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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,
Derry has given it a dip in her bogs;

"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 spirit firing them,

One thought inspiring them,
Standing united, undaunted and true.


OH! Erin, my country, altho' thy harp slumbers,
And lies in oblivion near Tara's old hall,
With scarce one kind hand to awaken thy slumbers,
Or sound a long dirge of the sons of Fingal,
The trophies of warfare they stand still neglected,

For cold lies the warriors to whom they were known;
But the harp of old Ireland shall be respected,
While there lived but one bard to enliven its tune.

Oh! Erin, my country! I love thy green bowers,
No music to me like thy murmuring rill;
The shamrock to me is the fairest of flowers,

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.


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"Now, Kitty," says Teddy,
"To answer be ready."

Oh, very well, thank you," cried out Kitty, then, sir;


"Would you like to wed,
'Kitty darling?
says Ted.
"Oh, very well thank you," says Kitty again, sir;

"D'ye like me?" says Tddy;
And Kitty, quite ready,
Cried: "Very well, thank you!
Now won't you confess,
Teddy could not do less

Than pay his respects to the lips that were smiling?

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"with laughter beguiling.

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THE old man he knelt at the altar,
His enemy's hand to take,

And at first his weak voice did falter,
And his feeble limbs did shake;
For his only brave boy, his glory,

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.

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OH, lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best;
If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest:
Be what it may the time o' day, the place be where it will,
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

Her eyes when she's mad they are firish,

And had they a voice they could speak.
She's the best of her sex, and that's Irish,
And she's thirty almost to a week.
She can take her own part at the table

In a way that could never be bate,
And I wish 'twas myself that was able
To buy all the vituals she'd ate.

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 hardly know what I was at;
I'd drop from a six-story ladder,

And make it the last of poor Pat.

Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower
Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.

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;
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup;
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine;
It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.

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!

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