TERRY MALONE.-Continued.

If you spake of some one I'll not mention,
It is certain, they say, he'll appear;

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,
And he asked me to met him alone;
For I very well knew what he wanted,
So avoided poor Terry Malone.

Coming home the next ev'ning quite lonely,
All at once who d'ye tihnk I did spy?
But Terry himself in a flurry,

And oh! such a beam in his eye!

Where's the use to descend to partic'lars,
Enough if the end be made known-
That same night, by the moon, consented,
To become Mistress Terry Malone.

DEAR PRATIES.

As a cook, a few dainties I'll here be explaining,
And sure you'll confess that they go in a trice,
They're of true Irish growth, and if you take my meaning,
You'll say they're all the world can think nice;

There's some that will eat them well moistened with whiskey,
Some roast them, while others prefer them if boiled,
And if you but eat them, they'll make your hearts frisky,
But leave on their jackets or else they'll be spoiled.

CHORUS.

Dear praties we can't do without them,

They grow in our fields, and our men they employ;
Talk as you will you must say this about them-
That a mealy praty is an Irishman's joy.

They make the boys stout, and keep the girls slender,
They soften the hearts, and they strengthen the mind,
And the man from the bog, or the lord in high splendor,
All live by the praties, as most folks can find;
Besides, if a foe come to threaten old Erin,

We'll bother his noddle, and soon stop his breath,
And at our ammunition he'd soon be found staring,
For with praties, dear praties, we'd stone 'em to death.
Dear praties, etc.

YOU'RE WELCOME AS FLOWERS IN MAY.
"So, Katty dear, you've told your mother
That I'm a rogue, by that and this,
We'll prove that same somehow or other,
So first of all I'll steal a kiss."
"Och! Terry dear, don't call it stealing,
A kiss you cannot take away,
The loss of that I'd not be feeling-
You're welcome as the flowers in May."

"But, Kitty dear, I'm growing bolder,
A great big thief I mean to start,
And before I am an hour older

I'd like to steal away your heart."
"Och! Terry, don't you call it robbin',

My heart you've owned this many a day;
But if you like to ease its throbbin',
You're welcome as the flowers in May."

THE RIVER BOYNE.

BRIDE of Loch Ramor, gently seaward stealing,
In thy placid depths hast thou no feeling
Of the stormy gusts of other days?
Does thy heart, O gentle, nun-faced river,
Passing Shomberg's obelisk, not quiver,

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
Ramor!

Were brewed the bitter strife and cruel clamor
Our wisest long have mourned;
Foul Faction falsely made thy gentle current
To Christian ears a stream and name abhor.
rent,

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,
Like a sheet of foam in the silver ray;
And its yellow shores were round it rolled,
As a gem enclosed by its fretted gold.
And there, where the old oaks mark the spot,
Arose my Kathleen's sheltered cot;

And I bounded on, for my hopes were high,
Though still at my heart rose the boding sigh.

The silver moon was veiled by a cloud,
And the darkness fell on my soul like a
shroud;

And a figure in white was seen afar,
To fit on my path like a twinkling star.
I rushed, I ran-'twas my Kathleen dear:
But why does she fly? has she ought to fear?
I called, but in vain-like the fleeting beam,
She melted away with the flowing stream.

THE SACRET YEZ TRUSTED TO ME.

CHORUS.

Then hurrah! for the Emerald Isle!
Where shillelahs and shamrocks abound,

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,
The shamrock he bless'd, and for that
We steep it in whisky galore;
He told us while time should remain,

Still happy would be the gay sod
And bloom in the midst of the main,
By the footsteps of friendship still trod.
Then hurrah, etc.

As for heroes, we have them in plenty,
From gallant old Brian Boroimhe,
In battles, faith, upwards of twenty

He leathered the Danes black and blue.
Invasion our sons could not sever,
Like lions they fought on the strand,
And may their descendants for ever
Protect their own beautiful land.
Then hurrah, etc.

MARY MACHREE.

