IRISH MOLLY. OH! who is that poor foreigner that lately came to town, And like a ghost that cannot rest still wanders up and down? A poor unhappy Scottish youth;—if more you wish to know, His heart is breaking all for love of Irish Molly O! She's modest, mild and beautiful, the fairest I have known 就 The primrose of Ireland-all blooming here alone The primrose of Ireland-for wheresoe'er I go, The only one entices me is Irish Molly Ŏ! When Molly's father heard of it, a solemn oath he swore, That if she'd wed a foreigner he'd never see her more, He sent for young Mac-Donald and he plainly told him so "I'll never give to such as you my Irish Molly O!" She's modest, &c. Mac-Donald heard the heavy news,and grievously did say "Farewell my lovely Molly-since I'm banished far away, A poor forlorn pilgrim I must wander to and fro, And all for the sake of my Irish Mol ly O! She's inodest, &c. "There is a rose in Ireland-I thought it would be mine; But now that she is lost to me, I must for ever pine, 'Till death shall come to comfort me, for to the grave I'll go; And all for the sake of my Irish Mol ly O! She's modest, &c. "And now that I am dying-this on request I crave, To place a marble tomb-stone above my humble grave, And on the stone these simple words I'd have engraven so Mac-Donald lost his life for love of Irish Molly O!" She's modest, &c. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, green, And the lark sang loud and highAnd the red was on your lip, Mary And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, "Tis but a step down yonder lane, But the graveyard lies between, Mary, I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends, But, oh! they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary, My blessin' and my pride: There's nothin' left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Your's 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, I thank you for the patient smile And you hid it, for my sake! When your heart was sad and soreOh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more. Im biddin' you a long farewell, Were it fifty times as fair. And often in those grand old woods And the springin' corn, and the bright When first you were my bride THE IRISH DRAGOON. "Oh love is the soul of an Irish Dragoon, In battle, in bivouac, or in saloonFrom the tip of his spur to his bright sabertasche. With his soldierly gait and his bearing so high, His gay laughing look, and his iight speaking eye, |