The woods now wear their summer suits.
To mirth all nature now invites ;
Let us be blythesome then and gay,
Amang the birks of Invermay.

Behold the hills and vales around, . With lowing herds and flocks abound: The wanton kids and frisking lambs, Gambol and dance about their dams; The busy bees, with humming noise, And all the reptile kind rejoice! Let us, like them, then sing and play About the birks of Invermay.

Hark, how the waters, as they fall,
Loudly my love on gladness call:
The wanton waves sport on the beams,
And fishes play throughout the streams,
The circling sun does now advance,
And all the planets round him dance:
Let us as jovial be as they,
Amang the birks of Invermay.

But soon the winter of the year,
And age, life's winter will appear:
At this thy lovely bloom will fade,
As that will strip the verdant shade;
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er,
The feather'd songsters are no more!
And when they droop and we decay,
Adieu the birks of Invermay.

BOXING THE COMPASS. Blue Pater at the mast head flew, And to the girls we bade adieu,

Weigh'd anchor, and made sail;
The boatswain blew his whistle shrill,
The reefs shook out, began to fill,
We caught a fav'ring gale.
And with a can of flip,

To cheer the honest tar,
Thus gaily may we trip,
Lara lar, lara lar,

We cruised along the coast of France,
But not a mounseer gave us chance;
We tried on every tack,

We drank, and laugh'd, and sung together,
We kept the sea, nor car'd for weather,
'Twas all the same to Jack.
And with a can, &c.

Sometimes while squalls have o'er us swept,
High at the mast head watch I've kept;
We did, my lads, the best;

Still on the look out for the rumpus,
At every corner of the compass,

The north, south, east and west.
And with a can, &c.

THE SONG OF DEATH.

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,

Now gay with the broad setting sun; Farewell, love and friendship, ye tender, dear ties! Our race of existence is run.

Thou grim king of terror! thou life's gloomy foe, Go, frighten the coward and slave;

Go teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know No terrors hast thou to the brave.

Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name;
Thou strik'st the young hero, a glorious mark,
He falls in the blaze of his fame.

In the field of proud honour, our swords in our hands,
Our king and our country to save,
While victory shines on life's ebbing sands,
O! who would not die with the brave?

THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH.
Och love is the soul of a nate Irishman,
He loves all the lovely, loves all that he can,
With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green;
His heat 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'en 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 aspeck,
A neat Barcelona tied round his neck;
He goes to a tent, and he spends half a crown,
He meets with a friend, and for love knocks him

down,

With a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.
At evening returning, as homeward he goes,
His heart soft with whisky, his head soft with

blows,

From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green He meets with his Shelah, who blushing a smile, Cries, get ye gone Pat, yet consents all the 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,

S

Where grows the shillelah and shamrock so green, May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed and the Shannon,

Drub the foe who dare plant on our confines a can

non;

United and happy, at loyalty's shrine,

May the rose, leek, and thistle, long flourish and twine,

Round a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green.

THE TOPSAILS SHIVER IN THE WIND.

The topsails shiver in the wind,
The ship she's cast to sea;

But yet my heart, my soul, my mind,
Are, Mary, moored with thee;
For though thy sailor's bound afar,
Still love shall be his leading star.
Should landsmen flatter when we're sailed,
O! doubt their artful tales!
No gallant sailor ever failed,
If love breathed constant gales:

Thou art the compass of my soul,
Which steers my heart from pole to pole.

Syrens in every port we meet,

More fell than rocks or waves:
But such as grace the British fleet,
Are lovers and not slaves;
No foes our courage shall subdue,
Although we've left our hearts with you.
These are our cares; but if you're kind,
We'll scorn the dashing main,
The rocks the billows, and the wind,
No powers of France and Spain;
Now England's glory rest with you,
Our sails are full-sweet girls, adieu!

A MAIDEN THERE LIVED. A Maiden there lived in a large market town, Whose skin was much fairer than any that's brown, Her eyes were as dark as the coals in the mine, And when they wer'nt shut, why they always would

shine,

With a black eye, blue eye, blear eye, pig's eye,
Swivel eye, and squinting.

Between her two eyes an excrescence arose, Which the vulgar call snout, but which I call a nose An emblem of sense, it would seem to appear, For without one we'd look very foolish and queer. With your Roman, Grecian, snub nose, pug nose Snuffing snout and sneezing.

Good natur'd she looks, that's when out of a frown, And blush'd like a rose-when the paint was put

on;