TERRY MALONE.-Continued. If you spake of some one I'll not mention, And so of the lad I was thinking, By the bosheen I saw him draw near. I was pleased and yet sorry to see him, Coming home the next ev'ning quite lonely, And oh! such a beam in his eye! Where's the use to descend to partic'lars, DEAR PRATIES. As a cook, a few dainties I'll here be explaining, There's some that will eat them well moistened with whiskey, CHORUS. Dear praties we can't do without them, They grow in our fields, and our men they employ; They make the boys stout, and keep the girls slender, We'll bother his noddle, and soon stop his breath, YOU'RE WELCOME AS FLOWERS IN MAY. "But, Kitty dear, I'm growing bolder, I'd like to steal away your heart." My heart you've owned this many a day; THE RIVER BOYNE. BRIDE of Loch Ramor, gently seaward stealing, While the shadow on thy bosom weighs? Thou hast heard the sounds of martial clangor, Seen fraternal forces clash in anger, In thy Sabbath valley, River Boyne! Here have ancient Ulster's hardy forces Dressed their ranks, and fed their traveled horses, Tara's hosting as they rode to join. Forgettest thou that silent summer morning, When William's bugles sounded sudden warning, And James's answered, chivalrously clear! When rank to rank gave the death signal duly, And volley answered volley quick and truly, And shouted mandates met the eager ear? The thrush and linnet fled beyond the mountains, The fish in Inver Colpa sought their fountains, The unchased deer scampered through Tredagh's gates; St. Mary's bells in their high places trembled, And made a mournful music which resembled A hopeless prayer to the unpitying Fates. Ah! well for Ireland had the battle ended When James forsook what William well defended, Crown, friends, and kingly cause; Well, if the peace thy bosom did recover Had breathed its benediction broadly over Our race, and rites, and laws. Not in thy depths, not in thy fount, Loch Were brewed the bitter strife and cruel clamor And all thy waters into poison turned. But, as of old God's Prophet sweetened Mara, Even so, blue bound of Ulster and of Tara, Thy waters to our exodus give life; Thrice holy hands thy lineal foes have wedded, And healing olives in thy breast embedded, And banished far the littleness of strife. Before thee we have made a solemn Fœdus, And for Chief Witness called on Him who made us, Quenching before His eyes the brands of hate; Our pact is made, for brotherhood and union, For equal laws to class and to communionOur wounds to stanch-our land to liberate. Of her hair, like the dying sunlight flowing; And her words like the song of a summer bird, And her air and step, like the fawn's, when stirred By the hunter's horn, as it boometh o'er The woody glens of the steep Sliabh-mor. The broad Lough Mask beneath me lay, And I bounded on, for my hopes were high, The silver moon was veiled by a cloud, And a figure in white was seen afar, I came to her father's cottage door, The fond pulse of my soul, its hope, its pride. | THE SACRET YEZ TRUSTED TO ME. IF it's thrue it's the "silence that gives the consint," CHORUS. Then hurrah! for the Emerald Isle! May peace and prosperity smile O'er the land and its natives around. Our forefathers tell us St. Pat Drove vermin away from our shore, Still happy would be the gay sod As for heroes, we have them in plenty, He leathered the Danes black and blue. MARY MACHREE. THE flower of the valley was Mary Machree, She loved-and she wept; for was gladness e'er known And Mary, in sadness, would pace the lone strand, Oh, pale grew her cheek when there came from afar, Her eyes filled with tears when the clouds gather'd dark, But winter came on, and the deep woods were bare, In the hall was a voice, and a foot on the stair, The soldier returned to his Mary Machree. THE WHISTLING THIEF. WHEN Pat came o'er the hills, his colleen fair to see, His whistle, loud and shrill, his signal was to be. (Shrill whistle.) "Oh! Mary," the mother cried, “there's some one whistling, sure. "Oh! mother, you know it's the wind that's whistling through the door." (Whistles “Garryowen.” "I've lived a long time, Mary, in this wide world, my dear, But the wind to whistle like that, I never yet did hear." "But, mother, you know the fiddle hangs just behind the chink, And the wind upon the string is playing a tune, I think." (Dog barks.) "The dog is barking now, and the fiddle can't play that tune." "But, mother, you know that dogs will bark, when they see the moon; "And now there is the pig, onaisy in his mind." "But, mother, you know they say that pigs can see the wind." "That's all very well in the day, but then, I may remark, That pigs, no more than we, can see anything in the dark." "Now