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I WAS THE BOY FOR BEWITCHING THEM.

I WAS the boy for bewitching them,
Whether good humour'd or coy;
All cried, when I was beseeching them,
"Do what you will with me, joy."
"Daughters be cautious and steady,"
Mothers would cry out for fear-
"Won't you take care now of Teddy,
Oh! he's the divil, my dear."

For I was the boy for bewitching them.
Whether good humour'd or coy;
All cried when I was beseeching them,
"Do what you will with me, joy."

From every quarter I gather'd them,
Very few rivals had I;

If I found any I leather'd them,

And that made them look mighty shy.
Pat Mooney, my Shelah once meeting,
I twigg'd him beginning his clack-
Says heat my heart I've a beating,"
Says I "then have one at your back.”
For I was the boy, &c.

Many a lass that would fly away
When other wooers but spoke,
Once if I looked her a die-away
There was an end of the joke.
Beauties, no matter how cruel,

Hundreds of lads though they'd crost,
When I came nigh to them, jewel,

They melted like mud in the frost.
For I was the boy, &c.

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Air, "Arrah, Katty, now can't you be aisy ?"

OH! what stories I'll tell when my sodgering's o'er,.. And the gallant fourteenth is disbanded;

Not a drill nor parade will I hear of no more,

When safely in Ireland landed.

With the blood that I spilt-the Frenchmen I kilt, I'll drive all the girls half crazy;

And some 'cute one will cry, with a wink of her eye, "Mr. Free, now-why can't you be aisy ?"

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I'll tell how we routed the squadrons in fight,
And destroyed them all at "Talavera,"
And then I'll just add how we finished the night,
In learning to dance the "Bolera ;"
How by the moonshine we drank raal wine,
And rose next day fresh as a daisy;

Then some one will cry, with a look mighty sly,
Arrah, Mickey-now can't you be aisy?"

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I'll tell how the nights with Sir Arthur we spent,
Around a big fire in the air too,

Or may be enjoying ourselves in a tent,
Exactly like Donnybrook fair too;

How he'd call out to me-" pass the wine, Mr. Free,
For you're a man never is lazy!"

Then some one will cry, with a wink of her eye,

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Arrah, Mickey dear-can't you be aisy ?"

I'll tell, too, the long years in fighting we passed,
Till Mounseer asked Bony to lead him;
And Sir Arthur, grown tired of glory at last,
Begged of one Mickey Free to succeed him.
But, "acushla," says I, "the truth is, I'm shy!
There's a lady in Ballynacrazy!

And I swore on the book-" she gave me a look,
And cried, "Mickey-now can't you be aisy?"

ONE BOTTLE MORE..

ASSIST me, ye lads, who have hearts void of guile,
To sing out the praises of ould Ireland's isle;
Where true hospitality opens the door,

And friendship detains us for one bottle more-
One bottle more, arrah, one bottle more;

And friendship detains us for one bottle more.

Old England, your taunts on our country forbear;
With our bulls and our brogues we are true and sincere ;
For if but one bottle remains in our store,

We have generous hearts to give that bottle more.
One bottle more, &c.

At Candy's, in Church-street, I'll sing of a set
Of six Irish blades who together had met;
Four bottles a-piece made us call for our score,
And nothing remain'd but just one bottle more.
One bottle more, &c.

Our bill being paid, we were loth to depart,
For friendship had grappled each man by the heart,
Where the least touch, you know, makes an Irishman roar,-
And the whack from shillelah brought six bottles more.
Six bottles more, &c.

Swift Phoebus now shone through our window so bright,
Quite happy to view his glad children of light;
So we parted with hearts neither sorry nor sore,
Resolving next night to drink twelve bottles more.

Twelve bottles more, &c.

I have reason to believe this song the best part of a hundred years, if not quite a century old. It belongs to the deep-drinking days of our grandfathers.

THE IRISH DUEL.

POTATOES grow in Limerick, and beef at Ballymore,
And buttermilk is beautiful,-but that you knew before;
And Irishmen love pretty girls, and none could love more true
Than little Paddy Whackmacrack lov'd Kate O'Donohoe,
With his fal de ral, fal de ral, de ral de ral, de ra.

Now Katty was as neat a lass as ever tripp'd the sod,
And Paddy bore with equal grace a musket or a hod;
With trowel and with bayonet, by turns the hero chose,
To build up houses for his friends, and then to charge his foes,
With his fal de ral, &c.

