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not angry,-

You know 'twas but jokin' the words that II



Who's that at the dure? 'Tis himself! O my

darlin', Forgive me 'twas wrong for to plague you, I know;

I'll marry you now, and o'erjoyed and continted,

I'll be as your spouse through life's journey

to go.

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WHY, Dermot, you look healthy, now your dress is neat and clean,
I never see you drunk about, oh, tell me where you've been;
Your wife and family all are well, you once dia use them strange,
Oh, you are kinder to them now, how came the happy change?
It was a dream, a warning voice, which heaven sent to me,
To snatch me from a drunkard's curse, grim want and misery;
My wages were all spent in drink, oh, what a wretched view!
I almost broke my Mary's heart, and starved my children, too.
What was my home or wife to me? I heeded not her sigh,
Her patient smile has welcomed me when tears bedimined her

My children, too, have oft awoke, Oh, father, dear, they've said,
Poor mother has been weeping so because we've had no bread.

My Mary's form did waste away, I saw her sunken eye,

On straw my babes in sickness laid, I heard their wailing cry; laughed and sung in drunken joy, while Mary's tears did


Then like a beast I fell asleep and had this warning dream:

I thought I once more staggered home, there seemed a solemn gloom,

I missed my wife, where can she be? and strangers in the room; Then I heard them say: Poor thing, she's dead, she led a wretched life,

Grief and want has broken her heart-who'd be a drunkard's wife?

I saw my children weeping 'round, I scarcely drew my breath,
They called and kissed her lifeless form forever stilled in death;
Oh, father, come and wake her up, the people say she's dead,
Oh, make her smile and speak once more, we'll never cry for


She is not dead, I frantic cried, and rushed to where she lay,
And madly kissed her once warm lips, forever cold as clay;
Oh, Mary, speak once more to me, no more I'll cause you pain,
No more I'll grieve your loving heart, nor ever drink again.
Dear Mary, speak, 'tis Dermot calls. Why, so I do, she cried,
I awoke, and true, my Mary, dear, was kneeling at my side;
I pressed her to my throbbing heart, while joyous tears did

And ever since I've heaven blessed for sending me that dream.


WERE you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields are so sunny and green, And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees look down with so proud a mien?

'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish groundGod bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where could your match be found?

They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in your eye:
But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and bitter a lie.
Oh! no, machusla storin! bright, bright, and warm are you,
With hearts as bold as the men of old, to yourselves and your
country true.

And when there is gloom upon you, bid them think who has brought it there

Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made for your face so fair;

You've a hand for the grasp of friendship-another to make them quake, And they're welcome to whichsoever it pleases them most to take.

Shall our homes, like the huts of Connaught, be crumbled before our eyes?

Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from all that we love and



Is there any one here that's in love?
If so, you can guess how I feel,
When I say I've a charming young girl,
And her age it is sweet seventeen.
When Cupid his arrow did fire,

It struck my heart, but that didn't harm me; Her uncle had a plow-boy young Mary loved quite well,
The girl that I fondly admire

And in her uncle's garden their tales of love would tell;
There was a wealthy squire that oft came her to see,

Is the elegant Rosanna Carney.

But still she loved her plow-boy on the banks of sweet Dundee.


Handsome and tall, waist very small,

Brim full of real Irish blarney;

The bells they will ring, the birds they will sing,

The morn I wed Rosanna Carney.

Her father is a man of great wealth,
And climbed up the ladder of fame;
Some say he carried a hod-

There's lots of good men done the same.
And brim full of real Irish blarney;
His daughter's the hard-working girl,
All the dudes down our street are in love
With the elegant Rosanna Carney.


On the beautiful banks of the Shannon
There grows such an illigant tree,
And the fruit that it bears is shillaleh,

I've a sprig of it here, you may see.
'Tis the remnant of all my large fortune,

It's the friend that ne'er played me a trick, And I'd rather lose half my supportin'

Than part with this illigant stick.

It's the porter that carried my luggage,
For I've shouldered it many a mile,
And from thieves it will safely protect me,
In a beautiful delicate style.

