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THO' LEIXLIP IS PROUD.

TUNE_" Humours of Glen.
Tho' Leixlip is proud of its close shady bowers,

Its clear falling waters, its murm'ring cascades,
Its groves of fine myrtle, its beds of sweet flowers,

Its lads so well drest, and its neat pretty maids. As each his own village will still make the most of,

In praise of dear Carton I hope I'm not wrong; Dear Carton, containing what kingdoms may boast of,

'Tis Norah, dear Norah, the theme of my song. Be gentlemen fine, with their spurs and nice boots on,

Their horses to start on the Curragh of Kildare, Or dance at a ball with their Sunday new suits on, Lac'd waistcoat, white gloves, and their nice powder'd

hair: Poor Pat, while so blest in his mean humble station,

For gold or for acres he never shall long;
One sweet smile can give him the wealth of a nation,
From Norah, dear Norah, the theme of my song.

LANGOLEE. When I took my departure from Dublin's sweet town,

And for England's own self thro' the seas I did plough, For seven long days I was tost up and down,

Like a quid of chew'd hay in the throat of a cow; When afraid off the deck in the ocean to slip, Sir, I clu like a cat, a fast hold for to keep, Sir, Round about the big post that grows out of the ship, Sir,

Och! I never thought more to sing Langolee. Thus standing stock still all the while I was moving,

Till Ireland's sweet coast I saw clean out of sight; Myself, the next day-a true Irishman proving,

When leaving the ship on the shore for to light;

As the board they put out was too narrow for quarter,
The first step I took I was in such a totter,
That I jump'd upon land, to my neck up in water;

Faith, that was not the time to sing Langolee.
But sure cold and hunger I never yet knew more,

For my stomach and bowels did grumble and growl, So I thought the best way to get each in good bumour,

Was to take out the wrinkles of both by my soul; Then I went to a house where roast meat they provide,

Sir, With a whirligig, which up the chimney I spy'd, Sir; Which grinds all their smoke into powder, beside, Sir,

'Tis as true as I'm now singing Langolee.

Next I went to the landlord of all the stage coaches,

That set sail for London each night in the week, To whom I obnoxiously made my approaches,

As a birth aboard one I was coine for to seek; But as for the inside, I'd no cash in my casket; So, says I, with your leave, may I make bold to ask it, When the coach is gone off, pray what time goes

the basket? For there I can ride and sing Langolee.

Then screwing his mouth up, The basket, says he, Sir,

Goes after the coach a full hour or two; Very well, Sir, says I, that's the thing just for me, Sir;

But the devil a word that he tould me was true; For though one went before, and the other behind, Sir, They set off, cheek-by-jowl, at the very same time, Sir; So that same day at night we set out by moonshine, Sir,

All alone, by myself, singing Langolee.

0, long life to the moon for a brave noble creature,

That sarves us with lamp-light each night in the dark, While the sun only shines in the day, which, by nature,

Wants no light at all, as you all may remark:

But as for the moon—by my shoul, I'll be bound, Sir,
It would save the whole nation a great many pounds, Sir,
To subscribe for to light her up all the year round, Sir,
Or I'll never sing more about Langolee.

JUDY O'FLANNIKIN.

TUNE_" Humours of Limerick.Oh, whack! Cupid's a mannikin,

Smack on my back he hit me a polter ; Good lack ! Judy O'Flannikin!

Dearly she loves neat Looney Mactwolter. Judy's my darling, my kisses she suffers;

She's an heiress, that's clear,

For her father sells beer;
He keeps the sign of the cow and the snuffers

She's so smart,
From my heart

I cannot bolt her.
Oh, whack! Judy O'Flannikin!
She is the girl for Looney Mactwolter.
Oh hone! good news I need a bit ;

We'd correspond, but learning would choke her : Mayronne! I cannot read a bit;

Judy can't tell a pen from a proker. Judy's so constant I'll never forsake her;

She's as true as the moon,

Only one afternoon
I caught her asleep with a hump-back'd shoemaker:

Oh, she's smart!
From my heart

I cannot bolt her.
Oh, whack! Judy O'Flannikin !
She is the girl for Looney Mactwolter.

SHANNON'S FLOW’RY BANKS.

In summer when the leaves were green,

And blossoms deck'd each tree,
Young Thady then declar'd his love,

His artless love to me:
On Shannon's flow'ry banks we sat,

And there he told his tale:
O Patty, softest of thy sex,

Oh let fond love prevail.

Ah, well-a-day, you see me pine

In sorrow and despair,
Yet heed me not, then let me die,

And end my grief and care.
Ah no, dear youth, I softly said,

Such love demands my thanks ; And here I vow eternal truth,

On Shannon's flow'ry banks. And then we vow'd eternal truth,

On Shannon's flow'ry banks, And then we gather'd sweetest flow'rs,

And play'd such artless pranks:
But woe is me the press-gang came,
And forc'd

my
Ned

away, Just when we nam'd next morning fair

To be our wedding-day.

My love, he cry'd, they force me hence,

But still my heart is thine,
All peace be your's my gentle Pat,

While war and toil is mine.
With riches I'll return to thee,

I sob’d out words of thanks, And then we vow'd eternal truth

On Shannon's flow'ry banks.

And then we vow'd eternal truth

On Shannon's flow'ry banks;
And then I saw him sail away

And join the hostile ranks.
From morn to eve, for twelve dull months,

His absence sad I mourn'd;
The peace was made, the ship came back,

But Thady ne'er return'd.

His beauteous face, and manly form,

Has won a nobler fair,
My Thady's false, and I, forlorn,

Must die in sad despair.
Ye gentle maidens see me laid,

While you stand round in ranks,
And plant a willow o'er my head,

On Shannon's flow'ry banks.

THE MAID IN BEDLAM.

TUNE—" Gramachree.

ONE morning very early, one morning in the spring,
I heard a maid in Bedlam who mournfully did sing;
Her chains she rattl'd on her hands, while sweetly thus

sung she,

I love my love, because I know my love loves me.
O cruel were his parents, who sent my love to sea,
And cruel, cruel was the ship that bore my love from me:
Yet I love his parents, since they're his, although they've

ruin'd me;

And I love my love, because I know my love loves me.

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