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Or why about war should I dram in your ears,
Or bore ye with mortars, or tall grenadiers ?
To put wine in my song I were easily able,
But isn't there plenty of that on the table ?

Tol de rol, &c.
For politic matters I care not two pins,
Nor value a button the outs and the ins ;
What's your song then about? you may cry, in a huff:
Why, I answer, I think, 'tis—About long enough.

Tul de rol, &c.

THE CHUMMY'S WEDDING. If you listen to me, I'll sing of a spree

Which happened a week or two back, Concerning a gal, named carotty Sal,

And a chummy called bandy-legged Jack. The parish began to find out

She brought 'em too many to keep, So agreed to come down with four or five pounds, To portion her off to a sweep.

Tol, lol, &c. To have a grand rout Jack toddled about,

And invited the whole of his pals ;
He made it all right for a fiddle at night,

'Cause he knew ther'd be plenty of gals. He provided plenty of grub,

With gatter and max beside ;
And chaunting Bill, of Saffron Hill,
Agreed to stand dad to the bride.

Tol, lol, &c. At last came the day, they were drest out so gay,

Jack sported his velveteens ; Sal borrowed a dress that was worn by fat Bess,

When she capered to Jack on the green.

The clergyman joined their hands,

And made only one of them both ;
He settled the job without charging a bob,
Cause he saw he was one of the cloth!

Tol, lol, &c. Then homeward they went, on punishment bent,

And swore they'd pitch into the grub; There was lots of scran in a large brown pan,

And leg of beef soup in a tub!
Jack praised the cuttings of tripe

While shoving it into his croop,
And all swore, to a man, that as how Mr. Can
Never made such a kettle of soup.

Tol, lol, &c. The dinner being done, the lushing began,

Gin went round, north, east, west, and south ; No glasses they'd got, so they swigged from the pot,

And they took it by word of mouth. The fiddler struck up for a hop,

While seated atop of the trunk ; But not one of the batch could come up to the scratch, They were all so infernally drunk.

Tol, lol, &c. At last the lot so lushy had got,

They neither could stand nor go ;
The women did howl, the men they did growl,

It was just like a wild beast show.
And Jack couldn't put them to bed,

'Cause the devil a one he had got, So they rolled off in pairs, down the dark cellar stairs, And wallowed all night in the soot.

Tol, lol, &c.

THE BOATIE ROWS.

O WEEL may the boatie row,

And better may she speed,

And liesome may the boatie row,

That wins the bairns' bread. The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed ; And weel may the boatie row,

That wins my bairns' bread. I coost my line in Largo Bay,

And fishes I catch'd nine ; There was three to boil, and three to fry, | And three to bait the line. The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed, And happy be the lot o'a'

Wha wishes her to speed.
O weel may the boatie row,

That fills a heavy creel,
And cleeds us a' frae tap to tae,

And buys our parritch meal.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed,
And happy be the lot of o'a',

That wish the boatie speed.
When Jamie vow'd he wad be mine,

And wan frae me my heart,
O muckle lighter grew my creel ;

He swore we'd never part.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel,
And muckle lighter is the load,

When love bears up the creel.
My kurtch I put upo' my head,

And dress'd mysel'fu' braw ;
I trow my heart was dough and wae,

When Jamie gade awa'.
But weel may the boatie row,

And lucky be her part,
And lightsome be the lassie's care,

That yields an honest heart.

When Sawney, Jock, and Janetie,
Are
up,

and gotten lear,
They'll help to gar the boatie row,

And lighten a' our care.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel,
And lightsome be her heart that bears,

The murlain and the creel.
And when wi' age we're worn down,

And hirpling round the door,
They'll row to keep us dry and warm,

As we did them before.
Then weel may the boatie row,

She wins the bairns' bread :
And happy be the lot o' a',

That wish the boatie speed.

THE SOLDIER KNOWS THAT EVERY BALL

The soldier knows that every ball

A certain billet bears,
And whether doomed to rise or fall,

Dishonour's all he fears,
To serve his country is his plan,

Unawed or undismayed ;
He fights her battles like a man,

And by her thanks he's paid.
To foreign climes he cheerly goes,

By duty only driven ;
And if he fall, his country knows

For whom the blow was given.
Recorded on the front of day,

The warrior's deeds appear ;
For him the poet breathes his lay

The virgin sheds her tear.

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.

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