To catch a glimpse of her

He play'd a thousand tricks:
The bolts he tried to stir,

And he gave the wall some kicks:
He stamp'd, and rav'd, and sigh'd, and pray'd,
And many times he swore,

The devil burn the iron bolts!

The devil take the door!

Yet he went ev'ry day, he made it a rule;
Yet he went ev'ry day, and look'd like a fool,
Though he sung sweetly, &c.

One morn she left her bed,
Because she could not sleep,
And to the window sped,
To take a little peep;
And what did she do then?

I'm sure you'll think it right;
She bade the honest lad good day,
And bade the nuns good night.
Tenderly she listen'd to all he had to say,
Then jumpt into his arms, and so they ran away,
And they sung sweetly, &c.

PUT ROUND THE FULL GLASS.

TUNE-" Chiling O'Guiry."

PUT round the full glass-'tis the season of joy—
For care is more pow'rful than steel to destroy;
The kind sparkling juice shall its virtues impart,
And hope's cheering sunbeam break bright o'er my heart.
Give me the rich fabrics that fancy can rear,
Her landscape of sunshine, her kingdoms of air;
Let mem'ry her record of childhood unfold,
And I'll leave this dull world to the vot'ries of gold.

Yes, Mirth is my goddess-I bow at her shrine-
May the choir of the virtuous and jocund be mine:
Let envy and discord be far from the ring,

And harmony vibrate the soul-stealing string.
Led by the gay goddess, transcendent we'll rise
O'er the dulness of life and its earth-plodding joys;
The genius of Erin shall wake mid the throng,
And lend her kind spirit to live in our song.

Sit near me, my friend, for my spirit's on wing:
Who has raptures like these is more blest than a king;
If life's a fair vision, fill high the rich glass,

We'll hail its fleet portions as ceaseless they pass:
Light-hearted and cheery, who knows but we may
Light age's dim lamp at the joys of to-day:
Long, long is the reck'ning we enter with care;
Then snatch the bright moments that fortune can spare.

THE SOUL OF AN IRISHMAN.
TUNE-" St. Patrick's Day in the Morning."

THE Soul of an Irishman centres in whisky,
And, next to his Kitty, old Ireland he loves;
Though Ellen be peerless, and Norah be frisky,
His bosom, all fickleness scorning,
Holds true to its first love steadily;
'Mid allurements able to find,

Though Norah be pretty,

His own dearest Kitty

Has smiles on her cheek

That full eloquent speak,

And bid his heart always be constant and kind;

Through life she will bless him,

Still cheer and caress him

On Patrick's day in the morning.

O! Ireland, thou ever-blest land in the ocean,
I'll sing of thee while I've a feeling can glow;
Thy laughing green vales shall excite my devotion,
Thy daughters those vallies adorning,
Whom beauty has made the pride of earth,
With a frankness height'ning each charm;
Thy sons ever free,

Serving honour and thee,
To treach'ry oppos'd

Wherever disclos'd,

With a firmness and brav'ry that laughs at alarm;
While beauty and worth

Join in innocent mirth

On Patrick's day in the morning. *

* This and the foregoing song are productions of the Gentleman who wrote Why weep thus dear Norah, see page 177 of this volume. Whether they will bear the Editor out in what he said of the author's poetical talents on a former occasion, must be left to the judgment of his readers. His own opinion, however, is still the same. He is still convinced that the writer of these pieces possesses all the qualities requisite to the constitution of a Poet, and that in a very high degree. Push round the full glass is a piece which, for vividness of expression, and freshness of spirit, might do honour to any poet; and The soul of an Irishman, though somewhat different in its character, is yet possess. ed of sufficient merit to do credit to its author. But whether his readers will be disposed to think as highly as himself of these pieces or not, the Editor trusts that, when they consider how many of the very best Irish airs are coupled with the most indelicate and wretched poetry, they will at least allow him the credit of having meant well in obtaining verses for a few of these airs that may be sung in any company,-verses which even the most fastidious cannot in justice wholly condemn, and which, he has no doubt, will be regarded by many as possessing merit enough to render them worthy of all acceptation.

MARY LE MORE.

TUNE-" Erin go Bragh."

OH! soldiers of E*g***d, your merciless doings,
Long, long may the children of Ireland deplore;
Sad sinks my soul when I view the black ruins,
Where once stood the cabin of Mary le More.
Her father, (God rest him) lov'd Ireland most dearly;
Its wrongs, all its sufferings, he felt most severely;
With Freedom's firm sons he united sincerely;
But gone is the father of Mary le More!

One cold winter's eve, as poor Dermot sat musing,
Hoarse curses alarm'd him, and crash went his door;
There fierce soldiers enter'd, and straight 'gan abusing
The brave, but mild father of Mary le More!

To their scoffs he replied not-with blows they assail'd

him

Indignant he rose, and his caution now fail'd him; He return'd their vile blows-now all Munster bewails him

For stabb'd was the father of Mary le More!

The children's wild screams, and the mother's distraction, While the husband-the father-lay stretch'd in his gore!

Ah! who can describe, and not curse the vile faction
That blasted that rose-bud, sweet Mary le More?
My father! my father! she cried wildly throwing
Her arms round his neck, while his life-streams were
flowing;

She kiss'd his pale cheeks, but poor Dermot was going:
He groan'd, and left fatherless Mary le More!

From her father's pale cheeks, which her lap had supported,

To an out-house the ruffians the lovely maid bore; Her pray'rs, her entreaties, her sorrows they sported, And by force they deflow'red sweet Mary le More.

And now a poor maniac she roams the wild common,
'Gainst the soldiers of E*g***d she warns ev'ry woman,
And sings of her father in strains more than human,
Till tears often flow for poor Mary le More.

THE DYING FATHER TO HIS DAUGHTER.
TUNE-" The Fox's Sleep."

To me, my sweet Kathleen, the Benshee* has cried,
And I die-ere to-morrow I die.-

This rose thou hast gather'd, and laid by my side,
Will live, my child, longer than I.

My days they are gone, like a tale that is told-
Let me bless thee, and bid thee adieu;
For never to father, when feeble and old,
Was daughter so kind and so true.

Thou hast walk'd by my side, and my board thou hast spread,

For my chair the warm corner hast found; And told my dull ear what the visitor said,

When I saw that the laughter went round. Thou hast succour'd me still, and my meaning exprest When memory was lost on its way

Thou hast pillow'd my head ere I laid it to restThou art weeping beside me to-day.

O Kathleen, my Love! thou couldst choose the good part,

And more than thy duty hast done:

Go now to thy Dermot, be clasp'd to his heart,
He merits the love he has won.

* In the Irish superstition, the Benshee is the warning spirit that announces death.