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ONE BOTTLE MORE. Assist me, ye lads who have hearts void of guile, To sing in the praises of old Ireland's isle, Where true hospitality opens the door, And friendship detains us for one bottle more; One bottle more, arrah, one bottle more, And friendship detains us for one bottle more. Old England, your taunts on our country forbear; With our bulls and our brogues we are true and sincere; For if but one bottle remains in our store, We have generous hearts to give that bottle more.
At Candy's, in Church-street, I'll sing of a set
Our bill being paid, we were loth to depart,
Slow Phoebus had shone through our window so bright,
OH! WHEN I BREATH'D A LAST ADIEU.
TUNE_" Within this village dwells a maid."
In life's unclouded spring;.
That rov'd on Fancy's wing?
She bore me to the woodbine bow'r,
From Kathleen's beaming eye:
I drank each melting sigh.
On all our transports dwell?
“Farewell, my love-farewell !”
KITTY OF COLERAINE.
With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbl’d, the pitcher it tumbld, 1
And all the sweet butter-milk water'd the plain. Oh, what shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now,
Sure, sure such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again, 'Twas the pride of my dairy, O Blarney M'Cleary,
Your sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine. I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,
That such a misfortune should give her such pain, A kiss then I gave her, and before I did leave her,
She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason,
Misfortunes will never come single 'tis plain, For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster,
The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.
An emerald set in the ring of the sea;
Thou queen of the west, the world's Cushlamachree. Thy gates open wide to the poor and the stranger;
There smiles hospitality, hearty and free;
And the wand'rer is welcom'd with Cushlamachree.
Thy sons they are brave, but the battle once over,
In brotherly peace with their foes they agree;
Then flourish for ever, my dear native Erin,
While sadly I wander, an exile from thee! And firm as thy mountains, no injury fearing,
May Heaven defend its own Cushlamachree.
THE IRISH SMUGGLERS. From Brighton two Paddies walk'd under the clif,
For pebbles and shells to explore, When, lo! a small barrel was dropp'd from a skilt,
Which floated, at length, to the shore.
To-night we'll be merry and frisky;
Dear joy, 'tis a barrel of whisky.
(Now Pat you must know, was no joker ;)
And borrow his kitchen hot poker. 'Twas said, and 'twas done—the barrel was bord,
(No Bacchanals ever felt prouder,) When Paddy found out a small error on board
The whisky, alas! was gunpowder.
And high in air, sported a leg;
So he kept a tight hold of the keg.
I'm not to be chous’d, Mr. Wiseman,
And, by St. Patrick, I'll tell the exciseman,