It is useful for rows in the summer,

And when winter comes on with a storm, If you're short of a fire in the cabin,

You can burn it to keep yourself warm.
It's a friend both so true and so constant,
Its constancy pen cannot paint;

For, it always is there, when it's wanted,
And sometimes it's there when it ain't.
It beats all your guns and your rifles;

For, it goes off whene'er you desire,
And it's sure to hit whate'er it's aimed at―
For, shillalehs they never miss fire.

It's a talisman so upright and honest,
Twenty shillings it pays to the pound:
So if ever it gets you in debt, sir,

You are sure to be paid, I'll be bound.
It never runs up a long score, sir,

In trade it's not given to fail,
There's no danger of its being insolvent;
For, it always pays down on the nail.
And, faith! at an Irish election,

An argument striking it's there;
For with brickbats and sprigs of the Shannon,
We see things go all right and square.
It's then there's no bribery at all, sir,

They vote as they like, every soul;
But it's no use opposing shillaleh,

Or it's sure to come down on the poll.


It is of a farmer's daughter so beautiful I'm told,
Her parents died and left her a large amount in gold;
She lived with her uncle, the cause of all her woe,

But you soon shall hear this maiden fair did prove his overthrow.

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When Paddy reached the belfry-ropes, "Be jabers!


To get a piece that's long enough I must climb to the top;"
So like a sailor up he went, and when near the end said he:
"I think the piece that's underneath quite long enough will be."
So holding by one arm and leg, he pulled his clasp-knife out,
And right above his head and hand he cut the rope so stout;
He quite forgot it held him up. By the powers of Doctor Pope!
Down to the bottom of the church fell Paddy and the rope.

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But they set poor Micky free, the pair got no release;

They took them to the station, where their conduct they now rue,
For if they had no work before, they've plenty now to do;
And for their ingenuity they have a larger scope
Than when they broke into the church and tried to steal the rope.


Он, Paddy, dear, and did you hear the news that's going 'round?
The shamrock is forbid, by law, to grow on Irish ground;
No more St. Patrick's day we'll keep-his color last be seen,
For there's a bloody law agin the wearing of the green.
Oh! I met with Napper Tandy, and he tuk me by the hand,
And he says: How is poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand?
She's the most distressed country that ever I have seen,
For they are hanging men and women for the wearing of the

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And I knew not what to say! "He dies to-day," thought a fair, sweet girlShe lacked the life to speak,

For sorrow had almost frozen her blood,
And white were her lip and cheek-
Despair had drank up her last wild tear,
And her brow was damp and chill,
And they often felt at her heart with fear,
For its ebb was all but still.

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The brawling squires may heed him not, The dainty stranger sneer

But who will dare to hurt our cot,

When Myles O'Hea is here?
The scarlet soldiers pass along-

They'd like, but fear to rail-
His blood is hot, his blow is strong-
The Boatman of Kinsale.

His hooker's in the Scilly van,

When seines are in the foam;
But money never made the man,
Nor wealth a happy home.
So, blest with love and liberty,
While he can trim a sail,

He'll trust in God, and cling to me-
The Boatinan of Kinsale.


But if, at last, her colors should be torn from Ireland's heart,
Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old soil will part;
I've heard whispers of a country that lies far beyond the sea,
Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.
Oh Erin! must we leave you, driven by the tyrant's hand?
Must we ask a mother's blessing in a strange but happy land,
Where the cross of England's thraldom is never to be seen,
But where, thank God, we'll live and die still wearing of the

No! by those who were here before us, no churl shall our tyrant


Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Brigid, ourselves are


No! we do not forget the greatness did once to sweet Erie belong;


In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome track.

Oh! come for a while among us, and give us the friendly hand,
And you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and gladsome land;
From Upper to Lower Ormond, bright welcomes and smiles will

No treason or craven spirit was ever our race among;

And no frown or no word of hatred we give-but to pay them It was all but a moment, her radiant existence, Her presence, her absence, all crowded on

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Then on the cannon balls flew, men from both sides drew,
Our men were bound by oath to die or hold their ground;
So from our vengeance the Samagh fled,

Leaving the fields covered with dead.

While each man cried out gloriously:


O! MANY bright eyes full of goodness and glad


Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine,

And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sad


Have I worshiped in silence and felt them divine!

