As you peel, true as steel.

While the betters noisy grow.

While the banging rages loud and long, And the betters noisy grow.

· IV.

The Randal-rag of England

Must yet terrific burn,

Till Ireland's troublesome knight be beat,
And the star of Crib return!
Then, then, ye glutton-pugilists,
The claret red shall flow,
To the fame, of your name,

When the noise of bets is low.

When Sir Dan lies levelled loud and long,
And the noise of bets is low.

Blackwood's Magazine, September, 1819.

MARK SPROT'S LAMENT.

YE President's and L'Amy's men,
Who drill on foot at ease,

O, little do you think upon

The dangers of our knees!

My song shall make your legs to shake Within your pantaloons :

We such woe undergo

When we ride with the Dragoons.

Our Quarter-Master, Donald,

Is up at peep of day;

A whacking fine he doth design,

If you remain away.

When he doth call the muster-roll,

His pipe each yeoman times

Spare me, lo! here I go,

To ride with the Dragoons.

Then out speaks Sergeant Whigham,
And an angry man is he;

If you've that day forgot pipe-clay,
Or put your belt ajee,

Quoth great Whigham, "Resolved I am,
To trounce such awkward loons-

Please pay down, half-a-crown,

To the fund of our Dragoons."

Then out speaks Captain Cockburn,
With accents stern and gruff,

"Count one, two, three, that I may see How many files go off."

We jog along, some eighty strong,
Despising absent spoons-
A gay band, o'er the sand,
The Volunteer Dragoons.

Although the sand is flying,
And the sun is burning hot,
And every soul is frying,

We must not shrink a jot.

We don't give o'er, though basted sore,

But halt and fire platoons.

O, the shock, when we cock!
O, the falls of the Dragoons!

Sometimes the thing will happen,
The rear rides o'er the front;
Myself, I once came slapping.
And fell with such a dunt !

I hate the gloom of Borthwick's plume!

There's wisdom in my tune,
"Make your will ere you drill,
Each desperate Dragoon.'
But O! the cup of blessing,
That washes down our pain!
I would not lose our messing,
Though I must ride again.
Care killed a cat, remember that,
To-night enjoy your lunes :
Fairly fill, deeply swill,
Bellygerent Dragoons.

From Songs of the Edinburgh Troop. July, 1820. Edinburgh James Ballantyne & Company. 1825.

A curious, and now very scarce little collection of songs relating to the Edinburgh Yeomanry Cavalry, which was privately printed, and afterwards suppressed. There were nine songs in all, of which this was the first, dating from July 1820 to July 1823; they were written jointly by John Gibson Lockhart and Patrick F. Tytler, author of The History of Scotland, &c.

In the article on Lockhart in The Maclise Portrait Gallery Mr. W. Bates mentions the brochure as being very scarce. The above song has been kindly sent by Mr. James Gordon, F.S.A., Scotland.

YE UNIONISTS OF ENGLAND.

YE Unionists of England,

Who grace our native land,

Whose Union Jack has braved so long
The whole Gladstonian band.

That glorious standard launch again
To meet the Liberal foe,

As you rave like the brave

While you follow after "Joe!"

The spirit of the Tories

In every heart burns bright.
Coercion is your field of fame,
Obstruction your delight.
The hatred of all Irishmen

Your burning zeal shall fan,
As you shout and you spout

That you'll crush the Grand Old Man.

When Brand and noble Goschen fell

Your Tory breasts still glow,

As you stand at command

Of your mighty leader "Joe."
The meteor flag of Brummagem
Terrific still shall burn,

Till Gladstone's troubled course be run
And Joseph's star return.

Pall Mall Gazette.. June 16, 1887.

YE CRICKETERS.

YE cricketers of England,

That guard the timbers three;

Whose game has brav'd a thousand years

All other games that be!

Your pliant willow grasp again

To match another foe.

As ye stand, bat in hand

Where the ripping swift uns go;

Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist
Sends in his teazers slow.

The spirit of your fathers,

Look on from nook and shade;

Their ghosts, in ancient flannels clad,
Peer forth from every glade.

Where Pilch and mighty Alfred move
Their spectres long to show

How to stand, bat in hand,

Where the ripping swift uns go;
Or the crafty Clark with peerless twist
Sends in his teazers slow.

THE CRICKEter.

THERE'S a game that bears a well-known name, in castle, hall, and cot,

'Tis the first in boyhood's happy years, in this our island

plot.

It nurtures a deep and lasting love for manly deeds and true, And trains our youth in nerve and eye-things well to keep in view;

It teaches deeds of chivalry, to friends to be sincere,
And teaches him in play or sport there nothing is to fear,
'Tis a noble game, &c.

