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Then Providence, Pat cried, as looking around,
With his Jill, sing Jack, &c.
These pretty gossoons, with their looks all so black ?
With his Jill, sing Jack, &c.
May whisky console me, for I'm on the rack.
With your Jill, sing Jack, &c.
DO, HEAR ME NOW, PAT.
easy, And cease your palaver—'twill never go down. I'll ne'er be so foolish, so senseless and crazy,
As think half the merits you give me, my own. You flatter and praise me, and call me an angel,
And swear that my beauty has set you on fire; Though well do you know that old Judy M'Whangel, And Phelim O'Neil, were my mother and sire.
And ne'er liv'd the man in the sweet town of Newry
That e'er thought the one or the other divine; For Judy was homely and plain, I assure you,
And plainer was Phelim, good father of mine! Now, don't you begin to get wild and unruly,
But study for once to be honest and free, And tell, if you can, how it follows so duly,
That Judy's own daughter a goddess should be? What! dumb?—then I find you're an arrant deceiver, As faithless and false as the rest of your
kind. You'd flatter poor woman, betray, and then leave her
A prey to the horrors you plant in her mind !Begone'tis the man who has sense and discretion
For faults to allow, while to merit he's just, And never will flatter to gain approbation
'Tis he, and he only, that woman should trust.
AT THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT. Ar the dead of the night when with whisky inspir’d, And pretty Katty Flannigan my bosom had fir'd, I tapped at her window, when thus she began, *Oh! what the devil are you at? begone you naughty
man.' I gave her a look as sly as a thief, Or when hungry I'd view a fine sirloin of beef; My heart is red hot, says I, but cold is my skin, So pretty Mrs. Flannigan, oh, wont you let me in? She opened the door, I sat down by the fire, And soon was reliev'd from the wet, cold, and mire, I pleas'd her so mightily, that long ere it was day, I stole poor Katty's tender heart, and so tripp'd away.
THE EXILE OF ERIN.
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill,
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill;
the bold anthem of Erin go Bragh.
O sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not for me. Ah! never again in the green shady bowers, Where
my fore-fathers liv'd shall I spend the sweet houn Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike the sweet numbers of Erin go Bragh. Oh, Erin! my country, though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea beaten shore; But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more. Ah! cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Ah! never again shall my brothers embrace me,
They died to defend me, or live to deplore.
Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire did you weep for its fall? Where is the mother that look'd on my child-hood?
And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all? Ah, my sad soul! long abandon'd by pleasure, Why didst thou doat on a fast fading treasure
? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.
But yet all its fond recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my fond bosom shall draw, Erin, an exile, bequeaths thee his blessing,
Land of my forefathers-Erin go Bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean, And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin mavourneen, Erin go Bragh!
WHY WEEP THUS, DEAR NORAH.
TUNE" Crooghan a Venee.”
Ere, dead to thy inerits, his heart be unblest,
Nor woo thy bright form to his amorous breast.
Where the bravest fall first 'mid the havoc of war, Nor higher boon crave, than-may Heav'n defend him,
And Norah alone be his home-guiding star. But into what climate soever he wander, What fairy scenes tread in, what beauty may see, Though Fortune her store of allurements should squan
der, His heart shall be changeless to Ireland and thee. Shall the flow'ry brimm'd Shannon, sweet stream, cease
to move me, With that homely clean cot where I've spent my
best days, And Norah far dearer than all that's there lovely,
To crown the bright vision that fancy would raise. If I fall, dearest maid, and thy love would condole me,
As far from the lap of green Erin I lie; Let this pious thought, which I swear to, console thee,
'Twill be Heav'n and Norah divides my last sigh. Far better I augur: beside this pure fountain,
To anchor my hopes on thy bosom of snow;
Shall oft leave us happy and find us still so.
* This chaste and elegant piece is from the pen of the gentleman who wrote The Man OF THE SEA, vide Vol. I. p. 97, of this work. We feel a peculiar satisfaction in being the medium of