But hope in its gleamings, or love in its dreamings,

Then methought, as the clouds were repeatedly flowing,

I saw a lion stretched on the crimson-gold places,
Beneath the pale moonbeams in death's sleep reposing,
The comrades I knew I would never see again;
Then over the mountain path homewards I hastened back,
There saw my mother, who fainted, gave a loud scream,
At the shock of which I awoke, just at daybreak,
And found myself a prisoner, and all but a dream.

Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,

The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Ken



But time has not ages, and earth has not distance

To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee! Again am I straying where children are play


Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air, Mountains are heathy, and there I do see thee, Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare!

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To him who far travels how sad is the feeling— How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim,

Come from your prison, Burke! Irishmen have done their work, When the scenes he most loves, like the river's God he was with us, old Erin is free!

soft stealing

All fade as a vision and vanish from him!

Yet he bears from cach far land a flower for that garland,

That memory weaves of the bright and the fair:

While this sigh I am breathing my garland is

And the rose of that garland is Kate of

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Daughter. But, mother!

Mother. Oh, bother!

Daughter. Oh, mother, he's going away.
[Mother, speaking again with peculiar parental
piety.] May he never come back!
Daughter. And I dream of his ghost,

Walking round my bedpost-
Oh, mother, he's going away.

A. D. 1690.

It was upon a summer's morn, unclouded rose the sun.
And lightly o'er the waving corn their way the breezes won;
Sparkling beneath that orient beam, 'mid banks of verdure gay,
Its eastward course a silver stream held smilingly away.

A kingly host upon its side a monarch camp'd around,
Its southern upland far and wide their white pavilions crowned;
Not long that sky unclouded show'd, nor long beneath the ray
That gentle stream in silver flowed, to meet the new-born day.

Through yonder fairy-haunted glen, from out that dark ravine,*
Is heard the tread of marching men, the gleam of arms is seen;
And plashing forth in bright array along yon verdant banks,
All eager for the coming fray, are rang'd the martial ranks.

Peals the loud gun-its thunders boom the echoing vales along,
While curtain'd in its sulph'rous gloom moves on the gallant

And foot and horse in mingled mass, regardless all of life,
With furious ardor onward pass to join the deadly strife.


strange that with such ardent flame each glowing heart beats Their battle word was William's name, and "Death or Liberty! Then, Oldbridge, then thy peaceful bowers with sounds unwonted rang,

And Tredagh, 'mid thy distant towers, was heard the mighty clang;

The silver stream is crimson'd wide, and clogg'd with many a


Now fiercer grows the battle's rage, the guarded stream is
As floating down its gentle tide come mingled man and horse.


And furious, hand to hand engage each bold contending host;

He falls-the veteran hero falls, renowned along the RhineAnd he whose name, while Derry's walls endure, shall brightly shine.

Oh! would to heav'n that churchman bold, his arms with triumph


The soldier spirit had controll'd that fir'd his pious breast.

And he, the chief of yonder brave and persecuted band,
Who foremost rush'd amid the wave and gained the hostile


He bleeds, brave Caillemonte-he bleeds-'tis closed, his bright


Yet still that band to glorious deeds his dying accents cheer.

If he's going away, all the betther

Blessed hour when he's out of your sight!

And now that well-contested strand successive columns gain,
There's one comfort-you can't get a letther-While backward James's yielding band are borne across the plain.
For yiz neither can read nor can write.
Sure 'twas only last week you protested,

In vain the sword green Erin draws, and life away doth fling-
Oh! worthy of a better cause and of a bolder king.

Since he courted fat Jinney M'Cray,
That the sight o' the scamp you detested-

With abuse sure your tongue never rested-

In vain thy bearing bold is shown upon that blood-stain'd ground;

Thy tow'ring hopes are overthrown, thy choicest fall around: Nor, sham'd, abandon thou the fray, nor blush, though conquer'd there,

A power against thee fights to-day no mortal arm may dare.

Nay, look not to that distant height in hope of coming aid-
The dastard thence has ta'en his flight, and left his men betray'd.
Hurrah! hurrah! the victor shout is heard on high Dunore;
Down Platten's vale, in hurried rout, thy shatter'd masses pour.

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