To catch a glimpse of her He play'd a thousand tricks: And he gave the wall some kicks: The devil burn the iron bolts! The devil take the door! Yet he went ev'ry day, he made it a rule; One morn she left her bed, I'm sure you'll think it right; PUT ROUND THE FULL GLASS. TUNE-" Chiling O'Guiry." PUT round the full glass-'tis the season of joy— Yes, Mirth is my goddess-I bow at her shrine- And harmony vibrate the soul-stealing string. Sit near me, my friend, for my spirit's on wing: We'll hail its fleet portions as ceaseless they pass: THE SOUL OF AN IRISHMAN. THE Soul of an Irishman centres in whisky, Though Norah be pretty, His own dearest Kitty Has smiles on her cheek That full eloquent speak, And bid his heart always be constant and kind; Through life she will bless him, Still cheer and caress him On Patrick's day in the morning. O! Ireland, thou ever-blest land in the ocean, Serving honour and thee, Wherever disclos'd, With a firmness and brav'ry that laughs at alarm; Join in innocent mirth On Patrick's day in the morning. * * This and the foregoing song are productions of the Gentleman who wrote Why weep thus dear Norah, see page 177 of this volume. Whether they will bear the Editor out in what he said of the author's poetical talents on a former occasion, must be left to the judgment of his readers. His own opinion, however, is still the same. He is still convinced that the writer of these pieces possesses all the qualities requisite to the constitution of a Poet, and that in a very high degree. Push round the full glass is a piece which, for vividness of expression, and freshness of spirit, might do honour to any poet; and The soul of an Irishman, though somewhat different in its character, is yet possess. ed of sufficient merit to do credit to its author. But whether his readers will be disposed to think as highly as himself of these pieces or not, the Editor trusts that, when they consider how many of the very best Irish airs are coupled with the most indelicate and wretched poetry, they will at least allow him the credit of having meant well in obtaining verses for a few of these airs that may be sung in any company,-verses which even the most fastidious cannot in justice wholly condemn, and which, he has no doubt, will be regarded by many as possessing merit enough to render them worthy of all acceptation. MARY LE MORE. TUNE-" Erin go Bragh." OH! soldiers of E*g***d, your merciless doings, One cold winter's eve, as poor Dermot sat musing, To their scoffs he replied not-with blows they assail'd him Indignant he rose, and his caution now fail'd him; He return'd their vile blows-now all Munster bewails him For stabb'd was the father of Mary le More! The children's wild screams, and the mother's distraction, While the husband-the father-lay stretch'd in his gore! Ah! who can describe, and not curse the vile faction She kiss'd his pale cheeks, but poor Dermot was going: From her father's pale cheeks, which her lap had supported, To an out-house the ruffians the lovely maid bore; Her pray'rs, her entreaties, her sorrows they sported, And by force they deflow'red sweet Mary le More. And now a poor maniac she roams the wild common, THE DYING FATHER TO HIS DAUGHTER. To me, my sweet Kathleen, the Benshee* has cried, This rose thou hast gather'd, and laid by my side, My days they are gone, like a tale that is told- Thou hast walk'd by my side, and my board thou hast spread, For my chair the warm corner hast found; And told my dull ear what the visitor said, When I saw that the laughter went round. Thou hast succour'd me still, and my meaning exprest When memory was lost on its way Thou hast pillow'd my head ere I laid it to restThou art weeping beside me to-day. O Kathleen, my Love! thou couldst choose the good part, And more than thy duty hast done: Go now to thy Dermot, be clasp'd to his heart, * In the Irish superstition, the Benshee is the warning spirit that announces death. |