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The royal band now ready stand,
All ranged in dread array, sir,

With stomach stout, to see it out,
And make a bloody day, sir.

The cannons roar, from shore to shore.

The small arms make a rattle;
Since wars began I'm sure no man
E'er saw so strange a battle.

The rebel dales, the rebel vales,
With rebel trees surrounded;
The distant woods, the hills and

With rebel echoes sounded.

The fish below, swam to and fro,

Attacked from every quarter; Why, sure, thought they, the devil's to pay

'Mongst folks above the water.

The kegs, 'tis said, though strongly made

Of rebel staves and hoops, sir, Could not oppose their powerful foes, the conq'ring British troops, sir.

From morn to night these men of might

Displayed amazing courage; And when the sun was fairly down Retired to sup their porridge.

An hundred men, with each a pen,
Or more, upon my word, sir.

It is most true would be too few
their valor to record, sir.

Such feats did they perform that day
Against these wicked kegs, sir,

That years to come, If they get home. They'll make their boast and brags, sir.

Walter Savage L An Dor.


The wisest of the wise
Listen to pretty lies

And love to hear them told;
Doubt not that Solomon
Listened to many a one, —
Some in his youth, and more when

he grew old.

I never was among

The choir of Wisdom's song,

But pretty lies loved I, As much as any king. When youth was on the wing, And (must it then be told?) when

youth had quite gone by.

Alas! and I have not
The pleasant hour forgot

When one pert lady said
"O Landor! I am quite
Bewildered with affright!
I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on

your head!"

Another more benign Drew out that hair of mine, And in her own dark hair Pretended it was found, That one, and twirled it round; Fair as she was she never was so fair!


Under the lindens lately sat
A couple, and no more, in chat;
I wondered what they would be at

Under the lindens.

I saw four eyes and four lips meet;
I heard the words, "How sweet!

how sweet!"
Had then the fairies given a treat

Under the lindens?

I pondered long, and could not tell What dainty pleased them both so well:

Bees! Dees! was it your hydromel

Under the lindens?

Charles Godfrey Leland.

[From Breitmann about Town.]

Dey vented to de Opera Haus.

Und dere dey vound em blayin'. Of Offenbach (der West brook).

His show spiel Belle Helene. ''Dere'sOffenbach,—Sebastian Bach;

Hit Kaulbach, — dat makes dree: I always likes soosh brooks ash dese,"

Said Breitemann, said he.

Dey vented to de Bihliothek,
Vhleh MUhder Astor bilt:

Some pooks vere only en brosctnire,
Und some vere pound und gilt.

"Dat makes de gold — dat makes de •inn,

Mlt pooks, ash men, ve see, De pest tressed vellers gilt de most:" .Slid Breltemann, said he.

Dey vent oonto a bicture sale,

Of frames wort' many a cent, De broberty of a shendleinan,

Who oonto Europe vent. "Don't gry — he'll soon pe pack again Mil anoder gallerie: He sells dem oud dwelt dimes a year,"

Said Breitemann, said he.

Dey vented to dis berson's house,

To see his furnidure,
sold oud at aucdlon rite afay,

Berembdory und sure.
"He geeps vi\ houses all at vonce,

Each veek a sale dere pe; Gotts! vat a dime his vife moost have!" —

Said Breitemann, said he.

Dey vent to hear a breecher of

He last sensadlon shtyle, 'Twas 'nough to make der tyfel weep

To see his "awful smile."

"Vot bities dat der Fechter ne'er

Vas in Theologie. Dcy'd make him pishop in dis shoorsh,"

Said BreiU'inann, said he.

Dey vent polid'gal meedins next,

Dey hear dem rant and rail, Der president vas a forger,

Shoost bardoned oud of jail. He does it oud of cratitood

To dem who set him vree: "Id's Harmonic of Inderesds,"

Said Breitemann, said he.

Dey vent to a clairfoyand vitch,
A plack-eyed handsome maid,

She wahrsagt all der vortunes — denn "Fife dollars, gents!" she said.

"S witches are nod of dis eart', Und yed are on id, I see

Der Shakespeare knew de preed right well,"

Said Breitemann, said he.

Dey vented to a restaurand,

Der vaiter coot a dash;
He garfed a chicken in a vink,

Und serfed id at a vlash. "Dat shap knows veil shoost how to coot,

Und roon mit poulterie, He vas copitain oonder Turchin vonce," Said Breitemann, said he.

Dey vented to de Voman's Righds,

Vere ladies all agrees
De gals should pe de voters,

Und deir beaux all de votees.
"For every man dat nefer vorks,

Von frau should vranchised pe: Dat ish de vay I self dis ding,"

Said Breitemann, said he.


He mt Schnitzkrl make a philosopede,

Von of de pullyest kind;
It vent mitout a vheel in front,

And hadn't none pehind.
Von vheel vas in de mlttel, dough,

And it vent as sure as ecks,
For he shtraddled on de axle-dree

Mit de vheel petween his leeks.

Und ven he vant to shtart id off,

He paddlet mit his feet, Und soon he cot to go so vast

Dat avery dings he peat. He run her out on Uroader Shtreed,

He shkeeted like der vind; Hei! how he basseil de vancy crabs,

And let dem all pehind!

