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WHEN I ROSE IN THE MORNING.

WHEN I rose in the morning,
My heart full of woe,
I implored all the song-birds
Why their mates on the bough
To their pleading gave heeding,
While Kate still said, "No";
But they made no kind answer
To a heart full of woe.

Till the wood-quest at noon,
From the forest below,

He taught me his secret,

So tender and low,

Of stealing fond feeling,

With sweet notes of woe, Coo-cooing so soft

Through the green leafy row.

The long shadows fell,

And the sun he sank low,

And again I was pleading
In the mild evening glow;
"Ah! Kitty, have pity!"

Then how could she say, "No!"
So for ever I'm free

From a heart full of woe.

KITTY BHAN.

BEFORE the first ray of blushing day,

Who should come by but Kitty Bhan,
With her cheek like the rose on a bed of snows,
And her bosom beneath like the sailing swan.
I looked and looked till my heart was gone.

With the foot of the fawn she crossed the lawn,
Half confiding and half in fear;

And her eyes of blue they thrilled me through,
One blessed minute; then, like the deer,
Away she darted, and left me here.

O sun, you are late at your golden gate,
For you've nothing to show beneath the sky
To compare to the lass, who crossed the grass
Of the shamrock field, ere the dew was dry,
And the glance she gave me as she went by.

FAN FITZGERL.

WIRRA, wirra! Ologone!

Can't ye lave a lad alone,

Till he's proved there's no tradition left of any other girl— Not even Trojan Helen,

In beauty all excellin'

Who's been up to half the devilment of Fan Fitzgerl?

Wid her brows of silky black,

Arched above for the attack,

Her eyes that dart such azure death on poor admirin' man;

Masther Cupid, point your arrows,

From this out, agin' the the sparrows,

For you're bested at Love's archery by young Miss Fan.

See what showers of goolden thread

Lift and fall upon her head.

The likes of such a trammel net at say was never spread; For whin accurately reckoned,

"T was computed that each second

Of her curls has cot a Kerryman, and kilt him dead.

Now mintion, if you will,

Brandon Mount and Hungry Hill,

Or Magillicuddy's Reeks, renowned for cripplin' all they can; Still the country side confisses

None of all its precipices

Cause a quarter of the carnage of the nose of Fan.

But your shatthered hearts suppose

Safely steered apast her nose,

She's a current and a reef beyant to wreck them rovin' ships. My maning it is simple,

For that current is her dimple,

And the cruel reef 't will coax ye to 's her coral lips.

I might inform ye further

Of her bosom's snowy murther,

And an ankle ambuscadin' through her gown's delightful whirl. But what need, when all the village

Has forsook its peaceful tillage,

And flown to war and pillage, all for Fan Fitzgerl.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE DESERTER'S MEDITATION.

JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN.

After the fashion of former generations of English statesmen, Curran wrote occasional verses in what was called the classic vein of humor and sentiment, with trim metre, artificial fancy, and highly polished diction; but in some of them, as in his orations, there was a vein of genuine feeling beneath the artificial tropes and highly wrought rhetoric, and an undertone of melancholy which belonged to his own nature in spite of his spontaneous humor and brilliant wit, and thoroughly characteristic of the race of which he was one of the most perfect types in genius and temperament. In his biography, by his son, it is said that the occasion of "The Deserter's Meditation" was his meeting a wayfaring soldier by the roadside, and taking him into his carriage. Ascertaining that he was a deserter, Curran asked him whether, in event of capture, he would spend the brief time before being shot in penitence and fasting, or drown his sorrows in a glass. The song is adapted to a plaintive Irish air, which caught the ear of Thackeray, who had a great fondness for Irish songs, and frequently alludes to them. In "The Newcomes" he says, "And Mark Brent sang the sad, generous refrain of the Deserter."

Ir sadly thinking,

With spirits sinking,

Could more than drinking my cares compose,
A cure for sorrow

From sighs I'd borrow,

And hope to-morrow would end my woes.

But as in wailing

There's naught availing,

And Death unfailing will strike the blow,

Then for that reason,

And for a season,

Let us be merry before we go.

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DEAR Erin, how sweetly thy green bosom rises,

An emerald set in the ring of the sea,
Each blade of thy meadows my faithful heart prizes,
Thou Queen of the West, the world's cushla-ma-chree.*

Thy gates open wide to the poor and the stranger,
There smiles hospitality, hearty and free;

Cushla-ma-chree, Pulse of my heart.

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