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The pewter he lifted in sport,

(Believe me I tell you no fable,)
A gallon he drank from the quart,

And then planted it full on the table.
“ A miracle !" every one said,

And they all took a hawl at the stingo,
They were capital hands at the trade,
And drank till they fell; yet, by jingo!
The pot still frothed over the brim.

Next day, quoth his host, “ 'Tis a fast,

But I've nought in my larder but mutton,
And on Fridays who'd make such repast,

Except an unchristian-like glutton.'
Says Pat, “ Cease your nonsense, I beg,

What you tell me is nothing but gammon;
Take my compliments down to the leg,
And bid it come hither a salmon !"
And the leg most politely complied.

You've heard, I suppose, long ago,

How the snakes, in a manner most antic,
He march'd to the County Mayo,

And trundled them into th' Atlantic.
Hence not to use water for drink

The people of Ireland determine;
With mighty good reason, I think,
Since Št Patrick has fill'd it with vermin,
And vipers, and other such stuff.

O! he was an elegant blade,

As you'd meet from Fair Head to Kilcrumper,
And though under the sod he is laid,

Yet here goes his health in a bumper!
I wish he was here, that my glass

He might by art magic replenish;
But as he is not, why, alas!
My ditty must come to a finish-

Because all the liquor is out!

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Song II.

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Air.-Lamentation over Sir Dan. With the melancholy expression of days gone by.

I wish to St Patrick we had a new war, I'd not care who 'twas

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with, nor what it was for; With the French, or the Yankees, or,

better again, With the yellow mulattoes of Lisbon or Spain.

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I wish to St Patrick we had a new war,
I'd not care who 'twas with, no, nor what it was for :
With the French or the Yankeesmor better again,
With the yellow Mulattoes of Lisbon or Spain !


My heart is half broke when I think of the fun
We had before Boney, poor fellow, was done;
Oh ! 'twas I who was sore when I heard he was dead,
For I thought on the days when he got me good bread.

When he, who, God rest him ! was never afraid,
Sir Thomas, commanded the FIGHTING BRIGADE ;
And the Rangers of Connaught-to see them was life
Made game of the Frenchmen, andt gave 'em the knife.

When abroad and at home we had sport and content-
Who cared then a damn for tythe, taxes, or rent ?
When each dashing fine fellow, who wish'd to enlist,
Might be off to the wars with his gun in his fist.

Now the landlord is bother'd, and tenant bereft-
The soldier's discharged,--and the sailor adrift-
Half-pays to our captains poor living afford,
And the Duke is no more than a Government Lord !

And our active light-bobs, and our bold grenadiers,
Must dirty their fingers with plough, loom, or sheers;
Or if just out of fun, we should venture a snap
At no more than a proctor, we're thrown into trap.

So bad luck to the minute that brought us the peace,
For it almost has ground the nose out of our face ;
And I wish to St Patrick we had a new war,
Och! no matter with whoin, no, nor what it was for!

AIR,-Limerick Glove.

With uproarious jollity.

When you go c

courting a neat or a dainty lass, Don't you be sighing, or


- dy to faint, a-las! Little she'd care for such pluckless philandering,


* Sir T. Picton, who commanded the 4th division in the Peninsular War. It was chiefly composed of Irishmen, and was called the “ fighting division,” from its constant activity in engaging. The Connaught Rangers, (the 88th,) was one regiment of this most dashing brigade; and many a saying of Sir T's. is treasured up by them, for he was a great favourite from his gallant habits.

+ A common phrase among the Irish soldiery for charging with the bayonet.

And to Old Nick she would send you a - wandering. But, you thief, you


you, sir.

rogue, you rapperee, Arrah, have at her like Paddy O'Raf-fer-ty.

When you go courting a neat or a dainty lass,
Don't you be sighing or ready to faint, alas !
Little she'd care for such pluckless philandering,
And to Old Nick she would send you a wandering.


you rogue, you rapparee ! Arrah, have at her like Paddy O'Rafferty.

Tip her the wink, and take hold of the fist of her ;
Kiss her before she'd have time to say Christopher ; *
She may cry out, “ You're an impudent fellow, sir !"
But her

will unsay what her tongue it


Oh you thief, you rogue, you rapparee,
You're a devil of a fellow, Paddy O'Rafferty.

Give her another, or rather a score of 'em,
Still you will find her ready for more of 'em ;
Press her, caress her, my dear, like a stylish man,
For that is the way to go court like an Irishman.

Oh you, &c.

