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5.
The pewter he lifted in sport,

(Believe me I tell you no fable,)
A gallon he drank from the quart,

And then planted it full on the table.
“ A miracle !" every one said,

And they all took a hawl at the stingo,
They were capital hands at the trade,
And drank 'till they fell ; yet, by jingo!
The pot still frothed over the brim.

6.
Next day, quoth his host, “ 'Tis a fast,

But I've nought in my larder but mutton,
And on Fridays who'd make such repast,

Except an unchristian-like glutton."
Says Pat, “ Cease your nonsense, I beg,
What

you

tell me is nothing but gammon;
Take my compliments down to the leg,
And bid it come hither a salmon !”
And the leg most politely complied.

7.
You've heard, I suppose, long ago,

How the snakes, in a manner most antic,
He march'd to the County Mayo,

And trundled them into th' Atlantic.
Hence not to use water for drink

The people of Ireland determine;
With mighty good reason, I think,
Since St Patrick has fill'd it with vermin,
And vipers, and other such stuff.

8.
O! he was an elegant blade,

As you'd meet from Fair Head to Kilcrumper,
And though under the sod he is laid,

Yet here goes his health in a bumper !
I wish he was here, that my glass

He might by art magic replenish;
But as he is not, why, alas !
My ditty must come to a finish

Because all the liquor is out!

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SONG II.

LAMENT OF A CONNAUGHT RANGER.

Air.-Lamentation over Sir Dan. ith the melancholy expression of days gone by.

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I wish to St Patrick we had a new war, I'd not care who 'twas

with, nor what it was for; With the French, or the Yankees, or,

better again, With the yellow mulattoes of Lisbon or Spain.

1.
I wish to St Patrick we had a new war,
I'd not care who 'twas with, no, nor what it was for :
With the French or the Yankees-or better again,
With the yellow Mulattoes of Lisbon or Spain !

2.
My heart is half broke when I think of the fun
We had before Boney, poor fellow, was done;
Oh ! 'twas I who was sore when I heard he was dead,
For I thought on the days when he got me good bread.

3.
When he, who, God rest him ! was never afraid,
Sir Thomas,* commanded the FIGHTING BRIGADE ;
And the Rangers of Connaught—to see them was life
Made game of the Frenchmen, andt gave 'em the knife.

When abroad and at home we had sport and content-
Who cared then a damn for tythe, taxes, or rent ?
When each dashing fine fellow, who wish'd to enlist,
Might be off to the wars with his gun in his fist.

5.
Now the landlord is bother'd, and tenant bereft-
The soldier's discharged,--and the sailor adrift-
Half-pays to our captains poor living afford,
And the Duke is no more than a Government Lord !

6.
And our active light-bobs, and our bold grenadiers,
Must dirty their fingers with plough, loom, or sheers;
Or if just out of fun, we should venture a snap
At no more than a proctor, we're thrown into trap.

7.
So bad luck to the minute that brought us the peace,
For it almost has ground the nose out of our face;
And I wish to St Patrick we had a new war,
Och! no matter with whom, no, nor what it was for!

SONG III.
RAFFERTY'S ADVICE.
AIR,_Limerick Glove.

With uproarious jollity.

Wheny

you go courting a neat or a dainty lass, Don't you be sighing, er

rea - dy to faint, a-las! Little she'd care for such pluckless philandering,

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Sir T. Picton, who commanded the 4th division in the Peninsular War. It chiefly composed of Irishmen, and was called the “ fighting division,”

from its conser activity in engaging. The Connaught Rangers, (the 88th,) was one regiment of stre most dashing brigade ; and many a saying of Sir T's. is treasured up by there, fer was a great favourite from his gallant habits.

+ A common phrase among the Irish soldiery for charging with the bayonet.

And to Old Nick she would send you a-wandering. But, you thief, you

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you, sir.

rogue, you rapperee, Arrah, have at her like Paddy O'Raf-fer-ty.

1.
When you go courting a neat or a dainty lass,
Don't

you be sighing or ready to faint, alas !
Little she'd care for such pluckless philandering,
And to Old Nick she would send you a wandering.

But

you thief, you rogue, you rapparee !
Arrah, have at her like Paddy O'Rafferty.

2.
Tip her the wink, and take hold of the fist of her ;
Kiss her before she'd have time to say Christopher ;
She may cry out, “ You're an impudent fellow, sir !"
But her

eye
will unsay
what her tongue

it
may

tell
Oh you thief, you rogue, you rapparee,
You're a devil of a fellow, Paddy O'Rafferty.

3.
Give her another, or rather a score of 'em,
Still you will find her ready for more of 'em ;
Press her, caress her, my dear, like a stylish man,
For that is the way to go court like an Irishman.

Oh
you,

&c.

4.
Pitch to the devil sighings and “well-a-days,"
Oglings and singing of piperly melodies ;
When in your arms you fairly have got her, sir,
Her heart it will melt like a lump of fresh butter, sir !

Oh

5.
Oh the dear creatures-sure I am kill'd with 'em !
My heart, was it big as the sea, would be fill’d with 'em ;
Far have I truff’d it, and surely where'er I went,
'Twas with the girls I had fun and merriment.

Oh you, &c.

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you, &c.

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JERRY MAHONY, arrah, my jewel, Come let us be off to the

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fair, For the Donovans, all in their glory, Most certainly mean to be

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out clear and clean;". But it ne - ver was yet in their breeches, their's

bull - a - boo words to maintain.

1.
JERRY Mahony,* arrah, my jewel, come, let us be off to the fair,
For the Donovans all in their glory most certainly mean to be there ;
Says they, “ The whole Mahony faction we'll banish 'em out clear and clean."
But it never was yet in their breeches, their bullaboo words to maintain.

