But the scores of hearts she slaughters

By far outnumber these,

While she among her poultry sits,

Just like a turtle dove,

Well worth the cage, I do engage,

Of the blooming god of love!
While she sits in the low-backed car
The lovers come near and far,
And envy the chicken

That Peggy is pickin'

As she sits in the low-backed car.

O, I'd rather own that car, sir,

With Peggy by my side,

Than a coach and four, and gold galore,*

And a lady for my bride.

For the lady would sit fornenst me

On a cushion made with taste,

And Peggy would sit beside me

With my arm around her waist,
While we drove in the low-backed car
To be married by Father Maher.
O, my heart would beat high

At her glance and her sigh,
Though it beat in a low-backed car!

*Galore, plenty.

*

DARBY, THE BLAST.

CHARLES LEVER.

O, My name it is Darby, the Blast!
My country is Ireland all over;
My religion is never to fast,

But live, as I wander, in clover;
To make fun for myself every day,
The ladies to plase when I'm able,
The boys to amuse as I play,

And make the jug dance on the table.
O, success to the chanter, my dear!

Your eyes on each side you may cast,
But there is n't a house that is near you
But they 're glad to have Darby, the Blast,

And they'll tell ye that 't is he that can cheer you. O, 't is he can put life in a feast!

What music lies under his knuckle,

As he plays" Will I send for the Priest?"
Or a jig they call "Cover the Buckle!"

O, good luck to the chanter, your sowl!

But give me an audience in rags,

They 're ilegant people for listening;

"Tis they that can humor the bags

As I rise a fine tune at a christening.

There's many a wedding I make

Where they never get further nor sighing,

And when I performed at a wake,

The corpse looked delighted at dying.

O, success to the chanter, your sowl!

LARRY MCHALE.

CHARLES LEVER.

O, LARRY MCHALE he had little to fear,

And never could want, when the crops did n't fail; He'd a house and demesne, and eight hundred a year, And a heart for to spend it, had Larry McHale.

The soul of a party, the life of a feast,

And an ilegant song he could sing I'll be bail; He would ride with the rector and drink with the priest, O, the broth of a boy was old Larry McHale!

It's little he cared for the judge or recorder,
His house was as big and as strong as a jail;

With a cruel four-pounder* he kept all in great order:
He'd murder the country, would Larry McHale.

He'd a blunderbuss too, of horse-pistols a pair;
But his favorite weapon was always a flail;
I wish you could see how he'd empty a fair,
For he handled it nately did Larry McHale.

His ancestors were kings before Moses was born,

His mother descended from the great Granna Uaile; He laughed all the Blakes and the Frenches to scorn,

They were mushrooms compared to old Larry McHale.

* "The cruel four-pounder" is not altogether an exaggeration for a Connaught gentleman "on his keeping." It is related in the memoirs of the celebrated "Fighting Fitzgerald," that he had on his estate in the County Mayo a regular fort, defended by cannon from a wrecked Danish ship, and only a detachment of regular troops from the Castle in Dublin compelled him to abandon it.

He sat down every day to a beautiful dinner,

With cousins and uncles enough for a tail;
And, though loaded with debt, O, the devil a thinner
Could law or the sheriff make Larry McHale!

With a larder supplied and a cellar well stored,
None lived half so well from Fair Head to Kinsale,
And he piously said, "I've a plentiful board,

And the Lord he is good to old Larry McHale."

So fill up your glass and a high bumper give him,
It's little we'd care for tithes or repale;

Ould Erin would be a fine country to live in,
If we only had plenty like Larry McHale.

KITTY OF COLERAINE.

"Kitty of Coleraine," by an unknown author, was one of the most popular songs of its time, and has perhaps even now not altogether passed from tradition.

As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping

With a pitcher of milk for the fair of Coleraine,

When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher down tumbled,
And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain.

"O, what shall I do now! 't was looking at you now,
I'm sure such a pitcher I'll ne'er see again.
"T was the pride of my dairy; O Barney McCleary,
You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine."

I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her
That such a misfortune should give her such pain;

A kiss then I gave her, and before I did leave her
She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again.
"T was haymaking season, I can't tell the reason,
Misfortunes will never come single, 't is plain,
For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster

The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.

POH, DERMOT! GO ALONG WITH YOUR GOSTER.

THOMAS MOORE.

This only attempt by Moore to deal with the national dialect has been left out of his later and more fastidious collection of poetry.

Рон, Dermot go along with your goster.
You might as well pray at a jig,

Or teach an old cow Pater Noster,
Or whistle Moll Roe to a pig.

Arrah, child! do you think I'm a blockhead,
And not the right son of my mother,

To put nothing at all in one pocket,

And not half so much in the other?
Poh, Dermot, etc.

Anything else I can do for you,

Kead mille failthe, and welcome,
Put up an ave or two for you,

Feared that you'd ever to hell come.
If you confess you 're a rogue,

I will turn a deaf ear, and not care for 't,

* Kead mille failthe, A hundred thousand welcomes.