Nay, nine or ten fine gentlemen were in the fashion caught as well,

As Ladies in their bidding for this purring piece of tortoise-shell.

The buyer bore him off in triumph, after all the fun was done,

And bells rung as if Whittingdon had been Lord Mayor of London.

Mice and Rats flung up their hats, for joy that Cats so scarce were,

And Mouse-Trap makers rais'd the price, full cent per cent I swear sir.

MRS. FLINN AND THE BOLD DRAGOON. THERE was an ancient fair, O she lov'd a nate young man,

And she cou'dn't throw sly looks at him, but only through her fan,

With her winks and blinks, this waddling minx, Her quizzing glass, her leer and sidle,

O! she lov'd a bold Dragoon, with his long sword, saddle, bridle.

Whack! row de dow, dow.

She had a rolling eye, its fellow it had none, Would you the reason know, it was, because she had but one;

With her winks and blinks, this waddling minx, She could not keep her one eye idle,

Oh, she leer'd at this Dragoon, with his long sword, &c.

Now he was tall and slim, she squab and short was

grown,

He look'd just like a mile in length, and she like a mile-stone;

With her winks and blinks, this waddling minx, Her quizzing glass, her leer, and sidle,

O, she sigh'd to this dragoon, bless your long sword, &c.

Soon he led unto the church, the beauteous Mrs.

Flinn,

Who a walnut could have crack'd 'tween her lovely nose and chin;

Oh, then such winks, in marriage links,

The four foot bride from church did sidle, As the wife of this dragoon, with his long sword, &c. A twelvemonth scarce had pass'd when he laid her in the ground,

Soon he threw the onion from his eyes, and touch'd ten thousand pound;

For her winks and blinks, her money chinks,
He does not let her cash lay idle,

So long life to this dragoon, with his long sword, saddle, bridle,

Whack! row de dow dow.

WOMEN AND WAR.

WOMEN and war alternate move,
The heart to glory and to love,
But when together both invite,
How shall we set the matter right;

When glory calls us to the field,
Honour must rule, and beauty yield,
For when Fame sounds the martial strain,
Her trumpet must not sound in vain.

Come, glory, come! and if we live,
Let us deserve what love can give.
Come, glory, come, &c.

Then merrily we'll drain the bowl,

Whilst the loud thund'ring drum shall roll,

And when we fall our comrades brave,
Shall strew the laurel on our grave.

VICTORY AND JOY.

WHEN the sun bright ascending illumines the sky,
The lark sweetly carols, while soaring on high,
The bird of the dawn gives the signal of day,
Man rises refresh'd, and all nature is gay.

So when Selim in triumph returns from the fight, And your terrors disperse like the shades of the night,

Let the mountains redouble your shouts to the vale
And echo ride forth on the wings of the gale.

Let the cymbal and clarinet burst on the ear,
And the life screams shrill, that all Afric shall hear,
Let one loyal chorus your voices employ,

And as he comes with victory, meet him with joy.

CHORUS.

All, all with loud according voices raise
A general plaudit in our monarch's praise.

***

HEYNONNI WHAT SHALL I DO.

SO careless I sat in my grandmother's bower, Singing heyhonni no to my gay tambourine, When you asked for shelter awhile from a shower, With heynonni no, sir, says I, what d'ye mean? Then so softly your vow'd, and you swore to be true, I'm asham'd to have heard you, but more sham'd

for you

To sing heynonni no, dear what shall I do?
So lightly we fled from my grandmother's gate,
But silent I carried my gay tambourine;
Too soon I repented, and found when too late,
What deceit all your false swearing promises

mean;

For now with my poor little boy 1 may go,

And play to kind mortals who soften my woe,, Heynonni, hononni, heynonni, oh!

THE WIDOW IN LOVE.

I'M sure I never can forget,

The word's you spoke when first we met,
The love your looks convey'd :
While to the minuet's gentle air,
I danc'd around that form so fair,

And thus my thoughts betray'd.
And when we join'd the lively throng,
And tript to sprightly notes along,
How happy was the scene!
Terpsichore, had she been there,
Enchanted by your grace and air,
Had sure enamour'd been.

"Then thus you danc'd, and so did I,
"While jocund music bade us fly,

"Old time could scarce keep pace;
"His scythe and glass we did not mind,
"Old Care and Time were left behind,
"Lost in the mazy race.

****

MASTER ROONEY OF BALLINAFAD'S
TRAVELS AND VOYAGE.

IN Ireland so frisky, with sweet girls and whisky,
We manag'd to keep care and sorrow aloof,
Our whirligig revels made all the blue devils
Creep out with the smoke through a hole in the
roof.

But well I remember, one foggy November,

My mother cried, Go make your fortune, my lad, Go bother the ninnies clean out of their guineas. Away then I scamper'd from Ballinafad.

Then to seek for promotion, I walk'd the wide ocean,

Was shipwreck'd and murder'd, and sold for a slave,

Over mountains and rivers was pelted to shivers, And met on this land with a wat’ry grave.

But now Mr. Jew-man has made me a new man, And whisky and Mammora make my heart glad, To sweet flowing Liffey, I'm off in a jiffey,

With a whack for Old Ireland and Ballinafad. From this cursed station, to that blessed nation, Again Master Rooney shall visit your shore, Where, O flourish so gaily, my sprig of shillelaghLong life to old Nadab of great Mogadore. O then all my cousins will run out by dozens, And out too will hobble old mammy and dad, At dinner they'll treat us with mealy potatoes, And whisky distill'd at sweet Ballinafad.

THE JEW OF MOGADORE, OR THE RIGHT
USE OF MONEY.

THAT Money will multiply care,
Philosophers foolishly teach;

'Tis a proof that their pockets are bare
When such silly maxims they preach.

It gives the sweet power to impart
What fortune denies to the brave,
It lightens the care-loaded heart,
And redeems the disconsolate slave.
My money-bags safe and secure
I hoard that the poor may partake ;
Reproach and contempt I endure,
And starve for humanity's sake.

Let them freely enjoy their abuse,
And call me a miserly elf;

I confess it but 'tis for their use
I'm a miser--and not for myself.