And fortunes they all had galore, From the minister down To the clerk of the Crown, All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone! All were courting the Widow Malone. But so modest was Mistress Malone, That no one could see her alone, Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone! So bashful the Widow Malone. Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare, (How quare! It 's little for blushing they care Down there) Put his arm round her waist,- "O," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone, My own!" "O," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone." And the widow they all thought so shy, My eye! Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh,— But, "Lucius," says she, "Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone! You may marry your Mary Malone." There's a moral contained in my song, And one comfort, it's not very long, If for widows you die, Learn to kiss, not to sigh; For they 're all like sweet Mistress Malone, O, they 're all like sweet Mistress Malone. CHARLES LEver. Lament of the Erish Emigrant. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May mornin' long ago, The place is little changed, Mary; And the corn is green again; 'T is but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary; But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary For the poor make no new friends; But, O, they love the better sull The few our Father sends! And you were all I had, Mary, There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow, I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile I bless you for the pleasant word, I'm biddin' you a long farewell, In the land I 'm goin' to; They say there 's bread and work for all, But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair! And often in those grand old woods To the place where Mary lies; Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. Gluggity Glug. A JOLLY fat friar loved liquor good store, "Some rogue," quoth the friar, "quite dead to remorse, Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse, While I was engaged at the bottle, Which went gluggity, gluggity-glug-glug-glug." The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, "This new mode of docking," the friar then said, "I perceive does n't make a horse trot ill; "And 't is cheap, for he never can eat off his head While I am engaged at the bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity-glug-glug-glug." The steed made a stop-in a pond he had got, He was rather for drinking than grazing; Quoth the friar, "'T is strange headless horses should trot, Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, Quoth he, "The head 's found, for I 'm under his nose,— Which goes gluggity, gluggity-glug-glug-glug." ANONYMOUS. Here she Goes-and There she Goes. Two Yankee wags, one summer day, Stopped at a tavern on their way; |