But here I must loudly declare,
No stuff will I work but our own;
No stuff half so well suits the fair,
As the produce of Ireland alone.
To me all ye fair ones make haste,

If you wish that your country should live, 'Tis I that can please every taste,

And to each her full measure will give.

Nay, should a young lass, by mistake,
A tight pattern commit to my care,
To stretch it such pains I will take,
That I'll soon make it fit to a hair:
No cabbaging here you need dread,
I'll filch not an inch smooth or rough!
And, rather than cheat you, I'll add

A full yard of my own to your stuff.
I'm so strongly to stitching inclin❜d,
Let a customer come when she may;
Ever ready my needle she'll find,

To content her by night and by day:
I wish no exorbitant gains,

And, rather than quarrel, I swear; I'll ask no reward for my pains,

By the pleasure of pleasing the fair.

THERE'S SOMEBODY COMING.

YOUNG Roger threw Margery down on the floor,
With kissing, and palming, and thumping;
For heaven's sake, says Margery, look who's at
the door,

O curse ye, there's somebody coming.

But Roger he vow'd, he promis'd, and pray'd,
Ah Roger, you are but a humming,

I cannot believe you, says she—I'm afraid→
I'm afraid there is somebody coming.

But Roger kept kissing, and pressing and squeezing,. And at last the sly rogue fell a drumming;

Which at length prov'd to Madge so delightfullypleasing,

She car'd not if old Nick was a coming.

THE BROWN JUG.

MY temples with clusters of grapes I'll entwine,
And barter all joys for a goblet of wine,
In search of a Venus no longer I'll run,
But stop and forget her at Bacchus's tun.

Yet why thus resolve to relinquish the fair?
'Tis a folly with spirits like mine to despair.
And pray what mighty joy can be found in a glass,
-If not fill'd to the health of a favourite lass.

Tis Woman, whose joys every rapture impart,
And lends a new spring to the pulse of the heart..
The miser himself (so supreme is her sway)
Grows a convert to love, and resigns her his key.

At the sound of her voice sorrow lifts up her head,
And poverty listens well pleas'd from her shed;
Whilst age in half ecstacy hobbling along,
Beats time with his crutch to the tune of her song.

Then fill me a goblet from Bacchus's hoard,
The largest, the deepest that stands on the board:
I'll fill up a brimmer, and drink to the fair,
'Tis the thirst of a lover, then pledge who dare.

******

-THE POWER OF MUSIC.

WHEN Orpheus went down to the regions below,
Which men are forbidden to see,

He tun'd up his lyre, as old histories shew,
To set his. Euridice free.

All fell was astonished a person so wise
Should rashly endanger his life,

And venture so far but how vast their su prise!

When they heard that he came for his wife.

To find out a punishment due to his fault,
Old Pluto long puzzl'd his brain,

But hell had not torments sufficient he thought
-So he gave him his wife back again.

But pity succeeding found place in his heart,
And pleas'd with his playing so well,
He took her again in reward of his art,
Such merit had music in hell!

**

By Mr. Mathew Concanen.

I love thee, by heaven, I cannot say more,
Then set not my passion a cooling;

If thou yield'st not at once I must e'en give thee o'er,
For I am but a novice at wooing.

What my love wants in words, it shall make up in

deeds,

Then why should we waste time in stuff, child! A performance, you wot well, a promise exceeds, And a word to the wise is enough, child.

I know how to love, and to make that love known, But I hate all protesting and arguing:

Had a goddess my heart, she should e'en lie alone, If she made many words to the bargain.

I'm a quaker in love, and but barely affirm, Whate'er my fond eyes have been saying: Prithee, be thou so too: seek for no better terms, But e'en throw thy yea or thy nay in.

I cannot bear love, like a chancery suit,
The age of a patriarch depending;
Then pluck up a spirit, no longer be mute,
Give it, one way or other, an ending.

Long courtship's the vice of a phlegmatic fool,
Like the grace of fanatical sinners,

Where the stomachs are lost, and the victuals grow cool,

Before men sit down to their dinners.

THE IRISH HUNT.
Air-Sheela na guiragh.

HARK! hark! jolly sportsmen, awhile to my tale, To pay your attention I'm sure it can't fail : 'Tis of lads, and of horses, and dogs that ne'er tire, O'er stone wall and hedges, through dale, bog, and brier;

A pack of such hounds, and a set of such men, 'Tis a shrewd chance if ever you meet with again; Had Nimrod, the highest of hunters, been there, 'Fore gad he'd have shook like an aspen for fear.

In seventeen hundred and forty and four,
The fifth of December, I think 'twas no more,
At five in the morning, by most of the clocks,
We rode from Kilruddery in search of a fox;
The Laughlinstone Landlord, the bold Owen Bray,
And 'squire Adair sure was with us that day;
Joe Dibbil, 'Hal Preston, that huntsman so stout,
Dick Holmes, a few others, and so we set out.

We cast off our hounds for an hour or more,
When wanton set up a most tuneable roar;
Hark to Wanton! cried Joe, and the rest were not
slack,

For Wanton's no trifler esteem'd in the pack

Old Bony and Collier came readily in,

And every hound join'd in the musical din;

Had Diana been there she'd have been pleas'd to the life.

And one of the lads got a goddess to wife.

Ten minutes past nine was the time of the day, When Reynard broke covert, and this was his play; As strong from Killegar as though he could fear

none,

Away he brush'd round by the house of Kilternan ; To Carrickmines thence, and to Cherrywood then, Steep Shankhill he clim'd, and to Ballyman-glen; Bray-common he cross'd, leap'd Lord Anglesey's wall,

And seem'd to say little I value you all.

He ran Bushes-grove, up to Carberry-burns,
Joe Dibbil, Hal Preston kept leading by turns:
The earth it was open, but he was so stout,
Though he might have got in, yet he chose to keep
out;

To Malpas' high hill was the way then he flew,
At Dalkeystone common we had him in view;
He drove on, by Bullock, through Shrubglanagery,
And so on to Mountown, where Laury grew weary.

Through Rochestown wood like an arrow he pass'd
And came to the steep hills of Dalkey at last;
There gallantly plung'd himself into the sea,
And said in his heart, sure none dare follow me;
But soon to his cost, he perceiv'd that no bounds,
Could stop the pursuit of such high mettl'd hounds
His policy here did not serve him a rush,
Five couple of tartars were hard at his brush.

To recover the shore then again was his drift,
But, ere he could reach to the top of the clift,
He found both of speed and of canning a lack,
Being way-laid and kill'd by the rest of the pack