BOUCHELLEEN BAWN.

O, PRAY have you heard of my Bouchelleen Bawn? *
Can you tell me at all of my Bouchelleen Bawn?
Have you come by the "rath," on the hill of Knock-awn;
Or what can you tell of my Bouchelleen Bawn?

The pulse of my heart was my Bouchelleen Bawn.
The light of my eyes was my Bouchelleen Bawn.
From Dinan's red wave to the tower of Kilvawn,
You'd not meet the like of my Bouchelleen Bawn!
The first time I saw my own Bouchellen Bawn,
Twas a midsummer eve on the fair-green of Bawn.
He danced at the "Baal-fire," as light as a fawn,
And away went my heart with my Bouchelleen Bawn.

I loved him as dear as I lved my own life;

And he vowed on his knees he would make me his wife.
I looked in his eyes, flashing bright as the dawn,
And drank love from the lips of my Bouchelleen Bawn.
But, Christ save the hearers! his angel forsook him-
My curse on the Queen of the fairies-she took him!
Last All-hallows' eve as he came by Knock-awn,
She saw-loved, and "struck " my poor Bouchelleen Bawn.

Like the primrose when April her last sigh has breathed,
My Bouchell en drooped and his young beauty faded;
He died-and his white limbs were stretched in Kilvawn,
And I wept by th grave of my Bouchelleen Bawn.

I said to myself, sure it cannot be harm,
To go to the wise man and ask for a charm;

"Twill cost but a crown, and my heart's blood I'd pawn,
To purchase from bondage my Bouchelleen Bawn.

I went to the priest, and he spoke about heaven:
And said that my failings would not be forgiven,
If ever I'd cross the gray fairy-man's bawn;

Or try his weird spells for my Bouchelleen Bawn.

I'll take his advice, though God knows my heart's breaking;
I start in my sleep, and I weep when I'm waking.

O, I long for the blush of eternity's dawn,
When again I shall meet my own Bouchelleen Bawn!
Bovchett en Bawn,-The fair-haired boy, or the white-skinned boy.
MARY OF THE CURLS.

As oak-leaves, when autumn is turning them sere,
Is the hue of my own Mary's beautiful hair;
And light as young ash-sprays, that droop in the grove,
Are the ringlets that wave round the head that I love.

Dear Mary! each ringlet, so silken and fine,

Is a fetter that round my poor heart you entwine;
And if the wide ocean I roamed to the West,

It would still draw me back to the maid I love best.

Like stars that shine out from the calm summer sky
Are the glances that beam from your melting blue eye;
Your lips red as poppies, your cheeks bright as morn;
And your bosom and neck white as blossoms of thorn.

Thus sung the Sage, while, slyly stealing,
The nymphs their fetters round him cast,

And, their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,

Led Liberty's bard their slave at last.

For the poet's heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rock of the Druid race,

Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,

But all earth's power couldn't shake from its base.

Wid her brows of silky black,

Arched above for the attack, Her eyes that dart such azure death on poor admirin' man;

Masther Cupid, point your arrows,
From this out, agin' the sparrows,
For you're bested at Love's archery by young
Miss Fan.

See what showers of golden thread
Lift and fall upon her head,

The likes of such a trammel-net at say was never spread;

For whin accurately reckoned, 'Twas computed that each second Of her curls has cot a Kerryman, and kilt him dead.

Where are the legs with which you run?
Hurroo! Hurroo!

Where are the legs with which you run?
Hurroo! Hurroo!

Where are the legs with which you run,
When you went to carry a gun-
Indeed, your dancing days are done!

Faith, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With your guns, etc.

"It grieved my heart to see you sail,
Hurroo! Hurroo!

It grieved my heart to see you sail,
Hurroo! Hurroo!

It grieved my heart to see you sail,

When from my heart you took leg bail

Like a cod you're now doubled up head and tail.

Faith, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With your guns, etc.

"I'm happy for to see you home,
Hurroo! Hurroo!

I'm happy for to see you home,
All from the island of Ceylon,
So low in flesh, so high in bone,
Faith, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With your guns," etc.

THE RAKES OF MALLOW. BEAUING, belling, dancing, drinking, Breaking windows, damning, sinking,* Ever raking, never thinking,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

Spending faster than it comes,
Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns,
Bacchus's true begotten sons,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

One time nought but claret drinking,
Then like politicians thinking,

To raise the sinking funds when sinking,
Live the rakes of Mallow.

