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MY OWN NATIVE ISLE. THERE's an isle, clasp'd by waves, in an emerald zone,
That peers forth from ocean so pearl-like and fair, As if nature meant it the water-king's throne;
A youth, whom I name not, remembers me there. The breeze now in murmurs, a plaint brings from far, From my own native isle, and my lover's guitar. Oh! cheer thee, fond mourner, let hope's whisper soften
The wild pang of absence and doubts too unkind; The maid thou upbraidest, for thee sighs as often,
And speeds gentle wishes by every wind. Then winds blow ye homeward, waves waft me afar, To my own native isle, and my lover's guitar.
gaminam PADDY O'LEARY AND MISS JUDY MÄSNIFTER. ADOWN a dark alley I courted a maid, Miss Judy M’Snifter, who wash'd for a trade,
Och Cupid led me a figary; Her toes they turned in, and her back it grew out, And her eyes look'd so melting across her snout, They bother'd poor Paddy O'Leary, Mr. Leary, Paddy Leary, Och fiililililoo, fol de rol
de rol. Miss Judy M'Snifter was bandy, 'tis true, Her mouth very wide, and her nose rather blue,
She put me in such a quandary; Says she, ' I could love you the whole of my life, But they say that in Ireland you've left your old wife, Don't believe it,' said Paddy O'Leary.
Mr. Leary, &c.
But I soon did repent my figary;
Mr. Leary, &c.
But the law it was devlish contrary; For all that they gave-when much blarney 'd been
said, For planting a pair of big horns on my head, Was five shillings to Paddy O'Leary.
Mr. Leary, &c.
THE HUMOURS OF AN IRISH FAIR.
That makes my heart friskey,
Shellelagh we'll battle,
On foes heads we'll rattle,
Now down they are falling,
On hands and knees crawling,
Och! faith you're the dandy,
You nick'd 'em so handy,
Spoken.] Yes, by my soul, down he went, sure enough, and when he was down I gave him the devil's own to bring him up again, saying,
Horo buglamy, ditheramy corragi,
Horo buglamy, row de row row.
With heads and limbs batter'd,
My rival, big Jerry,
In a devil of a hurry,
Och! the joy that this gave me,
Faith, never will leave me, I kiss'd my sweet cratur, and squeez'd her soft fist;,
I'll be my own speaker,
And my own I will make her, And be true to my Judy, as the sun to the east
Spoken.] Aye, by the powers! and if any one insults my darling, I'll take my blackthorn in my fist, Judy shall put a stone in her stocking, and we'll go thro' the fair singing,
i Horo buglamy, &c.
Each sweetheart admiring,
Recounting the actions
Between the two factions,
Next morning, what pity,
With mournful ditty,
We embrace one another
Like brother and brother,
Spoken.] Yes, and we're always better friends after beating one another, than ever we were before; and, whilst the piper plays, we drown animosity in the real stuff, and sing,
| Horo buglamy, &c.
SHANNON’S FLOWERY BANKS. In summer when the leaves were green, and blossoms
deck'd each tree, Young Teddy then declar'd his love, his artless love
to me; On Shannon's flow'ry banks we sat, and there he told
his tale, 0, Patty, softest of thy sex! 0, let fond !ove prevail! Ah, well-a-day, you see me pine in sorrow and despair, Yet heed me not, then let me die, and end my grief
and care. Ah, no dear youth, I softly said, such love demands my
thanks, And here I vow eternal truth-on Shannon's flow'ry
.banks. And here we vow'd eternal truth on Shannon's flow'ry
banks, And then we gather'd sweetest flow'rs, and play'd such
artless pranks; But, woe is me! the press-gang came, and forc'd my
Ted away Just when we nam'd next morning fair to be our wed
ding-day. • My love, he cried, they force me hence, but still
my heart is thine; * All peace be yours, my gentle Pat, while war and toil
be mine: With riches, l'll return to thee.' I sobb’d out words
of thanks And then he vow'd eternal truth on Shannon's flow'ry
And then we vow'd eternal truth on Shannon's dow'ry
banks, And then I saw him sail away and join the hostile
ranks; From morn to eve for twelve dull months, his absence
sad I mourn'd, The peace was made--the ship came back—but Teddy
ne'er return'd! His beauteous face, his manly form, has won a nobler
fairMy Teddy's false, and I, forlorn, must die in sad deYe gentle maidens, see me laid, while you stand round
in ranks, And plant a willow o'er my head on Shannon's flow'ry
He's confin’d to be roving all day;
Of the meals that wo’nt come in his waya
Spoken.] 0, for a nice pitchfork eel and a cold slice of melted butter to it; or a turban and lobster sauce; or the lovely beefsteak lining that makes the under crust of pigeon pye! O, don't mention it! There's a time for all things,' they say, but I know no more about dinner-time than a cat does of churning salt-butter. • No Song no Supper,' is another old saw, but though I sing all day, sorrow the taste of supper I get morning, noon or night. Which makes me now lament and say,
(Imitation of the original singer.) . May we ne'er want a friend, or a bottle to give him.'