And then the dull hours so merrily passes,
When we can't catch the pig for the grease on his

tail. But the best joke of all, and it's joy past expressing, E’en the thought of it now makes me burn with de

light, Is Shelah's soft lips, when I give her a blessing, While we roll in the hay on a sunshiny night.

Now what, &c.

IRISH PROVIDENCE.

TUNE— Sprig of Shellelagh. My darling says Pat, to his spouse on his lap, At this present moment we're not worth a rap,

With our faces so lean, and our duds on our backs,
Our cow and pig, my dear Norah, are dead,
Not a single potatoe is left us for bread,
The science of ploughing my father taught me,
So I'll e'en try the water and plough salt sea-

With my jill, sing Jack, sing Biblio whack.
Says Norah, when you're on the ocean, my life,
Sure Providence then will take care of your wife,

For no babies have we, not a Jill nor a Jack;
But when Pat was away, what did Providence do?
Made the Squire build for Norah a cabin quite new;
He furnished it gaily, to dry up her tears,
And he peopled it too in the space of three years,

With his Jill, sing Jack, sing Biblio whack. But when Paddy return'd how it gladdened his heart, To see his dear Norah so fine and so smart,

With her rings in her ears and her silks on her back, And who furnished for you this cabin, says Pat? 'Twas Providence, says Norah, himself that did that; Then Providence, Pat cried, as looking around,

Is the neatest upholsterer ever was found,

With his Jill, sing Jack, sing Biblio whack. Then Norah, dear Norah, tell me, if you please, Whose four little chubby-cheeked rascals, are these!

These little gossoons, with their locks all so blackThey are mine, Pat, by Providence sent do you see, Oh! botheration, says Pat, but that don't humbug me, For if Providence minds to send legs to your chairs, Sure he'll never forget to send fathers for heirs

With his Jill, sing Jack, sing Biblio whack.
Oh! Norah, when I've been upon the salt sea,
By St. Patrick, you've been a big traitress to me;

May whiskey console me for I'm on the rack;
For if Providence peoples my cabin with brats,
While I'm sailing over live herrings and sprats,
Mr. Deputy Providence never will do,
So to him and Old Nick I'll kick babies and you--

Sing Jill, sing Jack, sing Biblio whack.

OH! WHEN I BREATH'D A LAST ADIEU.
TUNE— Within this village dwells a maid.'.
Oh! when I breath'd a last adieu

To Erin's vales and mountains blue,
Where nurs'd by hope my moments flew

In life's unclouded spring;
Tho' on the breezy deck reclin’d,

I listen’d to the rising wind,
What fetters could restrain the mind

That rov'd on fancy's wing?
She bore me to the woodbine bow'r,

Where oft I pass'd the twilight hour,
Where first I felt love's thrilling pow'r,

From Kathleen's beaming eye: ,
Again I watch'd her Aushing breast;

Her h ney'd lip again was press’d;

Again, by sweet confession blest,

I drank each melting sigh.
Dost thou, Kathleen, my loss deplore,

And lone on Erin's emerald shore,
In memory trace the love I bore; o

On all our transports dwell?
Can I forget the fatal day

That call’d me from thy arms away,
When nought was left me but to say

• Farewell, my love-farewell!

THE TWIG OF SHELALY.
MULROONEY's my name, I'm comical boy,

A tight little lad at Shelaly;
St. Paddy wid whiskey he suckled me, joy,

Among the sweet bogs of Kelaly!"
The world I began with the prospect so fair,
My dad was worth nothing, and I was his heir;
So all my estate was a heart free from care,

And a tight little twig of Shelaly. “ Turn captain,” cried dad, " and if kilt in de strife,

Success and long life to Shelaly!
Your fortune is made all the rest of your life,

As sure as there's bogs in Kelaly.”
But thinks I, spite of what fame and glory bequeath,
How conceited I'd look in a fine laurel wreath,
Wid my head in my mouth to stand picking my teeth,

Wid a tight little twig of Shelaly.
Yet firmly both Ireland and England I'll aid,

The lands of oak stick and Shelaly;
For now these two sisters are man and wife made,

As sure as there's bogs in Kelaly.

I'll still for their friends have a heart warm and true, To their foes give my hand, for what else can I do? Yes, I'll give 'em my hand—but, along wid it too,

A tight little twig of Shelaly.

LET ERIN REMEMBER.

TUNE— The Red Fox.'
Let Erin remember the days of old,

Ere faithless sons betray'd her;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold,

Which he won from her proud invader;
When her king, with standard of green unfurl'd,

Led the Red Branch knights to danger,
Ere the emerald gem of the western world

Was set in the crown of a stranger.
On Lough-Neagh's bank, as the fisherman strays,

When the clear cold eve's declining,
He sees the round towers of other days,

In the wave beneath him shining!
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,

Catch a glimpse of the days that's over;
Thus sighing, look through the wave of time,

For the long faded glories they cover.

SPORTING SONGS.

AWAY! AWAY, TO THE MOUNTAIN'S BROW AWAY! away, to the mountain's brow,

Where the trees are gently waving,
Away! away, to the mountain's brow

Where the stream is gently laving,
And beauty, my love, on thy cheek shall dwell,

Like the rose as it opes to the day,
While the zephyr that breathes thro’ the flow'ry dell,
Shakes the sparkling dew-drops away.

Away! away, to the mountain's brow, &c. Away! away, to the rocky glen,

Where the deer are wildly bounding,
And the hills shall echo in gladness again,

To the hunter's bugle sounding.
While beauty, my love, on thy cheek shall dwell,

Like the rose as it opes to the day,
While the zephyr that breathes thro’ the flow'ry dell,
Shakes the sparkling, dew-drops away. .

Away! away, to the rocky glen, &c.

SONG OF THE SKATERS.
This bleak and chilly morning,
With frost the trees adorning,
Though Phæbus below
Were all in a glow,
Through the sparkling snow
A skating we go,
With a fal, lal, la,
To the sound of the merry horn.