THE HERO OF BALLINACRAZY.

WHEN I lived in sweet Ballinacrazy, dear,
The girls were all bright as a daisy, dear;
When I gave them a smack, they whispered, good lack!
And cried, Paddy, now can't you be aisy, dear.

First I married Miss Dolly O'Daisy, dear,
She had two swivel eyes, wore a jazey, dear;

Then to fat Miss Malone, weighing seventeen stone;
Then to lanthorn-jaw'd skinny O'Crazy, dear.

Then I married Miss Dorothy Taisy, dear,
A toast once in Ballinacrazy, dear;

Her left leg was good, but its fellow was wood,
And she hopped like a duck round a daisy, dear.

Then I married her sister, Miss Taisy, dear,
But she turned out so idle and lazy, dear,
That I took from the peg my deceased lady's leg,
For to leather the live one when lazy, dear.

Then I picked up rich old Mother Hazy, dear,
She'd a cough, and employ'd Dr. Blazy, dear,

But some drops that he gave, dropt her into her grave,
And her cash very soon made me aisy, dear.

Then says

I to old Father O'Mazy, dear,

"Don't my weddings and funerals plase ye, dear?"

"Oh!" says he, "you blackguard, betwixt church and churchyard, Sure, you never will let me be aisy, dear."

Oh, ladies, I live but to plase ye, dear,
I'm the hero of Ballinacrazy, dear;

I'll marry you all, lean, fat, short, and tall,

One after the other to plase ye, dear.

The name of the author of this lively lyric is unknown to fame. What a capacity for matrimony he invests his hero with! Such a fellow must have died of enlargement of the heart. Moore, in one of his early lyrics, says

"I'm going to toast ev'ry nymph of my soul to you.

And, on my soul, I'm in love with them all!"

But the Ballinacrazy lad goes far beyond-he marries them all. Colman, in "Bluebeard," makes Ibrahim say, "Praise be to the wholesome law of Mahomet, which stinted a Turk to four at a time:" Ballinacrazy outdoes Constantinople and the Grand Signior. This fellow was not on the best terms with his wives either; matrimony, with him, seems to

have been a sort of domestic "war of succession." He appears somewhat in the predicament of that man brought up before the magistrate on a charge of polygamy, who, when asked by his worship what could have induced him to marry so many women, replied that "he was looking for a good one, and didn't find her after all."

THE MAN FOR GALWAY.

CHARLES Lever.

To drink a toast,

A proctor roast,

Or bailiff, as the case is;

To kiss your wife,

Or take your life

At ten or fifteen paces;

To keep game cocks, to hunt the fox,
To drink in punch the Solway,
With debts galore, but fun far more;
Oh, that's "the man for Galway."

The King of Oude

Is mighty proud,

With debts, &c.

And so were onest the Caysars;
But ould Giles Eyre

Would make them stare,

Av he had them with the Blazers.*

To the divil I fling ould Runjeet Sing,
He's only a prince in a small way,
And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall
Oh, he'd never do for Galway."

Ye think the Blakes

Are no 66 great shakes;"

;

With debts, &c.

They're all his blood relations;
And the Bodkins sneeze

At the grim Chinese,

For they come from the Phenaycians.

So fill to the brim, and here's to him
Who'd drink in punch the Solway;
With debts galore, but fun far more;
Oh! that's "the man for Galway."

With debts, &c.

*This generally implies the arbitrement of the "duello," blazers being a figurative term for pistols; but in the present case, if I remember rightly, the Blazers allude to a very break-neck pack of hounds, so called.

LEAVE US A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR.

J. F. WALLER, LL.D. Air, "The Low-backed Car."

"THE night is fresh and clear, love,
The birds are in their bowers,
And the holy light

Of the moon falls bright
On the beautiful sleeping flowers.
Oh! Nora, are you waking?
Or don't you hear me spaking?
You know my heart is breaking

For the love of you, Nora dear.
Ah! why don't you speak, Mavrone ?
Sure I think that you're made of stone,
Just like Venus of old,

All so white and so cold,

But no morsel of flesh or bone.

"There's not a soul astir, love,
No sound falls on the ear,
But that rogue of a breeze
That's whispering the trees

Till they tremble all through with fear. Ah! them happy flowers that's creeping To your window where you're sleeping, Sure they're not chid for peeping

At your beauties, my Nora dear. You've the heart of a Turk, by my soul, To leave me perched here like an owl; 'Tis treatment too bad,

For a true-hearted lad,

To be sarved like a desolate fowl.

"Oh! Dermot, win me not, love, To be your bride to-night: How could I bear

A mother's tear,

A father's scorn and slight?
So, Dermot, cease your sueing-
Don't work your Nora's ruin,
'Twould be my sore undoing,

If you're found at my window, dear."
"Ah! for shame with your foolish alarms-
Just drop into your own Dermot's arms:
Don't mind looking at all

For your cloak or shawl

They were made but to smother your charms."

And now a dark cloud rising

Across the moon is cast,
The lattice opes,

And anxious hopes

Make Dermot's heart beat fast:
And soon a form entrancing,-

With arms and fair neck glancing,—
Half shrinking, half advancing,
Steps light on the lattice sill;
When a terrible arm in the air
Clutched the head of the lover all bare,
And a voice, with a scoff,

Cried, as Dermot made off,

"WON'T YOU LEAVE US A LOCK OF YOUR HAIR?"

A SUP OF GOOD WHISKEY.

A SUP of good whiskey will make you glad;
Too much of the creatur' will make you mad ;
If you take it in reason, 'twill make
you wise;

If

you drink to excess, it will close up your eyes: Yet father and mother,

And sister and brother,

They all take a sup in their turn.

Some preachers will tell you that whiskey is bad;
I think so too,-if there's none to be had;
Teetotalers bid you drink none at all;
But, while I can get it, a fig for them all!
Both layman and brother,

In spite of this pother,

Will all take a sup in their turn.

Some doctors will tell you, 'twill hurt your health; The justice will say, 'twill reduce your wealth; Physicians and lawyers both do agree,

When your money's all gone, they can get no fee. Yet surgeon and doctor,

And lawyer and proctor,

Will all take a sup in their turn.

If a soldier is drunk on his duty found,
He to the three-legged-horse is bound,
In the face of his regiment obliged to strip;
But a noggin will soften the nine-tailed whip.
For serjeant and drummer,

And likewise His Honour,

Will all take a sup in their turn.

The Turks who arrived from the Porte sublime,
All told us that drinking was held a great crime;
Yet, after their dinner away they slunk,
And tippled, so sly, till they got quite drunk.
For Sultan and Crommet,

And even Mahomet,

They all take a sup in their turn.

The Quakers will bid you from drink abstain,
By yea and by nay they will make it plain;
But some of the broad-brims will get the stuff,
And tipple away till they've tippled enough.
For Stiff-back and Steady,

And Solomon's lady,

Will all take a sup in their turn.

The Germans do say they can drink the most,
The French and Italians also do boast:
Ould Ireland's the country (for all their noise)
For generous drinking and hearty boys.
There each jovial fellow

Will drink till he's mellow,

And take off his glass in his turn.