There are names that bring a well-known charm to peasant and to peer:

Old England, Ireland, Scotland, send out a ringing cheer; Canada adds a loving word, America its praise,

Of giants in this isle of ours, and oft our spirits raise. 'Tis a noble game, &c.

IRISH SONGS.

MOLLY BAWN (OR, FAIR MOLLY).

OH, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,

All lonely, waiting here for you?
While the stars above are brightly shining,
Because they've nothing else to do.
The flowers late were open keeping,

To try a rival blush with you;

But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping,
With their rosy faces wash'd with dew,
Oh, Molly Bawn, &c.

Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear,
And the pretty stars were made to shine;
And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear,
And may be you were made for mine;
The wicked watch-dog here is snarling,
He takes me for a thief you see;

For he knows I'd steal you, Molly, darling,
And then transported I should be.

Oh, Molly Bawn, &c..

SAMUEL LOVER.

There was a parody of this song in the first volume of The Man in the Moon, unfortunately it is very coarse :

OH! Molly, pawn without repining,
That wedding-ring I gave to you,
Where three gilt balls are brightly shining,
Because they've customers to do.

A VOICE FROM CANNES.

OH, ROBERT Bawn, why leave me pining,
Lone waiting here for news from you?
With LEADER now I'm idly dining,
Because I've nothing else to do.

The Whigs were into office creeping,
We hear, to try a brush with you;
But their nurse, RUSSELL, set them sleeping,
Their sanguine faces turn'd to blue.

Oh, ROBERT Bawn, why leave me pining, &c.

The pretty flowers were made to bloom, BOB;
The pretty moon to wax and wane;
A tidy wig was made for BROUGHAM, BOB-
Ah! cruel, was it made in vain?
There's wicked CAMPBELL at me snarling;
He takes me for a rat, you see :

I wish you'd take me, Robert darling!
Then ratified my hopes would be.
Oh Robert, &c.

Punch.

1846.

The above song refers to a rumour that Lord Brougham (then residing at Cannes) was making overtures to Sir Robert Peel, in the hope that if Sir Robert returned to power, he, Brougham, would again be made Lord Chancellor.

"Brougham was still amused by the prospect of holding the Great Seal under Sir Robert Peel."-Life of Lord Brougham.

-:0:

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.

A BABY was sleeping, its mother was weeping,
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;
And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman's
dwelling,

And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh! come back to

me."

Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered, And smiled in her face as she bended the knee. "Oh! blessed be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee."

SAMUEL LOVER.

A WOMAN half sleeping, o'er a window was peeping,
For her husband had not come to dinner or tea :
And the watchman was telling the hour that was knelling,
And he cried, "Past eleven," most vociferously.

The hours while she number'd, her anger still slumber'd, And she thought where the deuce her wild husband could be!

Oh! where is he snoring till this hour of the morning,
Oh! I'm certain he can't be in good companie.

Sich hours to be keeping, is quite overleaping
The bounds of decorum and all modesty:

I think it is rather improper in a father,

Who might sit quietly at home, in his wife's companie.

And five in the morning, saw Jenkins returning,

And the wife gloom'd, her husband half-drunk for to see, And he, while undressing, his folly confessing,

Cried, I'll never take up with such bad companie.

The Irish Comic Vocalist.

1862.

:0:

THE LAND OF THE WEST.

O COME to the Wild West, O come there with me,
To see th' exhibition of Buffalo B—,

Where the fair ladies shoot at the glass balls up-thrown;
O come to the wild west-and come not alone.
I'll treat you, I'll show you the pictures, and best
Of all, I will show you Bill Cody's Wild West.

The North has attractions, I do not deny ;
It's Hampstead, its Hall, and its Palace on high.
Let 'Arrys at IIampstead enjoy themselves best,
The Indian location is down in the west.
So go there with me, and it will be confessed,
You'll have fun for your money at Cody's Wild West.

The South has its Palace of Crystal, 'tis true;
All sparkling in sunlight, and lamps not a few ;
Half greenhouse, half theatre, it hasn't the zest,
It's right small potatoes compared to "Wild West."
So come to the "Yankeries "-Earl's Court is best
Place for a ticket-the Bully Wild West!

From Max in the Metropolis. By Max P. Romer. 1887.
London.
George Routledge & Sons.

