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Soft and funnily,
Blyth and bonnily,
Quite an Adonis was Captain Mulligan.
She was killing,
Soft she cried to brave O'Mulligan;
Shoulders rising over his ears,
Face just like the moon in full again, Legs in shape like a tailor's sheers,
You ne'er saw the fellow of Captain Mulligan-
Quite bewitching him,"
She was a Venus to Captain Mulligan.
You're so pretty,
Lost he cried, the brave O'Mulligan";
Married, how they altered their tune;
Night and day;
Seolding, fighting him,
"The devil go with you," then Mrs. Mulliga "Faith, I knew it,
I should rue it!"
So he cried, poor Captain Mulligan;
THE POST CAPTAIN.
When Steerwell heard me first impart,
For bold adventures eager,
When first a cabin boy on board the Fame, He would hold on the jigger,
While ten jolly tars with musical Joe, Hove the anchor a-peak, sing yeo, heave yeo, yeo, &c.
To hand top-ga'nt sails next he learned
He taught him soon to reef and steer
Where shoals made skilful veterans fear;
And none to the pilot e'er answerd like he, When he gave the command, hard a port, helm alee,
Luff, boys luff, keep her near,
Clear the buoy, make the pier,
None to the pilot e'er answer'd like he,
For valour, skill, and worth renown'd;
And now with fame and fortune crown'd,
Who, should our injur'd country bleed,
KITTY OF COLERAINE.
As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping With a pitcher of milk from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me, she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled,
And all the sweet butter-milk water'd the plain.
Oh! what shall I do now? 'twas looking at you '
Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again; 'Twas the pride of my dairy, O, Barney M'Leary You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine. I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain,
A kiss then I gave her, and before I did leave her,
The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine.
THE LAD THAT I LOVE.
How sweet are the flowers that grow by yon fountain,
And sweet are the cowslips that spangle the
And sweet is the breeze that blows over the moun
Yet none is so sweet as the lad that I love.
Then I'll weave him a garland,
A fresh flowing garland,
With lilies and roses,
With sweet blooming posies;
A garland I'll give to the lad that I love.
It was down in the vale where the sweet Torze
Its murm'ring stream ripples through the dark grove,
I own'd what I felt, all my passion confiding,
Could worth and beauty shake my faith,
The friend of my affection lies.
O, could I, from my sorrowing heart,
THE DEATH OF NELSON.
O'er Nelson's tomb, with silent grief oppress'd, Britannia mourned her hero, now at rest,
But those bright laurels ne'er shall fade with
Whose leaves are watered by a nation's tears.
'Twas in Trafalgar's bay,