Though I freely agree I should more happy be If some lovely she From Old England would favour me; For no spot on earth Can more merit bring forth, If with beauty and worth You embellish'd would have her be: Good breeding, good nature, You find in each feature, That nought you've to teach her- Then if Fate would but send Unto me such a friend, What a life would I spend In the land of potatoes, O! POTTEEN, GOOD LUCK TO YE, DEAR. CHARLES LEver. Av I was a monarch in state, And potatoes the finest was seen, sir; With the smell of the smoke on it still. They talk of the Romans of ould, Whom they say in their own times was frisky The Romans* at home here like whisky. Sure it warms both the head and the heart, And disposes for love or for fightin'. Oh, potteen, good luck to ye, dear. * An abbreviation of Roman Catholic. The Irish peasant uses the word "Roman" in contradistinction to that of "Protestant." An Hibernian, in a religious wrangle with a Scotchman, said, "Ah, don't bother me any more, man! I'll prove to ye mine is the raal ould religion by one word. St. Paul wrote an epistle to The Romans :-but he never wrote one to The Protestants. Answer me that!" MOLLY CAREW. From "Songs and Ballads," by SAMUEL LOver, This song was suggested by one of Carolan's finest bursts of melody, entitled "Planxty Reilly," and its capricious measure may be guessed at by the unusual lengths and variety of the following metres. The intensely Irish character of the air stimulated me to endeavour that the words should partake of that quality, and the rapid replication of the musical phrases made me strive after as rapid a ringling of rhyme, of which our early bards were so fond. Ochone! and what will I do? Sure, my love is all crost Like a bud in the frost And there's no use at all in my going to bed, For 'tis dhrames, and not sleep, that comes into my head; My sweet Molly Carew! And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame! You're complater than nature The snow can't compare With your forehead so fair; And I rather would see just one blink of your eye For the matter of that, You're more distant by far than that same. When your nose it defies Paddy Blake, the schoolmasther, to put it in rhyme; † Troth, 'twould take him a week Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather: For the cherries to grow; 'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know,‡ * Oh! Mary, have pity! (implying the blessed Virgin.) + In allusion to the tendency of the "hedge" schoolmaster to turn sonnetteer. I forget the name of the French author who said if lace had been in fashion in the time of Eve, it is with that he would have tempted her.-Lace is a net, certainly, and we are given to understand that his Sable Majesty has nets of all sorts and sizes, according to the nature of the fry he is after. But at this time o' day, Such cherries might tempt a man's father! Ochone! I'm alone! I'm alone in the world without you, Ochone! by the man in the moon, For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat Magee,* For fear the old chate While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep Or else I'll lave on it The loss of my wandherin' sowl! Ochone! weirasthru ! Ochone! like an owl, Day is night dear, to me, without you. Ochone! don't provoke me to do it; That loves me—and more; And you'd look mighty quare if some morning you'd meet To think 'twasn't you was come to it; And her cow, I go bail, Would jump if I'd say "Katty Naile name the day; And tho' you're fresh and fair as a morning in May, Yet, if you don't repent Is over, I'll marry for spite. And when I die for you, My ghost will haunt you every night!† * The dance, in Ireland, is a great field of display, and source of jealousy between rivals. This is no uncommon threat in Ireland, THE wealthy fool, with gold in store, My girl so fair, With such what mortal can be richer? My own sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher. From morning sun I'd never grieve To toil a hedger or a ditcher, If that, when I came home at eve, Though fortune ever shuns my door, I know not what can thus bewitch her; With all my heart I can be poor, With my sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher, My friend so rare, &c. ST. PATRICK WAS A GENTLEMAN, According to the late Mr. Crofton Croker, who elaborately annotated this song, it is a mosaic production, the work of many hands; three verses being written in 1814, by a couple of gentlemen who went to a masquerade in Cork as ballad-singers. These verses grew into popularity, and other verses were added from time to time. By the bye, the addenda, like the postscript of a lady's letter, are the best parts of the work, for, according to Mr. Croker, the third and fourth verses are those in which the "blind-worms" are made to and where open their eyes To a sense of their situation," "The snakes committed suicide, To save themselves from slaughter." Moreover, the sixth verse was supplementary, wherein that scientific classification is made of "Cabbages-and ladies!" Ladies and potatoes, however, are better classified, for, according to an old conundrum, "they both shoot from the eyes." OH! St. Patrick was a gentleman, He built a church in Dublin town, His father was a Gallagher, His mother was a Brady, His aunt was an O'Shaughnessy, His uncle an O'Grady. So success attend St. Patrick's fist, For he's a saint so clever; Oh! he gave the snakes and toads a twist, The Wicklow hills are very high, And so's the Hill of Howth, sir; St. Patrick preached his sarmint, Oh, success, &c. This hill is reputed to be "Croagh Phaidrig," a mountain of bold outline, standing over the picturesque bay of Westport, in the county Mayo; its conical top and general outline are not unlike Vesuvius. H |