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For all the world's just like
The ropes on board a ship,
Each man's rigg'd out
A vessel stout

To take for life a trip.

The shrouds and stays and braces
Are hopes and joys and fears
The halliards, sheets, and traces,
(Still as each passion veers,
And whim prevails,)
Directs the sails,

And on the sea of life he steers.
Then let the storm
Heav'n's face deform,

And dangers press,
Of those in spite, &c.


Merry gipsies all are we,

Far from Norward do we come: Oft with cheerful song and glee, Thus we wander far from home, What a fal lal la, &c.

Thro' the wood and o'er the wild,
In the darksome night we roam
And oft have we the the hours beguil'd
With legend tales we learn'd at home.
With a fal lal la.

When the moon hangs overhead,
And the stars are twinkling high;

On the heath with grouse o'erspread
Oft we trim our social fire.
With a fal lal la.

But when morning lights the sky,
Then we rise and haste away;
O'er the hills and plains we hie,
And little birds upon the spray.
With a fal lal la.

[blocks in formation]

Your heart to love me, Sweet Molly, sweet Molly Malone, Sweet Molly, sweet Molly Malone.

I can see if you smile,
Though I'm off half a mile,
For my eyes all the while

Keep along with my head;

And my head you must know.
When from Molly I go,
Takes his leave with a bow,
And remains in my stead.
Och! it's how, &c.

Like a bird I could sing
In the month of the spring,
But it's now no such thing,

I'm quite bother'd and dead.
Och! I'll roar and I'll groan,
My sweet Molly Malone,
Till I'm bone of your bone,
And asleep in your bed.
Och! it's how, &c.


My lodging is on the cold ground,

And very hard is my fare;

But that which grieves me more, love,

Is the coldness of my dear,

Is the coldness of my dear,

Yet still he cried, turn to me;
That is adorned by me.

With a garland of straw I'll crown thee, love,
I'll marry thee with a rush ring,

Thy frozen heart shall melt with love,
So merrily I shall sing.

Yet still, &c.

But if you will harden your heart, love,
And be deaf to my pitiful moan;

Oh! I must endure the smart, love,
And tumble in straw all alone.

Yet still, &o.


I am a friar of orders grey,
And down the vallies I take my way;
I pull not blackberry, haw or hip,
Good store of venison fills my scrip,
My long bead roll I merrily chaunt,
Wherever I walk no money I want;
And why I'm so plump the reason I'll tell-
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire,

Or knight of the shire,

Lives half so well as a holy friar.

After supper of Heaven I dream,
But that is fat pullet and clouted cream:
Myself, by denial, I mortify-
With a dainty bit of a warden pie;
I'm cloth'd with sack cloth, for my sin;
With old sack wine I'm lined within:

A chirping cup is my matin song,
And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong,
What baron or squire, &c.


Far remov'd from noise and smoke,
Hark! I hear the woodman's stroke,
Who dreams not, as he fells the oak,
What mischief dire he brews:

How art shall shape his falling trees,
For aid of luxury and ease,
He weighs not matters such as these,
But sings and hacks and hews.

Perhaps, now fell'd by this old man,
That tree shall form the spruce sedan,
Or wheel barrow, where oyster Nan,
To run her vulgar rigs;

The stage, where boxes crowd in flocks,
Or else a quack, perhaps the stocks,
Or posts for signs, or barber's blocks,
Where smiles the parson's wig.

Thou mak'st bold peasant, oh, what grief,
The gibbet on which hung the thief,
The seat where sat the great Lord Chief,
The throne, the cobbler's stall.
Thou pamper'at life in every stage,
Mak'st Folly's whims, Pride's equipage,
For children toys, crutches for age
And coffins for us all.

Yet justice let us still afford,
Three chairs and this convivial board
The bin that holds gay Bacchus' board,
Confess the woodman's stroke;
He made the press that bleeds the vine,
The but that holds the gen'rous wine,
The hall itself where tripples join,
To crack the mirthful joke.


Ere around the huge oak that o'ershadows yon hill, The fond ivy had dar'd to entwine;

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