Tatter'd and torn you've left my coat,
I've not a cravat-to save my throat,
Yet I pardon you all, my sparkling doat!
If you'd cheer me again in the morning.

Whiskey replies :—

When you've heard prayers on Sunday next,
With a sermon beside, or at least-the text,
Come down to the alehouse-however you're vexed,
And though thousands of cares assault you :
You'll find tippling there-till morals mend,
A cock shall be placed in the barrel's end,
The jar shall be near you, and I'll be your friend,
And give you a
Kead mille faulté."*

The bard resumes his address:

66

You're my soul and my treasure, without and within,
My sister and cousin and all my kin;

'Tis unlucky to wed such a prodigal sin,

But all other enjoyment is vain, love!

My barley ricks all turn to you

My tillage-my plough-and my horses too-
My cows and my sheep they have-bid me adieu;
I care not while you remain, love!

Come, vein of my heart! then come in haste,
You're like Ambrosia, my liquor and feast,
My forefathers all had the very same taste-
For the genuine dew of the mountain.
Oh! Usquebaugh! I love its kiss!—
My guardian spirit, I think it is,

Had my christening bowl been filled with this,
I'd have swallowed it-were it a fountain.
Many's the quarrel and fight we've had,
And many a time you made me mad,
But while I've a heart-it can never be sad,
When you smile at me full on the table;
Surely you are my wife and brother
My only child-my father and mother—
My outside coat-I have no other!

Oh! I'll stand by you-while I am able.

If family pride can aught avail,
I've the sprightliest kin of all the Gaelt-
Brandy and Usquebaugh, and ale !

But claret untasted may pass us;

To clash with the clergy were sore amiss,
So for righteousness sake, I leave them this,
For claret the gownsman's comfort is,

When they've saved us with matins and masses.

*Kead mille faulté-A hundred thousand welcomes.

+ Gael-The ancient Irish.

THE LAND OF POTATOES, O!

Air, "Morgan Rattler."

If I had on the clear
But five hundred a year,

'Tis myself would not fear

Without adding a farthing to 't:

Faith if such was my lot,

Little Ireland's the spot
Where I'd build a snug cot,

With a bit of garden to 't.

As for Italy's dales

With their Alps and high vales,
Where with fine squalling gales,
Their signoras so treat us, O!
I'd ne'er to them come,

Nor abroad ever roam,

But enjoy a sweet home

In the land of potatoes, O!
Hospitality,

All reality,
No formality,

There you ever see ;

But free and easy

"Twould so amaze ye,

You'd think us all crazy,
For dull we never be !

If my friend honest Jack,
Would but take a small hack,
And just get on his back,

And with joy gallop full to us;
He, throughout the whole year,
Then should have the best cheer,
For taith none so dear

As our brother John Bull to us!
And we'd teach him, when there,
Both to blunder and swear,

And our brogue with him share,

Which both genteel and neat is, O!

And we'd make him so drink,

By St. Patrick, I think,

That he never would shrik

From the land of potatoes, O!
Hospitality, &c.

Though I freely agree

I should more happy be
If some lovely she

From Old England would favour me;

For no spot on earth

Can more merit bring forth,

If with beauty and worth

You embellish'd would have her be:

Good breeding, good nature,

You find in each feature,

That nought you've to teach her—

So sweet and complete she's, O!

Then if Fate would but send

Unto me such a friend,

What a life would I spend

In the Land of potatoes, O!
Hospitality, &c.

POTTEEN, GOOD LUCK TO YE, DEAR.

CHARLES LEVER.

Av I was a monarch in state,

Like Romulus or Julius Caysar,
With the best of fine victuals to eat,
And drink like great Nebuchadnezzar,
A rasher of bacon I'd have,

And potatoes the finest was seen, sir;
And for drink, it's no claret I'd crave,
But a keg of old Mullen's potteen, sir.

With the smell of the smoke on it still.

They talk of their Romans of ould,

Whom they say in their own times was frisky:
But trust me to keep out the cowld,

The Romans* at home here like whiskey.

Sure it warms both the head and the heart,
It's the soul of all readin' and writin';
It teaches both science and art,

And disposes for love or for fightin'.

Oh, potteen, good luck to ye, dear.

* An abbreviation of Roman Catholic. The Irish peasant uses the word "Roman" in contradistinction to that of "Protestant." An Hibernian, in a religious wrangle with a Scotchman, said, "Ah, don't bother me any more, man! I'll prove to ye mine is the raal ould religion by one word. never wrote one to The Protestants.

St. Paul wrote an epistle to The Romans-but he
Answer me that!"

MOLLY CAREW.

From "Songs and Ballads," by SAMUEL LOVER.

This song was suggested by one of Carolan's finest bursts of melody, entitled" Planxty Reilly," and its capricious measure may be guessed at by the unusual lengths and variety of the following metres. The intensely Irish character of the air stimulated me to endeavour that the words should partake of that quality, and the rapid replication of the musical phrases made me strive after as rapid a ringling of rhyme, of which our early bards were so fond.

OCHONE! and what will I do ?

Sure, my love is all crost

Like a bud in the frost

And there's no use at all in my going to bed,
For 'tis dhrames, and not sleep, that comes into
And 'tis all about you,

My sweet Molly Carew!

And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame!

You're complater than nature
In every feature,

The snow can't compare

With your forehead so fair;

my head;

And I rather would see just one blink of your eye
Than the purtiest star that shines out of the sky;
And by this and by that,
For the matter of that,

You're more distant by far than that same.
Ochone! weirasthru !*

Ochone! I'm alone!

I'm alone in the world without you.

Ochone! 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

Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather:
Then your lips! oh, Machree!
In their beautiful glow
They a patthern might be

For the cherries to grow;

'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we know,‡
For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago;

* Oh! Mary, have pity! (implying the blessed Virgin.)

In allusion to the tendency of the "hedge" schoolmaster to turn sonnetteer.

I forget the name of the French author who said if lace had been in fashion in the time of Eve, it is with that Satan would have tempted her.-Lace is a net, certainly, and we are given to understand that his Sable Majesty has nets of all sorts and sizes, according to the nature of the fry he is after.

But at this time o'day,
'Pon my conscience, I'll say,

Such cherries might tempt a man's father!
Ochone! weirasthru !

Ochone! I'm alone!

I'm alone in the world without you.

Ochone! by the man in the moon,
You taze me all ways

That a woman can plaze,

For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat Magee,*
As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me;
Though the piper I bate,
For fear the old chate

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
That I can't at your sweet purty face get a peep.
Och! lave off that bonnet,

Or else I'll lave on it

The loss of my wandherin' sowl!

Ochone! weirasthru !
Ochone! like an owl,

Day is night dear, to me, without you.

Ochone! don't provoke me to do it;
For there's girls by the score
That loves me-and more;

And you'd look mighty 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 to 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 fresh and fair as a morning in May
While she's short and dark like a cowld winther's day,
Yet, if you dont repent

Before Easter, when Lent

Is over, I'll marry for spite.
Ochone! weirasthru !

And when I die for you,

My ghost will haunt you every night !+

* The dance, in Ireland, is a great field of display, and source of jealously between rivals. †This is no uncommon threat in Ireland.