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Great love I bear to a' the fair,

Their humble slave, and a' that;
But lordly will I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.

For a' that, &c.

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,

Wi' mutual love, and a' that?
But for how lang the flie may stang,
L'et inclination law that.

For a' that, &c.

Their tricks and craft have put me daft,

They've ta’en me in, and a' that;
But clear your decks, and here's the sex,

I like the jads for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

And twice as muckle's a' that;
My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
They're welcome till’t for a' that.

So sung the bard—and Nansie's wa's
Shook wi' a thunder of applause,

Re-echo'd from each mouth;
They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn’d their duds,
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds

To quench their lowan drouth.
Then owre again the jovial thrang

The poet did request,
To low'se his pack, an’ wale a sang,
A ballad o' the best.
He, rising, rejoicing,

Between his twa Deborahs,
Looks round him, an' found them

Impatient for the chorus.

TUNE— Jolly mortals, fill your glasses.'

SEE the smoking bowl before us!

Mark our jovial, ragged ring!
Round and round take up the chorus,

And in raptures let us sing.


A fig for those by law protected!

Liberty's a glorious feast,
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.

What is title? what is treasure?

What is reputation's care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,
'Tis no matter how or where.

A fig, &c.

With the ready trick and fable,

Round we wander all the day;
And at night in barn, or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.

A fig, &c.

Does the train attended carriage

Thro’ the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?

A fig, &c.

y. Life is all a variorum,

We regard not how it goes;

Let them cant about decorum,
Who have characters to lose.

A fig, &c.

Here's to budgets, bags and wallets

Here's to all the wandering train;
Here's our ragged brats and callets!

One and all cry out amen.
A fig for those by law protected,

Liberty's a glorious feast;
Courts for cowards were erected,

Churches built to please the priest.


SMILE again, my bonnie lassie,

Lassie, smile again!
Prithee do not frown, sweet lassie,

For it gives me pain.
If to love thee too sincerely

Be a fault in me,
Thus to use me so severely
Is not kind in thee.

Smile again, &c.
Fare thee well, my bonnie lassie,

Lassie, fare thee well,
Time will show thee, bonnie lassie,

More than tongue can tell.
Tho' we're doom'd by Fate to sever,

(And 'tis hard to part,)
Still, believe me, thou shalt ever
Own thy faithful heart.

Then smile again, &c. IRISH SONGS.


PARODY ON “ Hail to the Chief..
HAIL to our chief now he's wet through with whis

Long life to the lady come from the salt seas!
Strike up blind harpers! hey to be frisky!
For what is so gay as a bag full of fleas!

Crest of O'Shaughnashane!

That's a potatoe, plain,
Long may your root every Irishman know!

Pats long have stuck to it

Long bid good luck to it;
Whack for O'Shaughnashane!-tooley whagg ho!
Ours is an esculent, lusty and lasting,

No turnip, or other weak babe of the ground;
Waxy or mealy, it hinders from fasting
Half Erin's inhabitants all the year round.

Wants the soil, where 'tis flung,

Hogs, cows, or horses' dung,
Still does the crest of O'Shaughnashane grow;

Shout for it Uulster men!

Till the bogs quake again!
Whack for O'Shaughnashane!-tooley whagg ho!
Drink, Paddies, drink! to the lady so shining!

While flow'rets shall open and bog-trotters dig,
So, long may the sweet rose of beauty be twining
Ar the potatoe of proud Blarney-gig!

While the plant vegetates,
While whiskey re-creates,

Wash down the root from the horns that o'erflow;

Shake your Shellelaghs, boys!

Screeching drunk, scream your joys!
Whack for O'Shaughnashane-tooley whagg ho!


Assist me, ye lads, who have hearts void of guile,
To sing in the praises of old Ireland's isle,
Where true hospitality opens the door,
And friendship detains us for one bottle more:
One bottle more, arrah, one bottle more,
And friendship detains us for one bottle more.
Old England your taunts on our country forbear;
With our bulls and our brogues we are true and sincere;
For if but one bottle remains in our store:
We have generous hearts to give that bottle more.

That bottle more, &c.
At Candy's, in Church-street, I'll sing of a set
Of six Irish blades who together had met:
Four bottles a-piece made us call for a score,
And nothing remained but one bottle more.

One bottle more,

&c. Our bill being paid, we were loth to depart, For friendship had grappled each man by the heart, Where the least touch, you know, makes an Irishman

roar, And the whack from shilelah brought six bottles more.

Six bottles more, &c. Slow Phæbus had shone through our window so bright, Quite happy to view his blest children of light: So we parted with hearts neither sorry nor sore, Resolving next night to drink twelve bottles more.

Twelve bottles more, &c.

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