When William, Duke of Schumbug,

A tyrant and a humbug,

With cannon and with thunder on our city bore, Our fortitude and valliance

Insthructed his battalions

To rispict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore.

Since that capitulation,

No city in this nation

So grand a reputation could boast before,
As Limerick prodigious,

That stands with quays and bridges,

And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore.

A chief of ancient line,
'Tis William Smith O'Brine

Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or

more :

O the Saxons can't endure
To see him on the flure,

And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore !

This valliant son of Mars

Had been to visit Par's,

That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor ; And to welcome his returrn

From pilgrimages furren,

We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore.

Then we summoned to our board
Young Meagher of the sword ;

'Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon gore; And Mitchil of Belfast

We bade to our repast,

To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore.

Convaniently to hould
These patriots so bould,

We tuck the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store : And with ornamints and banners

(As becomes gintale good manners)

We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon shore.

'Twould binifit your sowls

To see the buttherd rowls,

The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim galyore.

And the muffins and the crumpets, And the band of harps and thrumpets, To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore.

Sure the Imperor of Bohay

Would be proud to dthrink the tay

That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine did pour;

And since the days of Strongbow,

There never was such Congo

Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it-by Shannon shore.

But Clarndon and Corry
Connellan beheld this sworry

With rage and imulation in their black hearts' core;
And they hired a gang of ruffins

To interrupt the muffins

And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon shore.

When full of tay and cake,
O'Brine began to spake ;

But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar
Of a ragamuffin rout

Began to yell and shout,

And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore.

As Smith O'Brine harangued. They batthered and they banged: Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they tore ; They smashed the lovely windies

(Hung with muslin from the Indies), Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore.

With throwing of brickbats,
Drowned puppies and dead rats,

These ruffin democrats themselves did lower;
Tin kettles, rotten eggs,

Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs,

They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore.

O the girls began to scrame

And upset the milk and crame;

And the honorable gintlemin, they cursed and

swore :

And Mitchil of Belfast,

'Twas he that looked aghast,

When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon shore.

O the lovely tay was spilt

On that day of Ireland's guilt ;

Says Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt! Boys, where's the back door?

'Tis a national disgrace:

Let me go and veil me face ;"

And he boulted with quick pace from the Shannon shore.

"Cut down the bloody horde!"
Says Meagher of the sword,

"This conduct would disgrace any blackamore ;" But the best use Tommy made

Of his famous battle blade

Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore.

Immortal Smith O'Brine

Was raging like a line :

'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard

him roar ;

In his glory he arose,

And he rush'd upon his foes,

But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore.

Then the Futt and the Dthragoons

In squadthrons and platoons,

With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore;

And they bate the rattatoo,

But the Peelers came in view,

And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore.

LARRY O'TOOLE.

YOU'VE all heard of Larry O'Toole,
Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole ;
He had but one eye,

To ogle ye by

Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l!
A fool

He made of de girls, dis O'Toole.

'Twas he was the boy didn't fail,
That tuck down pataties and mail;
He never would shrink

From any strong dthrink,
Was it whiskey or Drogheda ale ;
I'm bail

This Larry would swallow a pail.

Oh, many a night at the bowl,
With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl;
He's gone to his rest,

Where there's dthrink of the best,

And so let us give his old sowl
A howl,

For t'was he made the noggin to rowl.

THE ROSE OF FLORA.

SENT BY A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF QUALITY TO MISS BR-DY, OF CASTLE BRADY.

ON Brady's towers there grows a flower,
It is the loveliest flower that blows,-
At Castle Brady there lives a lady

(And how I love her no one knows); Her name is Nora, and the goddess Flora Presents her with this blooming rose.

"O Lady Nora,"says the goddess Flora,
I've many a rich and bright parterre ;
In Brady's towers there's seven more flowers,
But you're the fairest lady there :

Not all the county, nor Ireland's bounty,

Can projuice a treasure that's half so fair!"

What cheek is redder? sure roses fed her!
Her hair is maregolds, and her eyes of blew.
Beneath her eyelid, is like the vi'let,

That darkly glistens with gentle jew !

The lily's nature is not surely whiter

Than Nora's neck is,—and her arrums too.