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MY ULICK.

CHARLES J. KICKHAM.

MY ULICK is sturdy and strong,

And light is his foot on the heather,
And truth has been wed to his tongue
Since first we were talking together.
And though he is lord of no lands,

Nor castle, nor cattle, nor dairy,
My Ulick has health and his hands,
And a heart-load of love for his Mary,

And what could a maiden wish more?

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I mind it was snowing and blowing,My mother was knitting, I b'leeve,

For me I was sitting and sewing;

My father had read o'er the news,

And sat there a humming, "We'll wake him," When Ulick stepped in at the door,

As white as the weather could make him:

True love never cooled with the frost.

He shook the snow out from his frieze,
And drew a chair up to my father,
My heart lifted up to my eyes

To see the two sitting together;
They talked of our isle and her wrongs

Till both were as mad as starvation:

Then Ulick sang three or four songs,

And closed with "Hurra for the Nation!”.

O, Ulick, an Irishman still!

My father took him by the hand,

Their hearts melted into each other;
While tears that she could not command
Broke loose from the eyes of my mother.
"Ah, Freedom!" she cried, "wirra sthrue,
A woman can say little in it;

But were it to come by you two,

I've a guess at the way you would win it, -
It would not be by weeping, I swear."

THE IRISH GRANDMOTHER.

The following spirited ballad made its appearance during the agitation and distress of the winter of 1879. It was first published in the Dublin Nation over the signature In Fide Fortis, and afterward printed as a street ballad.

PADDY agra, run down to the bog, for my limbs are beginning to tire,

And see if there's ever a sod at all that 's dry enough for a

fire:

God be praised! it's terrible times, and granny is weak and

old,

And the praties black as the winter's face, and the nights so dark and cold!

It's many a day since I seen the like, but I did one, Pat,

asthore,

And I prayed to God on my bended knees I might never see it more.

'Twas the year before the Risin' of Smith O'Brien, you

know,

Thirty-two years ago, Paddy, -thirty-two years ago.

Your grandfather

God rest his soul!

went out with the

boys to fight;

For the bailiffs came with the crowbars, and the sickness came with the blight,

An' he said it was better to die like a man, though he held but a rusty pike,

Than starve on the roadside, beggin' for food, an' be thrown like a dog in the dike.

Ochone, ochone! it's a sorrowful tale, but listen afore you

go,

For Tim he never came back to me, but I'll see him soon, I

know.

Tim Ryan he held a decent farm in the glen o' Cahir

more,

And he tilled the lands the Ryans owned two hundred years

before;

An' it's many a time, by the blazing fire, I heard from the priest, Father John

(He was my husband's cousin, agra, and he lived to be ninety-one),

That the Ryans were chiefs of the country round till Cromwell, the villain, came,

And battered the walls of the castle and set all the houses

aflame;

He came an' he stabled his horses in the abbey of St. Col

umkille,

An' the mark of his murderin' cannon you may see on the old wall still.

An' he planted a common trooper where the Ryans were

chieftains of yore,

An' that was the first o' the breed of him that 's now Lord Cahirmore.

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His father was shot in '98 as he stood in the chapel door; His grandfather was the strongest man in the parish of Cahirmore;

An' thin there was Donough, Donal More, and Turlough on

the roll,

An' Kian, boy, that lost the lands because he'd save his

soul.

Ochone, machree, but the night is cold, and the hunger in your face.

Hard times are comin', avic! God help us with his grace! Three years before the famine came the agent raised the

rent,

But then there was many a helpin' hand, and we struggled

on content.

Ochone, ochone! we're lonely now,

sore,

now that our need is

For there's none but good Father Mahony that ever comes

inside our door.

God bless him for the food he brings an' the blankets that keep us warm!

God bless him for his holy words that shelter us from harm!

This is the month an' the day, Paddy, that my own colleen

went,

She died on the roadside, Paddy, when we were drove out for the rent;

An' it's well that I remember how she turned to me an' cried,

"There's never a pain that may n't be a gain," and crossed herself and died.

For the Soupers were there with shelter and food if we'd only tell the lie,

But they fled like the wicked things they were when they saw poor Kathleen die.

-

She's prayin' for all of us now, Paddy, her blessing I know she's givin'!

An' they that have little here below have much, asthore, in heaven!

BELLEWSTOWN RACES.

This street ballad has much more finish and humor than most, but is a genuine one.

If a respite ye 'd borrow from turmoil or sorrow,

I'll tell you the secret of how it is done;

"T is found in this version of all the diversion
That Bellewstown knows when the races comes on.
Make one of a party whose spirits are hearty,
Get a seat on a trap that is safe not to spill,
In its well pack a hamper, then off for a scamper,
And hurroo for the glories of Bellewstown Hill!

On the road how they dash on, rank, beauty, and fashion! It Banagher bangs by the table o' war;

From the coach of the quality, down to the jollity

Jogging along on an ould low-backed car.

Though straw cushions are placed, two feet thick at laste,
It's concussive jollity to mollify still;

O, the cheeks of my Nelly are shaking like jelly
From the jolting she gets as she jogs to the Hill.

Arrived at its summit the view that you come at,

From etherealized Mourne to where Tara ascends,

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