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And fortunes they all had galore,

In store;
From the minister down

To the clerk of the Crown,
All were courting the Widow Malone,

Ohone!
All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mistress Malone,

'T was known
That no one could see her alone,

Ohone!
Let them ogle and sigh,

They could ne'er catch her eye,
So bashful the Widow Malone,

Ohone!
So bashful the Widow Malone.

Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare,

(How quare!
It 's little for blushing they care

Down there)
Put his arm round her waist,-

Gave ten kisses at laste,“O,” says he, "you 're my Molly Malone,

My own!” O," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone."

And the widow they all thought so shy,

My eye!
Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, —

For why?
But, “Lucius,” says she,

“Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone,

Ohone!
You may marry your Mary Malone.”

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

155

There 's a moral contained in my song,

Not wrong;
And one comfort, it 's not very long,

But strong:
If for widows you die,

Learn to kiss, not to sigh;
For they 're all like sweet Mistress Malone,

Ohone!
O, they 're all like sweet Mistress Malone.

CHARLES LEVER.

Lament of the Irish Emigrant.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May mornin' long ago,

When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,

And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,

And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary;

The day is bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,

And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep list'nin' for the words

You never more will speak.

'T is but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary;

I see the spire from here.
But the grave-yard lies between, Mary,

And my step might break your rest,

For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep,

With your baby on your breast.

I 'm very lonely now, Mary

For the poor make no new friends; But, O, they love the better still

The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,

My blessin' and my pride:
There 's nothing left to care for now,

Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your brow, I bless you, Mary, for that same,

Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile

When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,

And you hid it for my sake;
I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore,
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,

Where grief can't reach you more!

I 'm biddin' you a long farewell,

My Mary, kind and true!
But I 'll not forget you, darling,

In the land I'm goin' to;
They say there 's bread and work for all,

And the sun shines always there,
But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair !

THE HAPPY LAND.

157

And often in those grand old woods

I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again

To the place where Mary lies;
And I 'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

LADY DUFFERIN.

The Happy Land.

There is a happy land,

Far, far away,
Where saints in glory stand,

Bright, bright as day.
Oh, how they sweetly sing,
Worthy is our Saviour King;
Loud let his praises ring-

Praise, praise for aye.

Come to this happy land

Come, come away;
Why will ye doubting stand-

Why still delay?
Oh, we shall happy be,
When, from sin and sorrow free,
Lord, we shall live with thee-

Blest, blest for aye.

Bright in that happy land

Beams every eye:
Kept by a Father's hand,

Love cannot die.
On then to glory run;
Be a crown and kingdom won;
And bright above the sun,
Reign, reign for aye.

ANDREW YOUNG.

Gluggity Glug.

A JOLLY fat friar loved liquor good store,

And he had drunk stoutly at supper;
He mounted his horse in the night at the door,

And sat with his face to the crupper. “Some rogue," quoth the friar, " quite dead to remorse,

Some thief, whom a halter will throttle,
Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse,
While I was engaged at the bottle,

Which went gluggity, gluggity-glug-glug-glug."

The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale,

’T was the friar's road home, straight and level; But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail,

So he scampered due north like a devil. “ This new mode of docking," the friar then said,

“I perceive does n't make a horse trot ill; “And 't is cheap, for he never can eat off his head While I am engaged at the bottle,

Which goes gluggity, gluggity-glug-glug-glug."

The steed made a stop--in a pond he had got,

He was rather for drinking than grazing;
Quoth the friar, “'T is strange headless horses should trot,

But to drink with their tails is amazing!”
Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose,

In the pond fell this son of a pottle;
Quoth he, “ The head 's found, for I 'm under his nose, –
I wish I were over a bottle,
Which goes gluggity, gluggity-glug--glug-glug.”

ANONYMOUS.

Were she Goes—and There she goes.

Two Yankee wags, one summer day,
Stopped at a tavern on their way;

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