When at home with dadda dying,
Still for Mallow water crying;
But where there's good claret plying,
Live the rakes of Mallow.
Living short, but merry lives;
Going where the devil drives;
Having sweethearts but no wives,

Live the rakes of Mallow.
Racking tenants, stewards teasing,
Swiftly spending, slowly raising,
Wishing to spend all their days in
Raking as at Mallow.

Then, to end this raking life,
They get sober, take a wife,
Ever after live in strife,

And wish again for Mallow.

OH, ERIN MY COUNTRY.-Continued.

Britannia may boast of her lion and armor,

And glory, when she her old wooden walls views;
Caledonia may boast of her pibroch and clambour,
And pride in her philabeg, kilt and hose.
But where is the nation can rival old Erin?

Or where is the country such heroes can boast?
In battle, they're fierce as the lion and tiger,

And bold as the eagle that flies round her coast.

The breeze often shakes both the rose and thistle,
Whilst Erin's green shamrock lies hushed in the dale;
Contented it grows whilst the wintry iwnd whistles,
And lies undisturbed in the moss of the vale.
Then hail, dearest, island in Neptune's proud ocean,
The land of my forefathers, my parents agra!
Cold, cold must the heart be and devoid of emotion,
That loves not the music of Erin-go-bragh.

THE CASTLEBAR BOY.

I AM a boy from ould Ireland,

Where good nature and morn shines on every face;

And the pride of my father,

And the girl's own joy,

And the darlings they call me the Castlebar boy.

CHORUS.

For my name it is Pat,

I am proud out of that,

My country I will never deny;

I will fight for the sod

Where my forefathers trod,

Sing hurrah for the Castlebar boy.

THE RECONCILIATION.

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.

But the old man he looked around him, And thought of the place he was in, And thought of the promise which bound him,

And thought that revenge was sinAnd then, crying tears, like a "Your hand!" he said "ay, that

hand!

And I do forgive you, foeman,

woman,

For the sake of our bleeding land!"

THE OLD COUNTRY PARTY.

DID you ever go into an old country party?
Where the boys are so free and the girls so hearty,
While around the turf fire the old pair take their ease,
And a drop of the crature whenever they please.

The first one I met before I left home,
Was Gibbons, my uncle, who lived in Athlone,
He left word for me to be there without fail,
So I got in a stage that carried the mail.

When I opened the door what a sight met my eyes, Hot bacon and praties, and herrings and pies. While up in the closet, by way of a lunch,

Stood a five gallon bowl full of hot whisky and punch.

While perched on the table, blind piper McGill
And schoolmaster Casey, and Father O'Neil;
O'Brien, the butcher, and a great many more,
And McAvoy brothers that came from Bandore.

Then Biddy Mavourneen and brothers O'Neil,
Stood up on the floor a three-handed ree!;
While perched on the table, blind piper McGill
layed a tune called The Little House under the Hill.

96

Wid my brogues, etc.

PAT'S LOVE.

ОCH hone, and it's Biddy McClooney
For whom me sowl is disazed,

And the heart in me head is grown looney,
And the brains in me bosom is crazed.

I have lost all me love for pertaties-
My affiction for inyuns and pork,
For she is the finest of ladies

That walks on the State of Ne' York.

Me life with her worship runs over,
Like a hod full of mortar; I'm sick;
And me moments with mimeries of her
Are as full as a hod full of brick.
I think of her always and longer,

From night until morning, and back; My love than good whisky is stronger, And burdens me down like a pack.

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
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.

LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.

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 like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,
How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many
a shock:

Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower
Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.
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.
When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,
The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet;
The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised:
But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she
raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung,
Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue;
But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your
hands,

And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town!
The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down.

If some breat lord should come this way, and see your beauty

bright,

And you to be his lady I'd own it was but right.

Oh, might we live together in a lofty palace hall,
Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!
Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

Oh, lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress!
It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less;
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low;
But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go.

FLAMING O'FLANAGANS.

Now I'm of age I'll come into my property,

Devil a ha'penth I'll think of but fun;

'Tis myself will be putting the ladies in papoutry, Just to prove I'm my daddy's own son.

Och, now, Mistress Honey, I'll teach ye civility,

Judy O'Doole, escape if you can

I'm the boy that will show you the sweets of gentility, Loving most women and fearing no man.

CHORUS.

Hooroo! hack!

For, that was the way with the flaming O'Flanagans, From the first illigant boys of that name;

For kissing and courting, and filling the can again, Drinking and fighting like cocks of the game. Hooroo! hack!