And bid him that minute get out of the way
He said I was joking,

And grinned so provoking,

I couldn't help laughing at Barney O'Hea!
Impudent Barney,

None of your blarney,

Impudent Barney O'Hea!

He knew 'twas all right when he saw me smile,
For he was the rogue up to ev'ry wile,

Impudent Barney O'Hea!

He coaxed me to choose him,

For if I'd refuse him

He swore he'd kill Corney the very next day ;
So, for fear 'twould go further,

And just to save murther,

I think I must marry that madcap, O'Hea!
Bothering Barney,

"Tis he has the blarney

To make a girl Mistress O'Hea.

RORY O'MORE

YOUNG Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn,
He was bold as a hawk, and she soft as the dawn;
He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to please,
And he thought the best way to do that was to tease.
Now, Rory, be aisy,' sweet Kathleen would cry,
Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eye;

"With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about;
Faith, you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out.'
'Oh! jewel,' says Rory, that same is the way
You've thrated my heart for this many a day,
And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not, to be sure?
For 'tis all for good luck,' says bold Rory O'More.

'Indeed, then,' says Kathleen, 'don't think of the like, For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound.' 'Faith,' says Rory, I'd rather love you than the ground.'

'Now, Rory, I'll cry, if you don't let me go;

Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!'
'Oh!' says Rory, that same I'm delighted to hear,
For dhrames always go by contrairies, my dear!
Oh! jewel, keep dreaming that same till you die,
And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie;
And 'tis plaz'd that I am, and why not, to be sure?
Since 'tis all for good luck,' says bold Rory O'More.

'Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teaz'd me enough, Sure I've thrash'd, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff ; And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,

So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest.'

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,

And he look'd in her eyes that were beaming with light,

And he kiss'd her sweet lips,--don't you think he was right? 'Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more; That's eight times to-day that you've kiss'd me before.'

'Then here goes another,' says he, 'to make sure, For there's luck in odd numbers,' says Rory O'More.

CHARLES JAMES LEVER

SCATTERED through Lever's novels are numerous songs, often as brilliant and racy as his inimitable prose. Unlike his later prose, however, which in novels like THE O'DONOGHUE and THE KNIGHT OF GWYNNE showed a power responsive to the deepening intellectual interest of his work, his verse, when he tried to be serious, rarely achieved more than sentimentality. The pieces here given seem as good as things of the kind can be. Their gay humour is irresistible, and their language and rhythm are handled by a veritable master of his craft.

Lever was born in Dublin in 1806, and was the son of an English contractor. He graduated in Trinity College, Dublin,

1827, and afterwards became an M.D. of Louvain. He did much journalistic work in Dublin, besides practising successfully as a physician, and edited The Dublin University Magazinewith which so many distinguished Irish men of letters have been connected-from 1842 to 1845. He received a Consular appointment at Spezzia in 1858, and died Consul at Trieste in 1872.

LARRY M'HALE

OH, Larry M'Hale he had little to fear,

And never could want when the crops didn't fail ;
He'd a house and demesne and eight hundred a year,
And a heart for to spend it, had Larry M'Hale!

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

And an illigant song he could sing, I'll be bail;

He would ride with the rector, and drink with the priest,
Oh the broth of a boy was old Larry M'Hale.

It's little he cared for the Judge or Recorder ;

His house was as big and as strong as a gaol;
With a cruel four-pounder he kept in great order
He'd murder the country, would Larry M'Hale.
He'd a blunderbuss too; of horse-pistols a pair!
But his favourite weapon was always a flail;
I wish you could see how he'd empty a fair,
For he handled it nately, did Larry M'Hale.

His ancestors were kings before Moses was born,

His mother descended from great Grana Uaile:
He laughed all the Blakes and the Frenches to scorn ;
They were mushrooms compared to old Larry M'Hale.
He sat down every day to a beautiful dinner,

With cousins and uncles enough for a tail;

And, though loaded with debt, oh the devil a thinner
Could law or the sheriff make Larry M'Hale.

With a larder supplied and a cellar well stored,

None lived half so well, from Fair-Head to Kinsale;

As he piously said, 'I've a plentiful board,

And the Lord He is good to old Larry M'Hale.'

So fill up your glass, and a high bumper give him,
It's little we'd care for the tithes or Repale;
For Ould Erin would be a fine country to live in,
If we only had plenty like LARRY M'HALE.

Put his arm round her waist,
Took ten kisses at laste-

'Oh,' says he, 'you're my Molly Malone--
My own!'

'Oh,' says he, 'you're my Molly Malone!'

And the widow they all thought so shy,

Learn to kiss, not to sigh,

For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone!

Ohone!

Oh! they're very like Mistress Malone!

FRANCIS SYLVESTER MAHONY

(FATHER PROUT')

THE well-known scholar and wit was born in Cork in 1804, and died in Paris on May 18, 1866. He became a Jesuit priest, but concerned himself more with literature and journalism than with a religious calling. He wrote the famous 'Reliques of Father Prout' for Fraser's Magazine, and afterwards became Roman correspondent of The Daily News and Paris correspondent of The Globe. Most of his writings have been collected. The following is his nearest approach to poetry :