THE flower of the valley was Mary Machree,
Her smiles all bewitching were lovely to see;
The bees round her humming, when summer was gone,
When the roses were fled, might her lips take for one;
Her laugh it was music, her breath it was balm,
Her heart, like the lake, was as pure and as calm,
Till Love o'er it came, like a breeze o'er the sea,
And made the heart heave of sweet Mary Machree.

She loved-and she wept; for was gladness e'er known
To dwell in the bosom, that love makes his own;
His joys are but moments, his griefs are for years;
He comes all in smiles, but he leaves all in tears!
Her lover was gone to a far distant land!

And Mary, in sadness, would pace the lone strand,
And tearfully gaze on the dark rolling sea,
That parted her soldier from Mary Machree.

Oh, pale grew her cheek when there came from afar,
The tales of the battle, and tidings of war;

Her eyes filled with tears when the clouds gather'd dark,
For fancy would picture some tempest-tost bark;

But winter came on, and the deep woods were bare,

In the hall was a voice, and a foot on the stair,
Oh! joy to the maiden, for o'er the blue sea,

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-
They're sure to tell the difference twixt a fiddle, a dog, or a

man.

What more diversion can a man desire,
Than to be seated by snug coal fire,
Upon his knee a pretty wench,
And on the table-a jug of punch?

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
From Chester to Kilkenny, O!
When great Wolf died, his country's pride,
To arms my dapper father beat;
Each dale and hill remembers still

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,
And many friends I've met!
Not one fair scene or kindly smile
Can this fond heart forget.
But I'll confess that I'm content,
No more I wish to roam:
Oh, steer my bark to Erin's isle,
For Erin is my home.

In Erin's isle there's manly hearts,
And bosoms pure as snow:

In Erin's isle there's right good cheer,
And hearts that overflow.
In Erin's isle I'd pass my time;
No more I wish to roam:
Oh, steer my bark to Erin's isle,
For Erin is my home.

If England were my place of birth,
I'd love her tranquil shore;
If bonny Scotland were my home,
Her mountains I'd adore.

But pleasant days in both I've past;
I'll dream of days to come:
Oh, steer my bark to Erin's isle,
For Erin is my home.

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.
On the floor I lay sprawling,

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 bates pipe and fiddle?

What's stronger than mustard and milder than crame?
What best wets your whistle?
What's clearer than crystal,

And sweeter than honey, and stronger than stame?
What'll make the dumb talk?
What'll make the lame walk?

What's th' Elixir of Life and Philosopher's Stone?
And what help'd Mr. Brunel

To dig the Thames Tunnel?

Sure wasn't it the spirit of nate Innishowen!
Then stick to the cratur,

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,
And he dashed the tear away,

As he watch'd the shore recede from sight,
Of his own sweet Dublin Bay.

Three days they sail'd, and a storm arose,
And the lightning swept the deep,

And the thunder-crash broke the short repose,
Of the weary sea-boy's sleep.

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,
Some stood in their mute despair,

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.
ОCH! Patrick darlin', would you lave me
To sail across the big salt sea?

I never thought you'd thus decave me;
It's not the truth you're tellin' me!
Though Dublin is a mighty city,

It's there I should be quite forlorn,
For, poor and friendless, who would pity—
Left lonely there-your Colleen Bawn?

You tell me that your friends are leaving
The dear green isle, to cross the main,
But don't you think they'll soon be grieving
For dear ould Ireland once again?
Can they forget each far-famed river?
Each hill a thousand songs adorn?
Can you depart from them for ever-
Could you forget your Colleen Bawn?
Sure, Patrick, me you've been beguiling,
It's not my heart you mane to break,
Tho' fortune may not now be smiling,
Your Colleen Bawn you'll not forsake;
I'll go with you across the sea, dear,
If brighter days for us wont dawn;
No matter where our home may be, dear,
I still will be your Colleen Bawn.
THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May morning long ago,
When first you were my bride.
The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip Mary,
And the love light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day as bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again!
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep list'ning for the words
You never more may speak.

"Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near;
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,

And my step would break your rest,
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends;
But oh! they love the better far,
The few our Father sends!

And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessing and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary, kind and true!

But I'll not forget you, darling,

In the land I'm going to!

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;

But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!