I'm not such a fool as you think; I know very well it is Pat. Be off, you whistling thief! and get along home out of that! And you be off to your bed, and don't bother me with your tears, For though I've lost my eyes, I have not lost my ears." MORAL Now, boys, too near the house don't courting go, d'ye mind, Unless you're certain sure the old woman's both deaf and blind; The days when they were young, forget they never can- man. What more diversion can a man desire, Tul looral, etc. DARBY KELLY. My grandsire beat a drum so neat, His name was Darby Kelly, O! No lad so true at rat tat too, At roll-call or reveille, O! When Marlbro's name first raised his fame, My grandy beat the point of war; At Blenheim he, at Ramilie, Made ears to tingle near and far; For with his wrist, he'd such a twist, The girls would leer, you don't know how; They laugh'd, and cried, and sigh'd, and died, To hear him beat his row dow dow. A son he had which was my dad, As tight a lad as any, O! You e'er would know, though you should go How loud, how long, how strong, how neat, With each drum-stick he had the trick, The girls would leer, you don't know how; Their eyes would glisten, their ears would listen, To hear nim beat his row dow dow. Yet ere I wed, ne'er be it said, But that the foe I dare to meet, With Wellington, Old Erin's son, To help to make them beat retreat. King Arthur once, or I'm a dunce, Was call'd the hero of the page; But what was he to him we seeThe Arthur of the modern age. For, by the pow'rs, from Lisbon's towers Their trophies bore to grace his brow; He made Nap prance right out of France, With his English, Irish, row dow dow. OH, STEER MY BARK TO ERIN'S ISLE. OH, I have roamed o'er many lands, In Erin's isle there's manly hearts, In Erin's isle there's right good cheer, If England were my place of birth, But pleasant days in both I've past; Can guard the complexion like whisky, my boys! Whilst a child in the cradle, My nurse wid a ladle Was filling my mouth wid an ocean of pap, When a drop from the bottle Slipp'd into my throttle, I caper'd and wriggled clane out of her lap. And kicking and bawling, Till father and mother were both to the fore, All sobbing and sighing, Conceived I was dying, But soon found I only was screeching for more. Then stick to the cratur, The best thing in natur For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys. Oh, whack, how they'd chuckle If babes in their truckle They only could suckle wid whisky, my boys! Thro' my youthful progression To years of discretion My childhood's impression still clung to my mind; For at school or at college The bolus of knowledge I never could gulp til wid whisky combined. And as older I'm growing, Time's ever bestowing On Erin's potation a flavor so fine, That howe'er they may lecture 'Bout Jove and his nectar, Itself is the only true liquor divine. Then stick to the cratur, The best thing in natur Myself bids defiance To yield in appliance to whisky, my boys! Come guess me this riddle- What's stronger than mustard and milder than crame? And sweeter than honey, and stronger than stame? What's th' Elixir of Life and Philosopher's Stone? To dig the Thames Tunnel? Sure wasn't it the spirit of nate Innishowen! The best thing in natur For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys. Oh! whack! I'd not wonder If lightning and thunder Was made from the plunder of whisky, my boys! DUBLIN BAY. HE sailed away in a galant bark Roy Neill and his fair young bride, He had ventur'd all in that bounding ark, That danced o'er the silver tide. But his heart was young and his spirit light, As he watch'd the shore recede from sight, Three days they sail'd, and a storm arose, And the thunder-crash broke the short repose, Roy Neill, he clasped his weeping bride, And he kiss'd her tears away, "Oh, love, 'twas a fatal hour," she cried, "When we left sweet Dublin Bay." On the crowded deck of the doomed ship, And some more calm, with a holy lip, Sought the God of the storm in prayer. "She has struck on the rock!" the seamen cried, In the breath of their wild dismay, And the ship went down and the fair young bride, That sailed from Dublin Bay. THE COLLEEN BAWN. I never thought you'd thus decave me; It's there I should be quite forlorn, You tell me that your friends are leaving I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, The place is little changed, Mary, "Tis but a step down yonder lane, And my step would break your rest, I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; And you were all I had, Mary, I'm bidding you a long farewell, But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm going to! They say there's bread and work for all, But I'll not forget old Ireland, |