could change her intint
I would grow to the weight of a shadder,
And make it the last of poor Pat.
Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower
Her mouth is so sweet, and her kisses
Are the rarest and best of the sort; And her voice, when she's washing the dishes, More Makes me jump like the cry of
Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up;
The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before: No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh, but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away.
Her hair is as red as the raven's,
And faith don't I worship the same When 'tis curled just like carpenter's shav
Or I see 't in the butther or crame!