Pitch to the devil sighings and “ well-a-days,"
Oglings and singing of piperly melodies ;
When in your arms you fairly have got her, sir,
Her heart it will melt like a lump of fresh butter, sir !



Oh the dear creatures-sure I am kill'd with 'em!
My heart, was it big as the sea, would be fill’d with 'em ;
Far have I truff'd it, and surely where'er I went,
'Twas with the girls I had fun and merriment.




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JERRY MAHony, arrah, my jewel, Come let us be off to the

fair, For the Donovans, all in their glory, Most certainly mean to be

* No allusion here to C. N. Esq.

there. Says they,“ The whole Ma- bo ny fac-tion, We'll ba-nish 'em

out clear and clean ;” But it ne- ver was yet in their breeches, their

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1. JERRY MAHONY,* arrah, my jewel, come, let us be off to the fair, For the Donovans all in their glory most certainly mean to be there; Says they, “ The whole Mahony faction we'll banish 'em out clear and clean." But it never was yet in their breeches, their bullaboo words to maintain.


There's Darby to head us, and Barney, as civil a man as yet spoke,
'Twould make your mouth water to see him, just giving a bit of a stroke;
There's Corney, the bandy-legg'd tailor, a boy of the true sort of stuff,
Who'd fight though the black blood was Gowing like butter-milk out of his buf.

3. There's broken-nosed Bat from the mountain- last week he burst out of the jail

, And Murty the beautifult Tory, who'd scorn in a row to turn tail; Bloody Bill will be there like a darling, and Jerry, och ! let him alone, For giving his blackthorn a flourish, or lifting a lump of a stone.

4. And Tim, who served in the militia, his bayonet has stuck on a pole; Foxy Dick has his scythe in good order, a reat sort of tool on the whole ; A cudgel, I see, is your weapon, and never I knew it to fail, But I think that a man is more handy, who fights as I do with a flail.

5. We muster a hundred shillelahs, all handled by elegant men, Who batter'd the Donovans often, and now will go do it again; To-day we will teach them some manners, and shew that, in spite of their talk, We still, like our fathers before us, are surely the cocks of the walk.

6. After cutting out work for the sexton, by smashing a dozen or so, We'll quit in the utmost of splendour, and down to Peg Slattery's go; In gallons we'll wash down the battle, and drink to the next merry day, When must'ring again in a body, we all shall go leathering away.

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Song V.
A real Irish"

Fly not yet.[Tune -Lillibullero. Time, four o'clock in the morning, or thereabouts.

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HARK! hark ! from be-low, The ras-cal-ly row Of watchmen in cho-rus * De voçe äga Videndi Valck. ad Eurip. Hipp. p. 306. Herm. ad Vig. p. 708. Heind. ad Plat. Crat. p. 19. Græcique Grammatici passim. C.I.B.

+ Tory, in Ireland, is a kind of pet name. - Oh ! you Tory,” is the same as, “ Oh you rogue,” used sportively. If a man wishes to call another a rogue

seriously, he calls him, Whig-the terms being convertible.



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bawl - ing four ! But, spite of their noise, my rol-lock-ing boys, We'll

With practical accompaniments.

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bumpers, Bumper your glasses high up to the brim, And he who is talking a

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word about walking, Out of the window at once with him.

Hark! hark ! from below,

The rascally row
Of watchmen, in chorus, bawling “ Four !"

But spite of their noise,

My rollocking boys!
We'll stay till we've emptied * one bottle more.

Bumpers-bumpers, flowing bumpers !
Bumper your glasses high up to the brim!

And he who is talking

A word about walking,
Out of the window at once with him !

Our whisky is good,

As ever yet stood,
Steaming on table, from glass or pot :

It came from a still,

Snug under a hill,
Where the eye of the gauger saw it not.

Bumpers, &c.

Then why should we run

Away from the sun-
Here's to his health, my own elegant men !

We drank to his rest

Last night in the west,
And we'll welcome him now that he wakes again

Bumpers, &c.

And here we shall stop,

Until every drop,
That charges our bottles, is gone, clean gone ;

And then, sallying out,

We'll leather the rout,
Who've dared to remind us how time has run.

Bumpers, &c.

* Of whisky, viz. about thirteen tumblers.

† We pronounce the word generally in Ireland as we sound the ch in church Tchorus-I think it is a prettier way.

# Beating the watch, is a pleasant and usual finale to a social party in this metropoMis. I am compelled myself now and then to castigate them, merely

for the impertinent clamour they make at night about the hours. Our ancestors must have been in the depths of barbarity, when they established this ungentlemanlike custom. Vol. X.

4 I

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