And then all the wrongs that have wrapt thee in gloom
Shall fade like the mists of the morning away;
The sunshine of gladness thy hours shall illume,
And joy her gay visions display.

And then too, his sorrows all over, thy Bard
Shall pour on thy ear all the charms of his song;
And sweetly the notes of thy harp shall be heard
Resounding thy green vales among.

HEAR, COMRADES, HEAR.

TUNE-" The Moreen."

HEAR, Comrades, hear your Chieftain's voice,
We're now on the eve of glory-
Say, is it not your hearts' fix'd choice
Or to conquer, or live in story?

Then, come, let the gay glass circle round-
A warrior's heart ne'er sorrow'd-

Let mirth flow free, bright smiles abound,

And be joy from the grape's juice borrow'd.

Now hark! the deeds your sires have done,
How the harp's loud notes resound them!
Thro' fame's fair page their stories run,
And bright glory's rays beam around them.
Like them you pant for the glorious strife—
I see your ardour swelling;

High in your breasts the pulse of life

Throbs, the fire of your keen souls telling.

Put round once more the sparkling wine-
'Tis a cup to love and beauty-
Then, Erin, hearts and swords are thine-
Due to thee are our lives and duty.-

We'll boldly on at our country's call,
And die, or be victorious;
'Tis nobler with the brave to fall,

Than to yield for a life inglorious. *

* The Editor cannot help again stating his conviction that his readers, in common with himself, will have marked with regret the deplorable paucity of even middling pieces of poetry to accompany those exquisitely beautiful effervescences of Irish melody, which are the delight of every lover of music,-the merit (if merit it may be called) of most of the songs which may be deemed national, turning exclusively, as was formerly noticed, on barbarous indelicacy or wretched pun. It is highly gratifying to think that this defect is now fully remedied by the labours of the indefatigable Mг. THOMSON, whose work has been already referred to. As the labours of that Gentleman, however, may be beyond the reach of a number of the readers of this work, the Editor has solicited some of his poetical friends, on whose talents he could rely, to furnish him with new sets of verses for a few of the best Irish airs. In consequence of this application he has received from one Gentleman Why weep thus dear Norah (p. 177), Put round the full glass (p. 208), and The soul of an Irishman (p. 209); and from another, My Muse let us wake, see 179. The two songs which we now give, viz. When full in the broad light of Heav'n, and Hear, comrades, hear, are by the author of My Muse let us wake; and it will be found, the Editor hopes, that they, as well as the others above-mentioned, fully justify the confidence he placed in the talents of their authors. They contain, he thinks, those bright flashes of sentiment that secure to poetry its genuine object, namely, the excitement, even in our amusements, of those glowing sympathies and expanded feelings which are the best guarantees of individual liberty, and national independence.

FROM GREAT LONDONDERRY.

FROM great Londonderry to London so merry,
My own natty self in a waggon did ride;
In London so frisky, folks ride in a whiskey,
At Connaught they carry their whisky inside.
I jump'd from the waggon and saw a Green Dragon,
I spy'd a blue boar when I turn'd to the south;
At the Swan and two Throttles I tippled two bottles,
And bother'd the beef at the Bull and the Mouth.
Ah! Paddy, my honey! look a❜ter your money,
"Tis all botheration from bottom to top;
Sing didderoo daisy, my jewel be aisy,

This London, agrah! is the devil's own shop.

The great city wax-work, was all a mere tax work,
A plan to bamboozle me out of my pelf;
Says I, Mrs Salmon, c'up with your gammon,
Your figures are no more alive than yourself.
I ax'd an old quaker the way to Long Acre;
With thee and with thou he so bother'd my brain,
After fifty long sallies, through lanes and blind alleys,
I found myself trotting in Rosemary lane.

Ah! Paddy, &c.

At night, how silly! along Piccadilly

I wandered, when up comes a beautiful dame;
Huzza! says the lady, How do you do Paddy?—
Says I, Pretty well, ma'am, I hope you're the same.
A great hulking fellow, who held her umbrella,
Then gave me a terrible thump on the nob:
She ran away squalling;-I, Watch! watch! was bawl-
ing,-

The devil a watch was there left in my fob.
Ah! Paddy, &c.

DENNIS BULGRUDDERY.

I was born once at home, when my mother was out
In her reck'ning, an accident brought it about:
As for family honours and such kind of fun,
Though some boast of forefathers, yet I had but one.
Derry down, down, down, derry down.

Our cottage was fill'd, though 'twas not very big, With poultry and pictures, three chairs, and a pig; Our dog was call'd Dennis, our cow, Paddy Whack? But till christen'd, I hadn't a name to my back. Derry down, &c.

When I came to be christen'd, my poor mother saw On my face our dog Dennis was setting his paw: What's his name, says the priest? down Dennis, says she;

So Dennis Bulgruddery they christen'd me.

Derry down, &c.

I grew up, I got married, and left in the lurch,
For my wife died before I could get her to church;
I with her was too late; with my second too soon,
For she brought me a son in the first honey moon.
Derry down, &c.

I was vex'd; and, says I, not to make a great fuss,
Three months the priest reckons since he coupled us:
That's right reck'ning, says she, for 'tis three months
by mine,

And three by your own, which together make nine. Derry down, &c.

To bury this lady came next in my head,

For no other cause but because she was dead;

So I married once more, (I suppose you guess who)
The beautiful crature that keeps the Red Cow.
Derry down, &c.

My lambkin she scolds, when the brandy I sup,
Till some husbands would foolishly tuck themselves

up;

But though in a noose I am fast with a wife,
Yet, thank Fortune, I never was hang'd in my life.
Derry down, &c.

But away with complaint, for myself ne'er intends
To grieve, while my house holds such bushels of friends;
So my fortune I'll pocket, whatever it be,
And cry, Ladies and Gentlemen, thank

Derry down, &c.

ye

for me.

w

MOLLY MOGG.

My dear Molly Mogg, ye're as soft as a bog,
And as daft as a kitten,

As daft as a kitten;

Those eyes in your face, oh! pity my case,
Poor Paddy hath smitten,

Poor Paddy hath smitten;

For softer than silk, and fair as new milk,
Your lily-white hand is,

Your lily-white hand is;

Your shape's like a pail, from your head to your tail, You're straight as a wand is,

You're straight as a wand is.