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Oh! did you ne'er hear of Kate Kearney,
She lives on the banks of Killarney,

From the glance of her eye, shun danger and fy For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.

For that eye is so modestly beaming,

You ne'er think of the mischief she's dreaming,
Yet, Oh! I can tell, how fatal's the spell,
That lurks in the eye of Kate Kearney.

Oh, should you e'er meet this Kate Kearney,
Who lives on the banks of Killarney,

Beware of her smile, for many a wile,
Lies hid in the smile of Kate Kearney.
Tho' she looks so bewitchingly simple,
Yet there's a mischief in every dimple,
And who dares inhale her sigh's spicy gale
Must die by the breath of Kate Kearney.


Poor Joe, the miller, loved good ale,
And oft would spend his bob,-
His wife, poor soul, would oft times rail,
And swear she'd break his nob;
They'd fight and quarrel-make it up,
Each vowed they'd look it over,

They'd kiss and sup, and take their cup,
And then to bed in clover.

Tol de rol, &c.

He ne'er would listen to advice,

That his poor wife did give him,

For nothing ere would him suffice,
Like to the joys of drinking:

One night he brought home pots of ale,
And made his wife well fuddled,

They kiss'd and bugg'd-no spouse could rail, But went to bed and cuddled.

Tol de rol, &c.

And when the rosy morn appear'd,

They went to work together,
And laughed and joked till it came night,
With hearts as light as feather;
They then would both together sup,
Together they would muddle,

And, drunk as sows, they'd leave their cup,
And reel to bed and cuddle.

Tol de rol, &c.


Here's the bottle she loved so much,
And here's the glass she drank from,
Here's the max her lips oft touch'd,
The stuff they never shrank from.
Herrings lie unheeded by,

Where's the hand to gut them;
Mackerel here neglected lie,

Where's the throat to hoot them?

Max is good, but she I loved,

Ne'er shall taste its sweetness,

Her lips that once so fleetly moved,
Now have lost their fleetness,


Gallons were pots where she strayed,
Pots were pints to her muzzle,
Heaven ne'er formed a drunken maid,
A maid so fond of guzzle.


The moon had climbed the highest hill,
That rises o'er the source of Dee;
And from the eastern summit shed
Her silver light on tower and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea,
Then soft and low a voice was heard
Say-Mary weep no more for me!
She from her pillow gently rais'd

Her head to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With pallid cheek and hollow e'e.
O Mary, dear! cold is my clay,
It lies beneath a stormy sea;
Far, far from thee I sleep in death,
So Mary, weep no more for me!
Three stormy nights and stormy days,
We toss'd upon the raging main,
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
E'en then, when horror chill'd my blood,
My heart was fill'd with love for thee:

The storm is past, and I at rest,
So Mary, weep no more for me.

O, maiden dear, thyself prepare,
We soon shall meet upon that shore,

Where love is free from doubt or care,
And thou and I shall part no more.
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled;
No more of Sandy could she see;
But soft the passing spirit said,
O Mary weep no more for me.

No more I'll court the town bred fair,
Who shine in artificial beauty,
For native charms, without compare,
Claim all my love. respect, and duty.
Oh, my bonny Bet, sweet blossom,

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Was I a king, so proud to wear thee, From off the verdant couch I'd bear thee, To grace thy faithful lover's bosom, Yet ask me where these beauties lie, I cannot say in smile or dimple, In blooming cheek, or radiant eye, 'Tis happy nature, wild and simple.

Oh, my bonny Bet, &c.

Let dainty beaux for ladies pine,

And sigh in numbers trite and common;

Ye gods! one darling wish be mine,

And all I ask is lovely woman.

Oh, my lovely Bet, &c.

Come, dearest girl, the rosy bowl

Like thy bright eye with pleasure dancing; My heaven art thou-so take my soul, With rapture every sense entrancing,

Oh, my bonny Bet, &c.


Ah! tell me ye swains, have you seen my Pastors O say have you met the sweet nymph in you way?

Transcendant as Venus, and blithe as Aurora, From Neptune's bed rising to hail the new day

Forlorn do I wander, and long time have I sought


The fairest, the rarest, for ever my theme: A goddess in form, tho' a cottager's daughter, That dwells on the borders of Aln's winding stream.

Tho' lordlings so gay, and young 'squires hawe sought her,

To link her fair hand in the conjugal chain, Devoid of ambition, the cottager's daughter, Convinced them their offers and flattery were vain.

When first I beheld her, I fondly besought her, My heart did her homage, and love was my


She vowed to be mine, the cottager's sweet daughter, That dwell's on the border of Aln's winding


Then why thus alone does she leave me to Isn guish ?

Pastora to splendour could ne'er yield her hand: Ah, no, she returns to heal my sad anguish, O'er her heart love and truth retain their com mand;

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