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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 prettiest star that shines out of the sky, And by this and by that,

For the matter o' that,

You're more distant by far than that same !
Och hone! weirasthru!

I'm alone in this world without you.

Och hone! but why should I spake

Of your forehead and eyes,

When your nose it defies

Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, 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,
It's beauties to tell, as he'd rather;
Then your lips! oh, machree !
In their beautiful glow,

They a pattern might be

For the cherries to grow.

'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know, For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago, But at this time o' day,

'Pon my conscience I'll say,

Such cherries might tempt a man's father!
Och hone! weirasthru !

I'm alone in this world without you.

Och hone! 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.
Tho' the piper I bate,

For fear the owld cheat

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,

Oh, lave off that bonnet,

Or else I'll lave on it

The loss of my wandering 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;

For there's girls by the score

That loves me--and more,

And you'd look very 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,"

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

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

Is over, I'll marry for spite,

Och hone! weirasthru !

And when I die for you,

My ghost will haunt you every night.

THE CROPPY BOY.

A BALLAD OF '98.

BY CARROLL MALONE.

"GOOD men and true! in this house who dwell, To a stranger bouchal, I pray you tell

Is the priest at home? or may he be seen?
I would speak a word with Father Green."

"The Priest's at home, boy, and may be seen; 'Tis easy speaking with Father Green; But you must wait, till I go and see If the holy father alone may be."

The youth has entered an empty hall-
What a lonely sound has his light foot-fall!
And the gloomy chamber's chill and bare,
With a vested Priest in a lonely chair.

The youth has knelt to tell his sins:
"Nomine Dei," the youth begins;
At "mea culpa" he beats his breast,
And in broken murmurs he speaks the rest.

"At the siege of Ross did my father fall,
And at Gorey my loving brothers all.
I alone am left of my name and race,
I will go to Wexford and take their place.

"I cursed three times since last Easter day-
At mass-time once I went to play;

I passed the churchyard one day in haste,
And forgot to pray for my mother's rest.

"I bear no hate against living thing;
But I love my country above my King.
Now, Father! bless me, and let me go
To die, if God has ordained it so."

The Priest said nought, but a rustling noise
Made the youth look above in wild surprise;
The robes were off, and in scarlet there
Sat a yeoman captain with fiery glare.

With fiery glare and with fury hoarse,

Instead of blessing, he breathed a curse :

""Twas a good thought boy, to come here and shrive,

For one short hour is your time to live.

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'Upon yon river three tenders float,
The Priest's in one, if he isn't shot-
We hold his house for our Lord the King,
And, amen say I, may all traitors swing!"

At Geneva Barrack that young man died,
And at Passage they have his body laid.
Good people who live in peace and joy,
Breathe a prayer and a tear for the Croppy Boy.

THE DRUNKAR D.

A TALE OF LOW LIFE.

BY THOMAS FURLONG.

[Thirty years ago Thomas Furlong was a grocer's boy in one of the back streets of Dublin. By the force of great natural powers, he made his way from sordid obscurity to a wide reputation and a recognised position in literature. He was not, perhaps, a man of genius, but he possessed talents of great vigour and versatility; and an heroic perseverance. And his success was attained at a time when he had to create a reading public in the country. His most ambitious poems are The Misanthrope, and the Doom of Derenzi; his most popular ones the Plagues of Ireland, (a satire, in which, though an eager emancipator he ran amuck at Orange Lodges, Catholic agitators, and Bible Societies,) his translations from the Irish in Hardiman's Minstrelsy and his Tales of Low Life, of which we subjoin one of wonderful truth, simplicity, and power. In public life his course was earnest and independent; in political literature he was an able, but somewhat unscrupulous, writer. But no man is entitled to a more charitable judgment. His youth was undisciplined and unguided, and he died in his thirtythird year. He lies in the little churchyard of Drumcondra, near Grose the antiquary and Gandon the architect; under a monument erected by his friend James Hardiman; all names dear to Ireland.] ALONG Drumcondra road I strolled, The smoky town was just in sight

I met a woman, stooped and old,
And she was in a ragged plight.
'Oh! master dear, for sake of heaven,
In pity look on me;

You'll never miss a penny given

Away in charity!

That I'm in want the world may see-
That I am old I'm sure appears;

At Christmas next my age will be

Just eight-and-sixty years.'

And how did all those years go o'er?

What have you through that time been at ?'

'Oh! it would take an hour and more

For me to tell all that.

When I was small, ay, very small,

To service I was sent;

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