And often am I blarnèd
Because I leave him in the lurch

As soon as text is named :
I leave the church in sermon-time,

And slink away to Sally, -
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley. .

The dance o' last Whit-Monday night exceeded

all before; No pretty girl for miles around was missing from

the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and 0, but she

was gay ; She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my

heart away!

When Christmas comes about again,

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were 0, then I shall have money!

so complete, I'll hoard it up, and, box and all,

The music nearly killed itself, to listen to her I'll give it to my honey ;

feet; And would it were ten thousand pound ! The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her I'd give it all to Sally ;

so much praised, For she's the darling of my heart,

But blessed himself he was n't deaf, when once And she lives in our alley.

her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you
My master and the neighbors all
Make game of me and Sally,

| sung ;

Your smile is always in my heart, your name upon And but for she I'd better be

my tongue ; A slave, and row a galley;

But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count But when my seven long years are out,

on both your hands, O, then I 'll marry Sally!

And for myself there's not a thumb or little 0, then we 'll wed, and then we 'll bed, —

finger stands. But not in our alley!

HENRY CAREY.

0, you're the flower of womankind, in country

or in town;

The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.

If some great lord should come this way and see

your beauty bright, O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it 's you I love the And you to be his lady, I 'down it was but right.

best ! If fifty girls were round you, I ’d hardly see the O, might we live together in lofty palace hall, rest;

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet cur

where it will,

0, might we live together in a cottage mean and Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before small, me still

With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the

only wall! Her eyes like mountain water that 's flowing on a rock,

o lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my disHow clear they are ! how dark they are ! and

tress ; they give me many a shock ;

It's far too glorious to be mine, but I'll never Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with

wish it less ; a shower,

The proudest place would fit your face, and I am Could ne'er express the charming lip that has poor and low, me in its power.

But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you

may go ! Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows

lifted up, Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like

THE FAITHFUL LOVERS. a china cup; Her hair 's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and I'd been away from her three years, -- about that, so fine, —

. And I returned to find my Mary true ; It's rolling down upon. her neck, and gathered And though I'd question her, I did not doubt that in a twine.

| It was unnecessary so to do.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

'T was by the chimney-corner we were sitting : Widow inachree, now the summer is come,

“Mary,” said I, “have you been always true?" | Och hone! widow machree, “Frankly," says she, just pausing in her knitting, When everything smiles, should a beauty look “I don't think I've unfaithful been to you :

glum? But for the three years past I 'll tell you what

Och hone! widow machree ! I've done ; then say if I've been true or not.

See the birds go in pairs,

And the rabbits and hares ; “When first you left my grief was uncontrollable; Why, even the bears Alone I mourned my miserable lot;

Now in couples agree; And all who saw me thought me inconsolable,

And the mute little fish, Till Captain Clifford came from Aldershott.

Though they can't spake, they wish, — To flirt with him amused me while 't was new :

Och hone! widow machree! I don't count that unfaithfulness —- do you ?

Widow machree, and when winter comes in, "The next--O! let me see-was Frankie Phipps;

Och hone! widow machree, --
I met him at my uncle's, Christinas-tide, To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,
And 'neath the mistletoe, where lips meet lips,

Och hone! widow machree!
Hegave me his first kiss—” And here she sighed. Sure the shovel and tongs
“We stayed six weeks at uncle's -- how time flew! To each other belongs,
I don't count that unfaithfulness -- do you?

And the kettle sings songs

Full of family glee ; “Lord Cecil Fossmore -- only twenty-one ---

While alone with your cup Lent me his horse. O, how we rode and raced ! Like a hermit you sup, We scoured the downs --- we rode to hounds —

Och hone! widow machree! such fun ! And often was his arm about my waist, - And how do you know, with the comforts I've That was to lift me up and down. But who

towld, Would call just that unfaithfulness? Would you ? | Och hone! widow machree, ---

But you 're keeping some poor fellow out in the “Do you know Reggy Vere ? Ah, how he sings !

cowld ? Wemet, —-'t was at a picnic. O, such weather!

Och hone! widow machree ! He gave me, look, the first of these two rings

With such sịns on your head, When we were lost in Cliefden woods together. Sure your peace would be fled ; Ah, what a happy time we spent, -we two !

Could you sleep in your bed I don't count that unfaithfulness to you.

Without thinking to see

Some ghost or some sprite, “I've yet another ring from him; d' ye see

That would wake you each night, The plain gold circlet that is shining here?”

Crying “Och hone! widow machree !" I took her hand : “O Mary! can it be

That you —” Quoth she, “that I am Mrs. Vere. Then take my advice, darling widow machree, --I don't call that unfaithfulness - do you ?"

Och hone! widow machree, "No," I replied, “ for I am married too.” And with my advice, faith, I wish you 'd take me,

ANONYMOUS.

Och hone! widow machree!
You'd have me to desire

Then to stir up the fire ;
WIDOW MACHREE.

And sure hope is no liar
Widow machree, it's no wonder you frown, --

In whispering to me
Och hone! widow machree;

That the ghosts would depart
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty black

When you 'd me near your heart, -
gown, --

Och hone! widow machree !
Och hone! widow machree.
How altered your air,
With that close cap you wear, —

THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN.
’T is destroying your hair,
Which should be flowing free :

THE laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great,
Be no longer a churl

His mind is ta’en up with the things o' the state;
Of its black silken curl, –

He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,
Och hone! widow machree!

| But favor wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.

SAMUEL LOVER.