De vellers mit de trottin nags
Pooled oop to see him bass;

De Deutschers all erstaunished said:
"Potztaunend I Was ist das f"

Boot vaster shtill der Schnitzerl flewed

On — mit a gashtly smile;
He tidn't tooeii de tirt, py shings!
Not vonce in half a mile.

Oh, vot ish all dis eartly pliss?

Oh, vot ish man's soocksess? Oh, vot ish various kinds of dings?

Und vot ish hobbiness? Ve find a pank-node in de shtreedt,

Next dings der pank is break; Ve foils, und knocks our outsides in,

Ven ve a ten-shtrike make.

So vas it mit der Schnilzerlein

On his philosopede; His feet both shlipped outsideward ■boost

Vhen at his extra shpeed. He felled oopon der vheel. of course;

De vheel like blitzen flew: Und Schnitzerl he vas schnitz in vact,

For Id shlished him grod in two.

Und as for his philosopede.
Id cot so shkaied, men say,

It pounded onward till it vent
Ganz teufelwards afay.

But vhere ish now de Schnitzerl's soul?

Vhere dos his shbirit pide?
In Himmel troo de entless plue,
Id dakes a medeor ride.

Charles Lever.


Did you hear of the Widow Malone,

Who lived in the town of Athlone,
O, she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts;
So lovely the Widow Malone,

So lovely the Widow Malone.

Of lovers she had a full score,
Or more.
And fortunes they all had galore,
In store;
From the minister down
To the Clerk of the Crown

All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone!

All were courting the Widow Malone,

But so modest was Mistress Malone,

'Twas known That no one could see her alone, Ohone! Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone!

So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare (How quare!

It's little for blushing they care

Down there),

Put his arm round her waist,— Gave ten kisses at laste, — "O," says he, "you're my Molly Malone!

My own!

O," says he, "you're my Molly Malone!"

And the widow they all thought so shy,

My eye!

Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, —
For why?
But, "Lucius," says she,
"Since you've now made so free,

You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone!

You may marry your Mary Malone."

There's a moral contained in my song,

Not wrong; And one comfort, it's not very long, But strong, — If for widows you die, Learn to kiss, not to sigh; For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone,


For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone.

Samuel Lover.


On the eighth day of March it was,

Some people say, That Saint Patrick at midnight he

first saw the day; While others declare 'twas the ninth

he was born, And 'twas all a mistake between midnight and morn; For mistakes will occur in a hurry

and shock. And some blamed the babby — and

Some blamed the clock — 'Till with all their cross questions

sure no one could know If the child was too fast — or the

clock was too slow.

Now the first faction fight in owld

Ireland, they say, Was all on account of Saint Patrick's


Some fought for the eighth — for the ninth more would die,

And who wouldn't see right, sure they blackened his eye.

At last, both the factions so positive grew,

That each kept a birth-day, so Pat then had two,

'Till Father Mulcahy, who showed them their sins.

Said, " No one could have two birthdays, but a twins."

Says he, "Boys, don't be fighting for eight or for nine,

Don't be always dividing — but sometimes combine;

Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is the mark,

So let that be his birth-day" — "Amen," says the clerk.

"If he wasn't a twins, sure our hist'ry will show —

That, at least, he's worth any two saints that we know!"

Then they all got blind drunk—which completed their bliss,

And we keep up the practice from that day to this.


Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn,

He was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the dawn;

He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,

And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.

"Now, Rory, be easy," sweet Kathleen would cry,

Reproof on her Up, but a smile in her eye,

"With "your tricks, I don't know, in

throth, what I'm about. Faith, you've teased till I've put on

my cloak inside out." "Oh! jewel," saysKory, "thatsame

is the way you've thrated my heart for this

many a day. And it's plazed that I am, and why

not, to be sure? For it's all for good luck," says bold

Rory O'More.

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen,

"don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves,

I'll be bound :" "Faith!" says Rory, "I'd rather

love you than the ground." "Now, Rory, I'll cry, if you don't

let me go: Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm

hating you so!" "Oh!" says Rory, "that same I'm

delighted to hear, For dhrnmex always go by conthral

rles, my dear. Oh! jewel, keep dreaming that same

till you die, And bl ight morning will give dirty

night the black lie! And 'tis plazed that I am, and why

not, to be sure'! Since 'tis all for good luck," says

bold Rory O'More.

"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've

teazed me enough, Sure I've thrashed for your sake Dinny

Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your

health, quite a haute. So I think, after that, I may talk to

the praste."

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm

round her neck. So soft and so white, without freckle

or speck,

And he looked in her eyes that were

beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips — don't

you think he was right? "Now, Rory, leave off, sir — you'll

hug me no more, that's eight times to-day you have

kissed me before." "Then here goes another," says he,

"to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers,"

says Rory O'More.


Widow machree, it's no wonder you frown,

Och hone! widow machree; Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black gown,

Och hone! widow machree.
How altered your air.
With that close cap you wear —
'Tis destroying your hair

Which would be flowing free:
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl,

Och hone! widow machree!

Widow machree, now the summer is come.

Och hone! widow machree; When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum?

Och hone! widow machree.
See the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares —
Why even the bears

Now in couples agree;
And the mute little fish.
Though they can't spake, they wish,

Och hone! widow machree.

Widow machree, and when winter

comes in. Och hone! widow machree. To be poking the fire all alone is a


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