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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-
So sweet and complete she's, O!

Then if Fate would but send

Unto me such a friend,

What a life would I spend

In the land of potatoes, O!
Hospitality, &c.

POTTEEN, GOOD LUCK TO YE, DEAR.

CHARLES LEver.

Av I was a monarch in state,
Like Romulus or Julius Caysar,
With the best of fine victuals to eat,
And drink like great Nebuchadnezzar,
A rasher of bacon I'd have,

And potatoes the finest was seen, sir;
And for drink, it's no claret I'd crave,
But a keg of old Mullen's potteen, 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
But trust me to keep out the cowld,

The Romans* at home here like whisky.

Sure it warms both the head and the heart,
It's the soul of all readin' and writin';
It teaches both science and art,

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;
And 'tis all about you,

My sweet Molly Carew!

And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame!

You're complater than nature
In every feature,

The snow can't compare

With your forehead so fair;

And I rather would see just one blink of your eye
Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky;
And by this and by that,

For the matter of that,

You're more distant by far than that same.
Ochone! weirasthru ! *

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When your nose it defies

Paddy Blake, the schoolmasther, to put it in rhyme; †
Tho' there's one Burke, he says, that would call it snublime!
And then for your cheek,

Troth, 'twould take him a week

Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather:
Then your lips! oh, Machree!
In their beautiful glow
They a patthern might be

For the cherries to grow;

'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know,‡
For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago;

* 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,
'Pon my conscience, I'll say,

Such cherries might tempt a man's father!
Ochone! weirasthru !

Ochone! I'm alone!

I'm alone in the world without you,

Ochone! by the man in the moon,
You taze me all ways
That a woman can plaze,

For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat Magee,*
As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me;
Though the piper I bate,

For fear the old chate
Wouldn't play you your favourite tune.
And when you're at mass
My devotion you crass,
For 'tis thinking of you
I am, Molly Carew;

While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep
That I can't at your sweet purty face get a peep.
Och! lave off that bonnet,

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;
For there's girls by the score

That loves me—and more;

And you'd look mighty quare if some morning you'd meet
My wedding all marching in pride down the street;
Troth, you 'd open your eyes,
And you'd die with surprise,

To think 'twasn't you was come to it;
And faith, Katty Naile,

And her cow, I go bail,

Would jump if I'd say

"Katty Naile name the day;

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And tho' you're fresh and fair as a morning in May,
While she's short and dark like a cowld winther's day,

Yet, if you don't repent
Before Easter, when Lent

Is over, I'll marry for spite.
Ochone! weirasthru !

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,

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THE wealthy fool, with gold in store,
Is still desirous to grow richer;
Give me but health, I'll ask no more,
With my sweet girl, my friend, and pitcher:
My friend so rare,

My girl so fair,

With such what mortal can be richer?
Possessed of these, a fig for care,

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,
I might enjoy my friend and pitcher.
My friend, &c.

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,
Who came of decent people :

He built a church in Dublin town,
And on it put a steeple.

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,
And banish'd them for ever!

The Wicklow hills are very high,

And so's the Hill of Howth, sir;
But there's a hill much bigger still,
Much higher nor them both, sir.
'Twas on the top of this high hill *

St. Patrick preached his sarmint,
That drove the frogs into the bogs,
And banished all the varmint.

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

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