THE WAR-SHIP OF PEACE. The Americans exhibited much sympathy toward Ireland when the famine raged there in 1847. A touching instance was then given how the better feelings of our nature may employ even the enginery of destruction to serve the cause of humanity: an American frigate (the Jamestown, I believe) was dismantled of all her warlike appliances, and placed at the disposal of the charitable to carry provisions. SWEET Land of Song! thy harp doth hang While famine's blight and fever's pang Yet take thy harp, and raise thy voice, Look out-look out-across the sea Thy wasted hand can scarcely strike THE INDIAN SUMMER. The brief period which succeeds the autumnal close, called "The Indian summer "-a reflex, as it were, of the early portion of the year, strikes a stranger in America as peculiarly beautiful, and quite charmed me. WHEN Summer's verdant beauty flies, In the sweet Indian summer. Och hone! but why should I spake Of your forehead and eyes, Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme? Though there's one Burke, he says, that would call it snublime, And then for your cheek! Throth, 'twould take him a week Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather. 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; 'Pon my conscience I'll say Such cherries might tempt a man's father! I'm alone in this world without you. And when you're at mass While you wear on purpose, a bonnet so deep, That I can't at your sweet purty face get a peep; Oh, lave off that bonnet, Or else I'll lave on it The loss of my wandherin' sowl! Och hone! weirasthru! Och hone! like an owl, Day is night, dear, to me, without you! Och hone! don't provoke me to do it; And you'd look very quare if some morning My weddin' all marchin' in pride down the sthreet; Throth, 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." in May, While she's short and dark like a cowld win- Yet if you don't repent And when I die for you, THE HAPPIEST TIME IS NOW. TALK not to me of future bliss! Though flowers in spicy vases thrown Their fragrance, ere the bloom was flown, Unmark'd our course before us lies Our barks the brightest bubbles fling PADDY'S PASTORAL RHAPSODY. WHEN Molly, th' other day, sir, The wise should never mintion, And flesh is grass, and flowers will fade, The purty little sparrows Have neither ploughs nor harrows, No foolish pride their comfort hurts- Sure Nature clothes the hills, dear, And the bees they sip their sweets, my sowl, Here's a cup to you, my darlin', I dhrame o' you, my heart's delight, And how could I pass a pleasanter night? For wealth is an invintion, &c., &c. THE LOW-BACK'D CAR. WHEN first I saw sweet Peggy A low-back'd car she drove, and sat But when that hay was blooming grass, That could compare To the blooming girl I sing, As she sat in her low-back'd car The man at the turnpike bar Never ask'd for the toll But just rubbed his owld poll, And look'd after the low-back'd car! In battle's wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars, With hostile scythes, demands his tithes Of Death, in warlike cars; WIDOW MACHREE. 35 But Peggy-peaceful goddess— As right and left they fly While she sits in her low-back'd car, For the docthor's art That is hit from that low-back'd car. Sweet Peggy, round her car, sir, Has sthrings of ducks and geese. Well worth the cage, Of the blooming God of Love! As she sits in the low-back'd car. I'd rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side, Than a coach and four, and goold galore,* As we dhrove in the low-back'd car, WIDOW MACHREE. WIDOW Machree, it's no wonder you frown, Och hone! Widow Machree; Faith it ruins your looks, that same dirty black FATHER-LAND AND MOTHER-TONGUE. OUR Father-land! and wouldst thou know Why we should call it "Father-land? It is, that Adam, here below, Was made of earth by Nature's hand; At first in Eden's bowers, they say, Made Adam soon surpass the birds, And so the Native-land I hold, By male descent is proudly mine; The language, as the tale hath told, Was given in the female line. And thus we see on either hand, We name our blessings whence they've sprung, We call our country FATHER-land, We call our language MOTHER-tongue. The wicked wateh-dog here is snarling- 'TIS SWEET TO REMEMBER. OH! 'tis sweet to remember how brightly The walks, were we've roam'd without tiring, Our mingling of laughter hath rung- THE JAUNTING CAR. A FULL and faithful account I'll sing Of the wonderful things that in Ireland are; And first I would fain to your notice bring That magic contrivance, a Jaunting Car. For its magic is great, as I'll soon impart, And naught can compare to it near or far; Would you find the soft side of a lady's heart, Just sit by her side on a Jaunting Car : The lordly brougham, the ducal coach, My lady's chariot, less speedy are To make their way to church, they say, Than a nice little drive on a Jaunting Car. The Greeks and Romans fine cars display'd, If to history you'll let me go back so far; But, the wretches, in these it was war they made, While 'tis love that is made on a Jaunting Car. But in love, as in war, you may kill your man, And if you're inclined to proceed so far, Just call him out, and go ride about A mile and a half on a Jaunting Car. Let lovers praise the moon's soft rays, The falling dew or the rising star, The streamlet's side at the even-tide, But give me the side of a Jaunting Car. Ere Cupid was taught to take steps with art, jump, At the thumping vows on a Jaunting Car. |