Then Providence, Pat cried, as looking around,
Is the neatest Upholsterer ever was found.

With his Jill, sing Jack, &c.
Then Norah, dear Norah, come tell me if you please,
Whose four little chubby-cheek'd rascals are these,

These pretty gossoons, with their looks all so black ?
They are mine, Pat, by Providence sent do you see:
Oh! botheration, says Pat, 'bout that don't humbug me;
For if Providence minds to send legs to your chairs,
Sure he'll never forget to send fathers for heirs,

With his Jill, sing Jack, &c.
Oh! Norah, when I've been upon the salt sea,
By St. Patrick, you've been a big traitress to me;

May whisky console me, for I'm on the rack.
For if Providence peoples my cabin with brats,
While I'm sailing over live herrings and sprats,
Mr. Deputy Providence never will do,
So to him, and old Nick, I kick babies and you,

With your Jill, sing Jack, &c.

you be

Do, hear me now,
Pat-I beseech

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.

WHEN I was at home, I was merry and frisky,
My dad kept a pig and my mother sold whisky;
My uncle was rich, but wou'd never be aisey,
'Till I was enlisted to Corporal Casey;
Och! rub a dub, row de dow, Corporal Casey !
My dear little Shelah, I thought would run crazy,
When I trudg'd away with tough Corporal Casey.
I march'd from Kilkenny, and as I was thinking
On Shelah, my heart in my bosom was sinking;
But soon I was forc'd to look fresh as a daisy,
For fear of a drubbing from Corporal Casey.
Och! rub a dub, row de dow, Corporal Casey !
The devil go with him! I ne'er could be lazy,
He stuck in my skirts so, ould Corporal Casey.
We went into battle, I took the blows fairly
That fell on my pate, but they bother'd me rarely;
And who should the first be that dropt? why, an't

plase ye,
It was my good friend, honest Corporal Casey !
Och rub a dub, row de dow, Corporal Casey,
Thinks I, you are quiet, and I shall be aisey;
So eight years I fought without Corporal Casey!

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill,
For his country he sigh’d, when at twilight repairing,

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill;
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose on his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the flow of his youthful emotion,

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!


TUNE" Crooghan a Venee.
Why weep thus, dear Norah, wili Patrick deceive thee?

Ere, dead to thy inerits, his heart be unblest,
The still-flowing Shannon shall recreant leave thee,

Nor woo thy bright form to his amorous breast.
poor son of fortune! thy Patrick must bend him

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;
While the broad sun of eve as he dips by yon mountain,

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

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