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MISTER O’LIFFERTY. As gray as a badger, as bald as a Turk, Was Father O’Lifferty, priest of our kirk,
That's famed Carrickfergus, good luck to the place! In preaching he was sure of mighty great note, In love he was frisky and wild as a goat; My mother was frail, and the priest, people said, Put an ugly big horn on my dad's handsome head,
And thus stole the making my beautiful face. I remember the very first day I was born, Was at night, as I'm told, just at breaking of morn, Och! the whiskey-punch smiled from a brown earthen
jug! And sure I'm a man now of mighty high birth, For I first in a garret drew breath on this earth, Where our neat feather-bed was some straw, to be sure, That was neatly shaked up and spread down on the
floor; Thus popt into the world my sweet good-looking
mug. Then my mother, impatient to get me a name, Straight sent for the priest, and, faith, straight the priest
came, With his bandy-bent legs and his crooked hunch
back! Said my mother, there's whiskey, sir, take a small sup; Cried the priest, faith I will,' and he drank the quart
up. With the whiskey half-muzzed, and the smoke that he
took, Taking me in his arms, he took out his big book,
And he christened me Murphy M'Clahan in a crack. Said the priest, now the christening is done 'tis all o'er, Only just now I'll tak tot a pair of names more,
That's Brien O’Lifferty sure, and here goes! So fill up more whiskey and put round the joke, For I'll take one more whiff, while I'll take t’other
smoke! Och' cried nurse, you're just like as two peas in a
pod!' Cried the priest · faith, we are, only one thing is odd, That I squint at each ear, the boy squints at his
Now I've ended I'll tell how my squinting was stopp'd,
If I had not been cursedly spoiled in the cooking! Sure I've taken a wife as a fixture, d'ye see, And no doubt on't at all a neat mixture 'twill be, Och! of sweet boys and girls, sure we'll have 'em
by dozens! But a mighty odd notion's just took in my head, If I'd thought on it before, I don't think I'd have wed, For our children, (though, faith, the relationship’is
new, Yet as I am gentile and she is a Jew) 'Stead of brothers and sisters, they'll only be court
THE MAID OF ERIN.
Upon a distant shore;
Is she whom I adore.
May Heaven its blessings sparing,
On her bestow them free,
Who sweetly sang to me.
In some propitious hour,
Endow'd with wealth and power,
My peerless queen should be,
Who sweetly sang to me.
May long between us roar,
She'll lodge within its core;
And mild and young is she,
Who sweetly sang to me.
That my last hour is nigh,
I'll lay me down and die;
For the love of his sweetheart, Miss Katty O'Rann! Since he fell deep in love, faith! no longer the spade
He handled, or followed the turf-cutting trade;
Thus did Patrick O'Lilt for Miss Katty O'Rann.
Which he could not bear from Miss Katty O'Rann. 'Twas enough to have melted the heart of a stone, To have heard the poor lad sing, sigh, mutter and moan;
1 While she turned her nose, which stood always awry: And plump on another she cast her sheep's eye,
Crying . Pat you won't do for Miss Katty O’Rann.' As he found no impression he made on the maid, Faith, he shovelled himself out of life with his spade,
Determined to perish for Katty O'Rann; For with spade, axe, and mallet, about his neck tied, He plunged in the Liffey and there for her died! As he sunk from the shore, he cried, · Katty no more Shall you trouble my spirit, or make my bones sore;
So bad luck to you beautiful Katty O’Rann.
An emerald set in the ring of the sea; i
The queen of the west, the world's Cushlamacree. Thy gates open wide to the poor and the stranger;
There smiles hospitality hearty and free;
And the wand'rer is welcom'd with Cushlamacree. Thy sons they are brave, but the battle once over,
In brotherly peace with their foes they agree; And the roseate cheeks of thy daughters discover
The soul-speaking blush, that says Cushlamacree.
Then flourish for ever, my dear native Erin,
While sadly I wander, an exile from thee! And firm as thy mountains, no injury fearing,
May Heaven defend its own Cushlamacree.
KITTY OF COLERAINE.
With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled,
And all the sweet buttermilk water'd the plain. Oh! what shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now,
Sure, sure, such a pitcher l'il ne'er meet again, 'Twas the pride of my dairy ;-0! Barney M'Cleary,
You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine. I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,
That such a misfortune should give her such pain, A kiss then I gave her, and before I did leave her,
She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason,
Misfortune will never come single, 'tis plain, For, very soon after poor Kitty's disaster,
The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.
PADDY THE PIPER.
Tender and bare as a pig in a stye,
Who but Pat Murphy the piper came by!
Says I, I cant tell, for I never did try. He told me that he had a charm,
To make the pipes prettily speak, Then squeez'd a bag under his arm,
And sweetly they set up a squeak!