When gentlepeople fall in love, Love's never at a loss
To find some ugly customers their happiness to cross;
And Paddy, too, some trouble found, all from a rival swain,
Who kept the Cat and Cucumber in Cauliflower-lane ;

With his fal de ral, &c.

This youth was named Mackirkincroft, a very dapper elf,
Whose clothes they fitted nately, for he made them all himself:
A tailor blade he was by trade, of natty boys the broth,
Because he always cut his coat according to his cloth.
With his fal de ral, &c.

But Paddy knew the feelings of a gentleman it hurts,

To find another ungenteelly sticking to his skirts ;

So sent a challenge without fear; for though he was not rich,
He call'd himself a gintleman, and still behav'd as sich.

With his fal de ral, &c.

Mackirky, too, good manners knew, for he, as it appears,
To Paddy wrote for leave that he might cut off both his ears!
Says Pat to that, in style polite, as well you may suppose,
My ears you're very welcome to, but first I'll pull your nose.'
With his fal de ral, &c.

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The when and where were settled fair, when Pat, as bold as brass,
Cried, "you know what we fight about;" Mackirky cried, "a-las!"
And then in haste, and not to waste such very precious time,
One prim'd without a loading, t'other loaded without prime.
With his fal de ral, &c.

Then back to back they stood, good lack, to measure yards a score;
Mackirkincroft such honest measure never gave before;
He walk'd so light, that out of sight full fairly he was seen,
And Paddy shot a finger-post some half a mile between.
With his fal de ral, &c.

Now Pat and Kate, soon after that, in wedlock's bands were join'd,
Mackirky he kept walking on, and never look'd behind;
And, till this day, his ghost, they say (for he of love expir'd),
Keeps walking round the finger-post at which bold Paddy fired.
With his fal de ral, &c.

LOONEY MACTWOLTER.

From the farce of "The Review." GEORGE COLMAN, "the younger."

Он, whack! Cupid's a manikin:

Smack on the back he hit me a poulter ;

Good lack! Judy O'Flanagan,

Dearly she loves nate 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.
Oh! she's so smart,

From my heart

I can't bolt her!

Oh, whack! Judy O'Flanagan;

She is the girl for Looney Mactwolter.

Ochone good news, I need a bit;

We'd correspond, but learning would choke her!

Mavrone! I cannot read a bit;

And Judy can't tell a pen from a poker.

Judy's so constant I'll never forsake her!
She's as true as the moon,

Only one afternoon

I caught her a coorting a humpback'd shoemaker,

Oh! she's so smart,

From my heart

I can't bolt her;

Oh, whack! Judy O'Flanagan;

She is the girl for Looney Mactwolter.

Here is one of the many stage songs made for that extraordinary caricature, the stage Irishman, by one not "native to the manner born." With all Colman's talent, he makes poor work of the character of an Irishman, or of an Irish song-always excepting his song of "Savourneen Deelish" (given in this collection); but, in that, he does not attempt peculiarity of national character, or national idiom; and confining himself, merely, to the expression of natural emotion, he produced a song of great excellence.

OH! ONCE WE WERE ILLIGANT PEOPLE.

From "Charles O'Malley," by CHARLES LEVER.

OH! once we were illigant people,

Though we now live in cabins of mud;
And the land that ye see from the steeple
Belonged to us all from the flood.

My father was then king of Connaught,
My grandaunt viceroy of Tralee;
But the Sassenach came, and, signs on it!
The divil an acre have we.

The least of us then were all earls,

And jewels we wore without name;
We drank punch out of rubies and pearls—
Mr. Petrie* can tell you the same.

But, except some turf mould and potatoes,
There's nothing our own we can call:

And the English-bad luck to them!-hate us,
Because we've more fun than them all!†

* Now Dr. Petrie. The song was written by my esteemed friend, the author, before my other esteemed friend, the distinguished antiquary alluded to, had the academic honour of LL.D. appended to his name-a name which has laid the alphabet under many more contributions of the same sort.

+ This is a capital idea, and most characteristic of the queer fellow that utters it, Mister "Mickey Free," to whose acquaintance I would recommend the reader-if there be any who does not know him already. For my own part I will add a wish that all the rivalries between the sister isles, for the future, may be in the pursuit of happiness—in obtaining what shall give cause to laugh the most.

Vide "Charles O'Malley."

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