A parody of Samuel Lover's The Low-Backed Car, entitled The Gin Shop Bar, was written by J. A. Hardwick. It was,

however, very coarse and slangy. Another long parody was in Diogenes, Volume III, 1854, entitled The Haughty Czar:

WHEN first I saw the Emperor,
'Twas on the Ascot day.
Beside our gracious Queen he sat,

And chatted free and gay:

And when the cup was won, they named

The horse "The Emperor,"

No compliment to the horse, we thought,

But flattering to the Czar :

The bullying northern Czar:

The crazy northern Czar,

As fast as that steed to run he'll have need,
When with us he goes to war.

(Three verses omitted.)

In July, 1859, the Emperor Napoleon III. concluded a sudden and unexpected armistice with Austria, just at a time when all the world was expecting to see Italy freed from the hated rule of the Hapsburgs, and the Bourbons. Count Cavour resigned his ministerial posts, the indignation of the Italians was unbounded, and revolutions broke out all over the Peninsula.

COUNT O'Cavourneen, the bubble is breaking

You've had the last scene, Solferino's red hill,
The cannons no longer the echoes are waking,
Count O'Cavourneen, what, Minister still?
O, hast thou forgot the diplomacy clever
In which thou didst bear so distinguished a part,
Thy vow to clear out all the Hapsbugs for ever?
The vermin still linger, Cavour of my heart.

Cavourneen, Cavourneen, the dead lie in numbers
Beneath the torn turf where the living made fight;
In the bed of My Uncle the Emperor slumbers,
But Italy's Hapsbugs continue to bite.

Well done, my Cavour, they have cut short the struggle
That fired all the pulses of Italy's heart;

And in turning thy back on the humbug and juggle ; Cavour, thou hast played a proud gentleman's part. SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1859.

KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. (Her Answer.)

OH! Dermot Asthore, though the gray dawn is breaking,
To open the window would give me a chill,
The lark-of last evening-has left my head aching,
So don't sing outside there, but let me lie still.

My hair is in papers-three screws on each side, dear,—
Not very romantic for lovers to see.

The "Voice of your heart" has a thrifle of pride, dear,
And that's why I'm silent, which pray let me be.

Oh! Dermot Asthore, is it still are ye there, now;
Don't throw up the pebbles, you'll break every pane;
Just take yourself off, for I vow and declare, now,
I'll get very mad if you wake me again.
It may be for five years, it may be eleven

Or even fourteen, or for life we must part,

But this is no reason to wake me at seven,

So don't come again, till I've made myself smart.

:0:

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.*

REV. FRANCIS MAHONY (Father Prout).

Shandon Church, in the city of Cork.

In Memoriam.

FATHER PROUT.

(REV. FRANCIS MAHONY.)

IN deep dejection, but with affection,
I often think of those pleasant times
In the days of "Frazer" ere I touched a razor,
How I read and revelled in thy racy rhymes;
When in wine and wassail we to thee were vassal,
Of Water-grass Hill, O renowned P. P.-
May "The Bells of Shandon,"
Toll blythe and bland on

The pleasant waters of thy memory!

Full many a ditty, both wise and witty,

In this social city, have I heard since then

(With the glass before me, how the dream comes o'er me, Of those Attic suppers and those vanished men !)

But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken.
Or hath left a token of such joy in me,
As "The Bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee."

The songs melodious, which—a new Harmodius"Young Ireland" wreathed round its rebel sword;

With their deep vibrations and aspirations,

Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive board;

But to me seems sweeter the melodious metre

Of the simple lyric that we owe to thee-
Of the bells of Shandon

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

There's a grave that rises on thy sward, Devizes,
Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar,
And a white stone flashes o'er Goldsmith's ashes,
In the quiet cloister by Temple Bar;

So where'er thou sleepest, with a love that's deepest,
Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee,
While the bells of Shandon

Shall sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY.

Father Prout (Francis Sylvester Mahony) was an early contributor to Frazer's Magazine, he died on Friday, May 18, 1866, and the author of the above imitation of his poem died on Good Friday, 1882. Mahony was buried in Cork, on the banks of the river Lee, and within sound of the Bells of Shandon.

"FRAZER."'* Obit.-A.D. 1882.

OH, the bells of Shandon, that sound so grand on, The pleasant waters of the river Lee,

Ne'er tolled so sadly where once so gladly

They pealed their merriest old "Yorke," for thee, As when they laid thee with those that made thee Of"broths of boys" that blithest company, That round the table (while they were able) Of friendly Frazer held rare revelry.

Eheu, fugaces! Their vacant places,

Like empty tumblers tell of vanished glee,

Of jokes and jokers now stiff as pokers,
Of silent singers, shut-up repartee,

*Frazer's Magazine first appeared February 1, 1830, and Father Prout was one of its earliest contributors. It was discontinued in 1882.