And 'tis all about you, 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, 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 ! 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, 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! I'm alone in this world without you. Och hone! by the man in the moon, That a woman can plaze, For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat Magee, 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, 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, Yet if you don't repent 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? "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- The youth has knelt to tell his sins: "At the siege of Ross did my father fall, "I cursed three times since last Easter day- I passed the churchyard one day in haste, "I bear no hate against living thing; The Priest said nought, but a rustling noise 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. 'Upon yon river three tenders float, At Geneva Barrack that young man died, 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, You'll never miss a penny given Away in charity! That I'm in want the world may see- 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; |