So my father, poor man! was first drown'd,

Then shipwreck'd in sailing from Cork, But my mother-she got safe to land,

And a whisky-shop opened in York. Just a year after father was dead

One night about five i' the morn, An odd accident happen'd to me,

For 'twas then that myself was first born; All this l've been tould by my mammy,

And surely she'll not tell me wrong, But I don't remember nought of it,

'Caze it happen'd when I were quite young, On the very same day, the next year,

(For so ran the story of mother,) The same accident happen'd again,

But not to me then, that were brother;
So 'twas settled by ould Father Luke,

Who dissolv'd all our family sins,
As we both were born on the same day,

That we certainly must have been twins. 'Twas agreed I should not go to school,

As learning I never should want; Nor would they e'en teach me to read,

For my genus they said it would cramp; Now this genus of mine, where it lay

Do but listen a while and you'll hear'Twas in drawing—not landscapes and pictures;

No-mine were for drawing of beer.
Some with only one genus are blest,

But I, it appears, had got two,
For when I had drawn off some beer,

I'd a genus for drinking it too:
At last I was drawn up to town,

Without in my pocket a farden, But since I've earn’d many a crown,

By the shop here in sweet Common Garden:

Now the end of my song's drawing near,

PU tell ye-but that's nothing new,
Now all my ambition's to try,

And to do what I can to draw you:
In which, if I do but succeed,

And my efforts beguile you of pain,
I entreat you'll not wait to be ask'd

To come often and see me again.

AWAKE THE HARP'S SLUMBER.

Tune—“ Save me from death."
AWAKE the harp's slumber to pleasure's soft lay,

The taper shall dart its beams thro' the hall; From the tempest of war, and the battle's loud bray,

We'll dearly obey mirth's heart thrilling call. Ah! change the light strain! bid the sorrow arise, To the ghost of each warrior, as pensive it flies;

To triumph or death

They strode o'er the heath,
And sweet is the sleep that encircles their eyes.

On the breast of the brave melting beauty shall cling

And nobly for him the goblet be crown'd; The feast shall be spread, and the harp's throbbing string

Shall stream to his praise its magic around. Oh! blest is the effort, and light is the toil, When we raise the bright spear for our dear native soil!

To triumph or death

We stride o'er the heath,
To fight for our country, or die with a smile.

SHEPHERDS, I HAVE LOST MY LOVE.

TUNE—" The Banks of Banna.”
SHEPHERDS, I have lost my love,

Have you seen my Anna,
Pride of ev'ry shady grove,

Upon the banks of Banna?
I for her my home forsook,

Near yon misty mountain,
Left my flock, my pipe, my crook,

Greenwood shade, and fountain.

Never shall I see them more,

Until her returning;
All the joys of life are o'er,

From gladness chang'd to mourning.
Whither is my charmer flown?

Shepherds, tell me whither:
Ah, woe for me! perhaps she's gone

For ever, and for ever,

DARBY M-SHANE'S VISIT TO LONDON.

TUNE_" Sprig of Shillelah.”
With a dozen thirteeners in a nice paper bag,
I came up to London without a dry rag,

On a fine summer's day in a shower of rain;
But all that I saw I thought devilish queer;
At a place call’d Cheapside they sell ev'ry thing dear;
I went to Cornhill, where I look'd like an ape,
And as I came over the harvest to rape,
Och, there was no harvest for Darby M‘Shane.

What a comfort it was that my patience was proof, When I met with a coach without ever a roof,

Full of ladies, who titter'd at Darby M'Shane; I wanted to go to St Giles's that day, So I axed the coachman to show me the way, And offer'd to trate him-but sharp was the word, The man on the coach-box I found was a Lord;

There was fine botheration for Darby M‘Shane.

In a shop full of pictures I stopp'd for to stare, When a thief pick'd my pocket, and faith he took care

To lave not a copper for Darby M'Shane. But a beautiful crature, to soften my grief, Fell in love with my person it was my belief; But when she found out that my cash was all flow, Och hone! to be sure how she alter'd her tone,

And swore like a trooper at Darby M‘Shane.

Then a gentleman meeting a lady so gay,
He wish'd her good morning at four in the day;

O, that can't be grammar, said Darby M‘Shane.
Talk of blunders in Ireland, its only a hum,
When such plenty are found if to England you come:
English-bulls too you'll find; but, in troth to be briet,
They're not half so good as your English roast beef,

Oh, that don't offend Mr. Darby M'Shane. But tho’ English fashions we don't understand, While pace and good harmony reigns in this land,

You'll near hear a murmur from Darby MʻShane. May England ne'er want the brave boys of the sod, To carry the musket or carry the hod; As for Ireland, where wholesome shillelah does grow, There the devil himself, in the shape of a foe,

Would get dacently leather'd by Darby M'Shane

SWIFT FLY THE HOURS.

TUNE_" Open the door softly.” SWIFT fly the hours, when in youth's happy day,

Love and wine wreath the garland of pleasure;
Mirth on our brow sheds its fostering ray,
And life is a bountiful treasure.

Oh! swift fly, &c.
Dear to our hearts is the magical chord

That vibrates to Sympathy's finger;
Fondly we hang on a sigh or a word,

And, 'raptur’d, by beauty we linger.
- Oh! dear to our hearts, &c.
Sweet is the time when in union of soul

Each cheek with a smile is enlighten'd:
Care flies abash'd from the vine-blushing bowly
Each eye by good humour is brighten'd.

Oh! sweet is the time, &c.

SMALILOU.
THERE was an Irish lad,

Who lov'd a cloister'd nun,
And it made him very sad,

For what was to be done.
He thought it was a big shame,
· A most confounded sin,
That she could not get out at all,

And he could not get in:
Yet he went ev'ry day, he could do nothing more;
Yet he went ev'ry day unto the convent door,

And he sung sweetly,
Smalilou, smalilou, smalilou;
And he sung sweetly,
Smalilou, gramachree, and Paddy Whack.