ONE BOTTLE MORE. Assist me, ye lads who have hearts void of guile, To sing in the praises of old Ireland's isle, Where true hospitality opens the door, And friendship detains us for one bottle more; One bottle more, arrah, one bottle more, And friendship detains us for one bottle more. Old England, your taunts on our country forbear; With our bulls and our brogues we are true and sincere; For if but one bottle remains in our store, We have generous hearts to give that bottle more.

At Candy's, in Church-street, I'll sing of a set
Of six Irish blades who together had met;
Four bottles a-piece made us call for our score,
And nothing remained but one bottle more.

Our bill being paid, we were loth to depart,
For friendship had grappled each man by the heart,
Where the least touch, you know, makes an Irishman
And the whack from shillelah brought six bottles more.

:

Slow Phoebus had shone through our window so bright,
Quite happy to view his blest children of light;
So we parted with hearts neither sorry nor sore,
Resolving next night to drink twelve bottles more.

OH! WHEN I BREATH'D A LAST ADIEU.

TUNE_" Within this village dwells a maid."
OH! when I breath'd a last adieu
To Erin's vales and mountains blue,
Where nurs’d by hope my moments flew,

In life's unclouded spring;.
Though on the breezy deck reclin'd,
I listen’d to the rising wind,
What fetters could restrain the mind

That rov'd on Fancy's wing?

She bore me to the woodbine bow'r,
Where oft I pass'd the twilight hour,
Where first I felt love's thrilling pow'r,

From Kathleen's beaming eye:
Again I watch'd her flushing breast;
Her honey'd lip again was prest;
Again, by sweet confessions blest,

I drank each melting sigh.
Dost thou, Kathleen, my loss deplore,
And lone on Erin's emerald shore,
In memory trace the love I bore,

On all our transports dwell?
Can I forget the fatal day
That calld me from thy arms away,
When nought was left me but to say

“Farewell, my love-farewell !”

KITTY OF COLERAINE.
As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping,

With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbl’d, the pitcher it tumbld, 1

And all the sweet butter-milk water'd the plain. Oh, what shall I do now, 'twas looking at you now,

Sure, sure such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again, 'Twas the pride of my dairy, O Blarney M'Cleary,

Your sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine. I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her,

That such a misfortune should give her such pain, A kiss then I gave her, and before I did leave her,

She vow'd for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'Twas hay-making season, I can't tell the reason,

Misfortunes will never come single 'tis plain, For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster,

The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

CUSHLAMACHREE.
Dear Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises,

An emerald set in the ring of the sea;
Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart prizes,

Thou queen of the west, the world's Cushlamachree. Thy gates open wide to the poor and the stranger;

There smiles hospitality, hearty and free;
Thy friendship is seen in the moment of danger,

And the wand'rer is welcom'd with Cushlamachree.

Thy sons they are brave, but the battle once over,

In brotherly peace with their foes they agree;
And the roseate cheeks of thy daughters discover
The soul-speaking blush, that says Cushlamachree.

Then flourish for ever, my dear native Erin,

While sadly I wander, an exile from thee! And firm as thy mountains, no injury fearing,

May Heaven defend its own Cushlamachree.

THE IRISH SMUGGLERS. From Brighton two Paddies walk'd under the clif,

For pebbles and shells to explore, When, lo! a small barrel was dropp'd from a skilt,

Which floated, at length, to the shore.
Says Dermot to Pat, we the owner will bilk-

To-night we'll be merry and frisky;
I know it as well as my own mother's milk,

Dear joy, 'tis a barrel of whisky.
Says Pat, I'll soon broach it, О fortunate lot!

(Now Pat you must know, was no joker ;)
I'll go to Tom Murphy, who lives in the cot,

And borrow his kitchen hot poker. 'Twas said, and 'twas done—the barrel was bord,

(No Bacchanals ever felt prouder,) When Paddy found out a small error on board

The whisky, alas! was gunpowder.
With sudden explosion, he flew o'er the ocean,

And high in air, sported a leg;
Yet instinct prevails when philosophy fails,

So he kept a tight hold of the keg.
But Dermot bawld out, with a terrible shout,

I'm not to be chous’d, Mr. Wiseman,
If you do not come down, I'll run into the town,

And, by St. Patrick, I'll tell the exciseman,