I WAS THE BOY FOR BEWITCHING THEM. I WAS the boy for bewitching them, For I was the boy for bewitching them. From every quarter I gather'd them, If I found any I leather'd them, And that made them look mighty shy. Many a lass that would fly away Hundreds of lads though they'd crost, They melted like mud in the frost. 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 ?" L I'll tell how we routed the squadrons in fight, Then some one will cry, with a look mighty sly, I'll tell how the nights with Sir Arthur we spent, Or may be enjoying ourselves in a tent, How he'd call out to me-" pass the wine, Mr. Free, Then some one will cry, with a wink of her eye, 66 Arrah, Mickey dear-can't you be aisy ?" I'll tell, too, the long years in fighting we passed, And I swore on the book-" she gave me a look, ONE BOTTLE MORE.. ASSIST me, ye lads, who have hearts void of guile, And friendship detains us for one bottle more- And friendship detains us for one bottle more. Old England, your taunts on our country forbear; We have generous hearts to give that bottle more. At Candy's, in Church-street, I'll sing of a set Our bill being paid, we were loth to depart, Swift Phoebus now shone through our window so bright, 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, Now Katty was as neat a lass as ever tripp'd the sod, When gentlepeople fall in love, Love's never at a loss With his fal de ral, &c. This youth was named Mackirkincroft, a very dapper elf, 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, With his fal de ral, &c. Mackirky, too, good manners knew, for he, as it appears, 66 The when and where were settled fair, when Pat, as bold as brass, Then back to back they stood, good lack, to measure yards a score; Now Pat and Kate, soon after that, in wedlock's bands were join'd, 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, For her father sells beer; He keeps the sign of the Cow and the Snuffers. 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! 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; My father was then king of Connaught, The least of us then were all earls, And jewels we wore without name; But, except some turf mould and potatoes, And the English-bad luck to them!-hate us, * 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." |