MAIRE BHAN ASTOR.**

Na valley far away,

IN

With my Maire bhan astór,
Short would be the summer day

Ever loving more and more;
Winter days would all grow long,

With the light her heart would pour,

With her kisses and her song,
And her loving mait go leor.†
Fond is Maire bhan astór,
Fair is Maire bhan astór,
Sweet as ripple on the shore,
Sings my Maire bhan astór.

Oh! her sire is very proud,

And her mother cold as stone;
But her brother bravely vowed,
She should be my bride alone;
For he knew I loved her well,

And he knew she loved me too,
So he sought their pride to quell
But 'twas all in vain to sue.

True is Maire bhan astór,
Tried is Maire bhan astór,
Had I wings, I'd never soar
From my Maire bhan astor.

*Fair Mary, my treasure. + Much plenty, or in abundance.

There are lands where manly toil
Surely reaps the crop it sows;
Glorious woods and teaming soil,

Where the broad Missouri flows;
Through the trees the smoke shall rise,
From our hearth with mait go leor;
There shall shine the happy eyes
Of my Maire bhan astór.

Mild is Maire bhan astór,

Mine is Maire bhan astór,
Saints will watch about the door,

Of my Maire bhan astór!

THOMAS DAVIS.

O

LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.

LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best!
If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest.
Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will,
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.
Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,
How clear they are, how dark they are, and they give me
many a shock.

Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower,
Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its

power.

O lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best!

If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest.

E

The dance of last Whit-Monday night exceeded all before, No pretty girl for miles around was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh! but she was gay! She danced so light, she sang a song that took my heart

away.

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete The music nearly ceased itself, to listen to her feet;

The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised,

But blessed himself he wasn't deaf, when once her voice she raised.

O lovely Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best!

If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest.

O! you're the flower of womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down,

If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright,

And you become his lady, I'd own it was but right.

O might we live together in lofty palace hall,

Where joyful music rises, where scarlet curtains fall!
Or might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!
O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress.

Its far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less; The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low,

But blessings be about you dear, wherever you may go. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

THE FOUR MARIES.

(A SCOTCH BALLAD ATTRIBUTED TO MARY HAMILTON, MAID OF HONOR TO QUEEN MARIE STUART).

L

AST night the Queen had four Maries,

This night there'll be but three;

There was Mary Beton, and Mary Seton,

An' Mary Carmichael an' me.

Oh, little did my mither think,
When first she cradled me,
That I should dee sae far from hame,
An' dee on the gallows tree.

I charge ye, all ye mariners,

When ye sail o'er the foam,

Let neither my father or mither get wit-
But that I'm coming home.

For if my father an' mither get wit,
And my bold brithers three,

O mickle would be the gude red bluid,
This day would be spilt for me.

They'll tie a napkin round my een,

An' they'll no let me see to dee,

An' they'll ne'er let on to my father an' mither,
But I'm away o'er the sea.

I wish I could lie in our ain kirkyard,

Where we pu'd the gowans, an' thread the rowans— My brithers, my sisters and me.

But little care I for a nameless grave,
If I've the hope for eternity:
So that the faith o' the deeing thief:
May be granted through faith to me.

HIGHLAND MARY.

E banks and braes and streams around

YE

The castle o' Montgomery!

Green be your woods and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drum'lie.

There simmer first unfaulds her robes

And there the longest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorns blossom,

As underneath their fragant shade

I clasped her to my bosom!