I laid hould, took a leap, but my footing being frail,

I swung me clean over, poor Paddy O'Neil.

Tol loo, ral lal loo, &c

Up hammocks, down chests, the boatswain did bawl

There's a French ship in sight, 'tunder an' oons, is that all ?

To a gun I was station'd they uncover'd her tail,

And the leading strings gave to poor Paddy O'Neil.

The captain cries, "England and Ireland, my boys,"

When he mention'd ould Ireland, my heart made a noise;

I clapp'd fire on her back, whilst I held by her tail,

The damn'd devil flew out and threw Paddy O'Neil.

Tol loo, ral lal loo, &c.

So we leather'd away, by my soul! hob or nob,

Till the Frenchman gave up what he thought a bad job;

And we led him along like a pig in a string.

Peace now is return'd, but should war come again,

By the piper of Leinster, I'd venture a-main;

Returning I'd tell you fine folks such a tale,

That you'd laugh till you'd cry at poor Paddy O'Neil.

Tol loo, ral lal loo, &c

THE MISERIES OF SATURDAY

AIR.-Auld Lang Syne.

THERE is no peace about the house,
In kitchen, parlour, hall,
There is no comfort in the house,
On Saturday at all.

Where'er you turn, a noise assails
Of brushes, brooms, and mops;
Besides a host of pans and pails,
For various stinking slops.

Then there's rubbing, scrubbing, tear ing, swearing,

Sounding every way;

Of all the days throughout the week
The worst is Saturday.

Hark! is that dread thunder near,
Or noisy drum and fife?
O, no, the music that I hear,

Is charwoman and wife!
Both laughing, scolding, talking, singing
Gad! there's such a din,
That all Babel's workmen ringing,
Conquer'd must give in-

To their rubbing, scrubbing, tearing, swearing,

Echoing every way;

Of all the days within the week,
The worst is Saturday!

In apron blue now comes your belle,
And gown well stored with holes;
For colour, it might passing well
Claim kindred with the coals.

Then she says, "You know, my dear,
Some make their husbands rue,
By taking their good clothes to wear,
When any thing will do.

For their scrubbing, rubbing, wearing, tearing."

O, curse them all, I say ;

Of all the days throughout the week, The worst is Saturday.

www

Begrim'd with dust, with dirt, and

grease,

She now sits down to dine;

At banyan day, of bread and cheese,
You now must not repine;

Your goods and chattels, now displaced,
All in confusion stand;

Some are broke, and some defaced,
By each destructive hand,

With their rubbing, scrubbing, tearing, swearing,

Sounding every way;

Of all the days within the week,
The worst is Saturday.

At length, thank fate, the warfare's o'er,

But now, the peevish frump Insists that all across the floor We must hop, skip, and jump,

For fear the milk-white boards should soil,

Or furniture bewray:

Ah! wo to him that dares to spoil
The work of Saturday,

After rubbing, scrubbing, tearing, swear ing,

All the time away

Of all the days that nake the week,
The worst is Saturday.

Then, to avoid a din and noise,
For rational delight,

We haste to join some jolly boys
On Saturday at night;
When we're met, a jovial set,
We drive dull care away,
In harmony, we soon forget
The woes of Saturday,

And their rubbing, scrubbing, tearing swearing,

All the live-long day;

For the night of mirth will soon requite The woes of Saturday.

THE LOVING QUAKER.

AIR-Oh dear, what can the matter be

VERILY, ah! how my heart keepeth bumping,

A pendulum 'gainst my tough ribs loudly thumping,

Or a mouse in a rat trap that's to and fro jumping;

'Tis truth now by yea and by nay.