2.
There's Darby to head us, and Barney, as civil a man as yet spoke,
'Twould make your mouth water to see him, just giving a bit of a stroke;

There's Corney, the bandy-legg'd tailor, a boy of the true sort of stuff,
Who'd fight though the black blood was flowing like butter-milk out of his buff.

3.
There's broken-nosed Bat from the mountain- last week he burst out of the jail,
And Murty the beautifult Tory, who'd scorn in a row to turn tail ;
Bloody Bill will be there like a darling, and Jerry, och ! let him alone,
For giving his blackthorn a flourish, or lifting a lump of a stone.

4.
And Tim, who served in the militia, his bayonet has stuck on a pole ;
Foxy Dick has his scythe in good order, a reat sort of tool on the whole;
A cudgel, I see, is your weapon, and never I knew it to fail,
But I think that a man is more handy, who fights as I do with a flail.

5.
We muster a hundred shillelahs, all handled by elegant men,
Who batter'd the Donovans often, and now will go do it again;
To-day we will teach them some manners, and shew that, in spite of their talk,
We still, like our fathers before us, are surely the cocks of the walk.

6.
After cutting out work for the sexton, by smashing a dozen or so,
We'll quit in the utmost of splendour, and down to Peg Slattery's go;
In gallons we'll wash down the battle, and drink to the next merry day,
When must'ring again in a body, we all shall go leathering away.

Song V.
A real Irish"

Fly not yet.
[Tune,

-Lillibullero. Time, four o'clock in the morning, or thereabouts. ] Solo.

1

Hark! hark ! from be-low, The ras- cal - ly row Of watchmen in cho-rus * De voce ăça Videndi Valck. ad Eurip. Hipp. p. 306. Herm. ad Vig. p. 708. Heind. ad Plat. Crat. p. 19. Græcique Grammatici passim. C.I.B. + Tory, in Ireland, is a kind of pet name.“ Oh! you Tory," is the same as,

“Oh! you rogue,” used sportively. If a man wishes to call another a rogue seriously, he calls him, Whig--the terms being convertible.

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Ulti

says, it's

| loitering by my strip of land in the

lics. Blotted, and corrected, as above.

THE HOP GROUND.
Introductory lelter from Mr JACOB Asupole, Hopgrower, to the Editor. *
SIR,

sure he called them sonnets, though I hand you (1) four sonnets about Thomson and Bloomfield, who divide Hops, by desire of Mr (rabbit it, their poems by the four quarters of the I almost popt out his name,) but you year,don't call theirs by any such name) are to call him R. or Mr R. or else no- but, bless my heart ! to call them a

thing at all, just as you like to take full account of all that is done with us to your choice. They were writ to plea- from spring to winter is a fine take-in.

sure me, for I was tired to death of I civilly pointed out to him, that there finding your authors of poems, and was a world of hop-work left out, but epics, and ballads, and cantos, and got nothing but a flea in the ear by it,

acrostics, and sketches, and operas, and for he mumbled something, that “ a more lyrics, and other sorts of verses, of which few discriminating marks were suffi

I don't know one from t'other, not I, eient for the purposes of poetry.” A though my daughters read a mort of word in your ear,-friend R. has a them to me. I was tired, I say, of find- very good opinion of himself; try to ing the poets always harping upon the make him hear reason, and he'll turn same old story. Hundreds and hun- as stunt as a mule, and you may as dreds

constantly go sowing and mow- well endeavour to make a hop-plant sing, and reaping, and threshing into curl round the pole, from right to left,

verse; but not a soul, as I ever heard (which, you know, it never will do) tell, (2) ever came into our hop-grounds as get him to alter a word in his ver

to sing a song about them—and why ses, when he draws up and y has should'nt they, just as well? My girls all right as it is. Now you'll see that

have got a good many poems and pock- he ha'n't said a syllable about putting et-books, and among'em there's Thom- plenty of compost on the land, though son's Seasons, and Burns the Plough. I should like to know what sort of man's

poems, (which are very badly plants he'd get without it. Not a word spelt,) and Bloomfield's Farmer's Boy'; about becking the earth well--not a so I made 'em look 'em all well over, direction about the time for fixing the to see if there was anything about hop- poles; for, d’ye think we set on our planting anywhere in them, but not a fellows to work, when we first see a word about it turned up. Indeed, I cloud and a rain-bow in spring-time, don't remember hearing a hist on the as he seems to reckon that we do? subject when the girls have been read. Then who'd guess that in summer we i ing their books out loud to me of an pay women to tie fast the runners to evening ; but then at those times I am the poles at three different heights ? apt to take a nap, for the regular sound 'Ad whip it, now I know what a son. of poetry is very composing. So I net is, if I didn't think his poetship, plucked up spirit one day, and asked Mr R., would be offended, I would a certain person (never mind who try if I couldn't make something of he is a shy cock-set down, R.--that this “ discriminating mark” myself

. must serve instead of a name)—well

, Is this anything in the right style ? I asked him once, when I saw him At first they stoop, and those who can't

well bend Parkside grounds, whether he couldn't

Get a sad crick o' the back. But at midmake a rhyme or two on the hop-pick

height ing. He rather caught at the hint, and

The tie is easier made, they stand upsaid he'd give it a thought, and at last But for the third, 'tis needful to ascend

right. brought (3) these four sonnets (I am

A pair of steps, the bines so high extend. some VARIATIONs in the M.S. letter, noticed by a critical printer's devil , with a few NOTES,

by the same claw.

“ I hand you four pockets of hops, per order of”--the words in ita(2) Mr A. is wrong. - Chr. Smart wrote a didactic poem, entitled the Hop-garden. (3) Here the words “ Nos. 14, as per bill of parcels," were dashed out.

1

• We subjoin

(1) Originally,

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