Thus nerv'd, the thunder of their arms,
Would teach aspiring foes,
How vain the power that defies
The bonnie English rose.
The bonnie English rose,
The bonnie English rose,
How vain the power that defies
The bonnie English rose.
HARK, THE BONNIE CHRIST CHURCH BELLS.
HARK, the bonnie Christ Church bells,
One, two, three, four, five, six;
They sound so great, so wondrous sweet,
And they troll so merrily, merrily.
Hark, the first and second bell,
That every day at four and ten,
Cries, come, come, come, come, come to prayers,
And the verger trips before the dean.
Tingle, tingle, ting, goes the small bell at nine,
To call the bearers home;
But there's ne'er a man will leave his can
Till he hears the mighty tom.
THE BOYS OF KILKENNY.
OH! the boys of Kilkenny are brave roaring blades,
And if ever they meet with the nice little maids,
They'll kiss them, and coax them, and spend their
money free,
And of all towns in Ireland, Kilkenny for me.
And of all towns, &c.
In the town of Kilkenny there runs a clear stream,
In the town of Kilkenny there lives a pretty dame,
Her cheeks are like roses, her lips much the same,
Like a dish of fresh strawberries smother'd in cream.
Fal de ral, &c.
Her eyes are as black as Kilkenny's black coal,
Which through my poor bosom have burn'd a big hole;
Her mind, like its rivers, is mild, clear, and pure,
But her heart is more hard than its marble I'm sure.
Fal de ral, &c.
Kilkenny's a pretty town, and shines where it stands,
And the more I think on it, the more my heart warms;
For if I was in Kilkenny I'd think myself at home,
For its there I'd get sweethearts, but here I get none.
Fal de ral, &c.
THE DEAREST, SWEETEST SPOT IS HOME.
I'VE wandered through that Indian land,
Where Nature wears her richest hue;
I've stood upon the Grecian strand,
And gazed upon the waters blue:
I've strayed beneath a myrtle grove,
On Arno's banks, when day has set,
And heard the Italian's song of love
Come softly from his gondolet:
But still, though far and wide we roam,
The sweetest, dearest spot, is home.
The gaudy plants of tropic skies,
Though bright the tints in which they bloom,
Though decked in Beauty's proudest dyes,
Are yet divested of perfume.
One wild rose of my native vale,
The jessamine round my cottage twined,
That waft their fragrance on the gale,
Have charms far dearer to my mind;
For still, though far and wide we roam,
The sweetest, dearest spot, is home.
TIME CANNOT CHANGE MY LOVE.
TIME cannot change my love for thee;
For when, in age, thy step I hear,
Though feeble, yet, my love, 'twill be
Sweet music to thy Laura's ear!
When those love-darting eyes shall fade,
That now thy inmost thoughts express,
And silver those bright ringlets shade,
Ah! think not that I love thee less.
And when, at last, we're doomed to lay,
Mid kindred dust, our aged heads,
O'er us shall cheering sun-beams play,
And one tree shade our narrow beds!
And as the winds of heaven strew
Its flowrets o'er that bed of thine,
Ere they, my love, can fall on you,
They'll shed their trembling leaves on mine.
THE CORK LEG.
A TALE I tell now without any flam,
In Holland dwelt Mynheer Von Clam,
Who every morning said-I am
The richest merchant in Rotterdam.
Ri too ral, loo ral, &c.
One day he had stuff'd till full as an egg,
When a poor relation came to beg,
But he kicked him out without broaching a keg,
And in kicking him out, he broke his own leg.
A surgeon, the first in his vocation,
Came and made a long oration;
He wanted a limb for anatomization,
So finished his jaw by amputation.
Said Mynheer, when he'd done his work,
By your knife I lose one fork,
But upon crutches I'll never stalk,
For I'll have a beautiful leg of cork."
Ri too ral, loo ral, &c.
An artist in Rotterdam 'twould seem,
Had made cork legs his study and theme,
Each joint was as strong as an iron beam.
The springs a compound of clock-work and steam.
Ri too ral, loo ral, &c.
The leg was made and fitted right,
Inspection the artist did invite,
The fine shape gave Mynheer delight,
As he fixed it on and screwed it tight.
Ri too ral, loo ral, &c.
He walked through squares, and past each shop, Of speed he went to the very top;
Each step he took with a bound and a hop,
And he found his leg he couldn't stop.
Horror and fright were in his face,
The neighbours thought he was running a race! He clung to a post to stay his pace,
But the leg remorseless kept up the chase.
Ri too ral, loo ral, &c.
Then he called to some men with all his might,
"Oh, stop me, or I'm murdered quite !"
But though they heard him aid invite,
He in less than a minute was out of sight.
He ran o'er hill, and dale, and plain,
To ease his weary bones he fain
Did throw himself down, but all in vain,
The leg got up and was off again.
Ri too ral, loo ral, &c.
He walked of days and nights a score,
Of Europe he had made the tour,
He died-but though he was no more,
The leg walked on the same as before.
Ri too ral, loo ral, &c.
In Holland sometimes he comes in sight,
A skeleton on a cork leg tight.
No cash did the artist's skill requite,
He never was paid, and it served him right.
My tale I've told both plain and free,
Of the richest merchant that could be:
Who never was buried though dead, we see,
And I have been singing his L. E. G.
THE cloth taken out, and fresh liquor brought in,
You ask for a song, and expect I'll begin ;
When a man's once knock'd down there's no saying
He may sing if he likes, and he must if he don't.
That point being settled, I come to the next,
And now, like the parson, I look for my text;
For, in writing a song, 'tis as well, without doubt,
To be able to tell what the ditty's about.
Should my song treat of physic, you'll call it a pill—
And ask, can I think such good company ill;
Should I sing about law, 'twould your patience offend,
For with that once begin, you'll ne'er find an end.
Tol de rol, &c.
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