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And fortunes they all had galore,
To the clerk of the Crown,
But so modest was Mistress Malone,
'T was known
They could ne'er catch her eye,
Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare,
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,
“Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone,
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
There 's a moral contained in my song,
Learn to kiss, not to sigh;
Lament of the Irish Emigrant.
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side,
When first you were my bride;
And the lark sang loud and high;
And the love-light in your eye.
The day is bright as then;
And the corn is green again;
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
You never more will speak.
'T is but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
I see the spire from here.
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!
My blessin' and my pride:
Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
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;
When your heart was sad and sore,
Where grief can't reach you more!
I 'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary, kind and true!
In the land I'm goin' to;
And the sun shines always there,
Were it fifty times as fair !
THE HAPPY LAND.
And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
To the place where Mary lies;
Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.
The Happy Land.
There is a happy land,
Far, far away,
Bright, bright as day.
Praise, praise for aye.
Come to this happy land
Come, come away;
Why still delay?
Blest, blest for aye.
Bright in that happy land
Beams every eye:
Love cannot die.
A JOLLY fat friar loved liquor good store,
And he had drunk stoutly at supper;
And sat with his face to the crupper. “Some rogue," quoth the friar, " quite dead to remorse,
Some thief, whom a halter will throttle,
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;
But to drink with their tails is amazing!”
In the pond fell this son of a pottle;
Were she Goes—and There she goes.
Two Yankee wags, one summer day,