TIME CANNOT CHANGE MY LOVE. TIME cannot change my love for thee; And when, at last, we're doomed to lay, They'll shed their trembling leaves on mine. ་ ** THE CORK LEG. A TALE I tell now without any flam, The richest merchant in Rotterdam. Ri too ral, loo ral, &c. One day he had stuff'd till full as an egg, But he kicked him out without broaching a keg, Ri too ral, loo ral, &c. A surgeon, the first in his vocation, Ri too ral, loo ral, &c. THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH. OCH, love is the sonl of a nate Irishman, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green; His heart is good-humoured-'tis honest and sound, No malice or hatred is there to be found. He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights, For love, all for love, for in that he delights, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green. Who has e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair, An Irishman all in his glory is there, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green; His clothes spick and span new without ever a speck, A neat Barcelona tied round his neck; He goes to a tent, and spends half a crown, He meets with a friend, and for love knocks him down while; To the priest then they go, and nine months after that A fine baby cries out, "How d'ye do, father Pat, With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green ?" Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak, and its neighbouring earth, Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green. May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon, Drub the foe who dares plant on our confines a can non; United and happy, at loyalty's shrir, May the rose, leek, and thistle, long flourish and twine Round a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green. ENGLAND, EUROPE'S GLORY. THERE is a land amidst the waves Blest land, beyond all lands afar, Or seek the foreign fair one's love, WITHIN A MILE OF EDINBURGH. "TWAS within a mile of Edinburgh town, In the rosy time of the year, Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass was down, Bonny Jockey, blythe and gay, The lassie blush'd, and frowning cry'd, I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna buckle to Yet still she blush'd, and frowning cry'd, I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna buckle to. At church she nae mair frowning cry'd, I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna buckle to. AND did you ne'er hear of a jolly young waterman, The maidens all flock'd in his boat so readily, And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air, That this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. What sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry; And oftentimes would they be gigling and leering; But 'twas all one to Tom their gibing and jeering; For loving or liking he little did care, For this waterman ne'er was in want of a fare. And yet, but to see how strange things happen, As he row'd along, thinking of nothing at all, He was ply'd by a damsel so lovely and charming, That she smil'd, and so straight-way in love he did fall. And would this young damsel but banish his sorrow And how should this waterman ever know care YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. YE mariners of England, That guard our native seas, And sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow The spirit of your fathers Shall start from every wave, For the deck it was their field of fame, As ye sweep through the deep, |