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But I think, love, so often about you,
And
you don't know how happy I feel,
But I'm lonely to-night, love, without
you,

My darling, sweet Nora O'Neal!
Oh I don't think, etc.

Oh! why should I weep tears of sorrow? Oh! why to let hope lose its place? Won't I meet you, my darling, to-morrow, And smile on your beautiful face? Will you meet me? Oh! say you will meet me

With a kiss at the foot of the lane, And I'll promise whenever you greet me That I'll never be lonely again. Oh I don't think, etc.

JOHNNY SANDS.

J. SINCLAIR.

A MAN, whose name was Johnny Sands, Had married Betty Hague,

And though she brought him gold and lands,

She proved a terrible plague. For oh! she was a scolding wife, Full of caprice and whim.

He said, that he was tired of life,
And she was tired of him,
And she was tired of him.

Says he, "then I will drown myself,
The river runs below,"

Says she, "pray do, you silly elf;
I wished it long ago."

Says he, "upon the brink I'll stand,
Do you run down the hill,
And push me in with all your might,”
Says she, "my love, I will."
Says she, "my love, I will."

"For fear that I should courage lack, And try to save my life, Pray tie my hands behind my back," "I will," replied his wife. She tied them fast, as you may think, And when securely done, "Now stand," says she, "upon the brink And I'll prepare to run.”

All down the hill, his loving bride,
Now ran with all her force,
To push him in-he stepped aside,
And she fell in, of course;

Now splashing, dashing, like a fish,
"Oh save me, Johnny Sands!"
"I can't my dear, tho' much I wish,
For you have tied my hands."

MARY OF FERMOY.

JUST eighteen years of age I am, my father's only joy,

He owns a little farm and cot, in a place they call "Fermoy ;"

He gave me all the care he could, since my poor mother died, And I became my father's pet, and they say the village pride.

He often took me on his knee, when I was but a child,

And kissed me o'er and o'er again, and blessed me as he smiled;

Of lovers I have got a score, and some in dear Fermoy,

And one across the ocean wide, his name is Pat Malloy.

B

His mother keeps a huckster shop, well known for miles around,

And search the country through and through, her equal can't be found;

But alas! the times came very hard, the landlord raised the rent,

And Pat to live in idleness could no longer be content.

He came and asked a question, and I answered, "Yes; I will,"

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He kissed me many times, as if he'd never get his fill;

Oh! God will surely bless him, and protect my darling joy,

Till he comes back to Ireland, and his Mary of Fermoy.

He left Fermoy for England, and there across the sea,

For good Columbia's happy shores, blest laud of liberty;

Where Erin's sons are not the slaves of landlord or of queen,

And where they can without offence wear their country's badge of green. My Pat has written home to me to other loves decline,

For he has promised me his heart, and I know that he has mine;

And now he's coming home again, to visit dear Fermoy,

Then Father Boyce will change my name, to Mistress Pat Malloy.

UP FOR THE GREEN!

Tis the green-O, the green is the color of the true,

And we'll back it 'gainst the orange, and we'll raise it o'er the blue ! For the color of our Fatherland alone should here be seen

"Tis the color of the martyred dead—our own immortal green.

Then up for the green, boys, and up for the green!

O, 'tis down to the dust, and a shame to be seen n;

But we've hands-O, we've hands, boys, full strong enough, I ween, To rescue and to raise again our own immortal green ! They may say they have power, 'tis vain to oppose

"Tis better to obey and live, than surely die as foes;

But we scorn all their threats, boys, whatever they may mean;

For we trust in God above us, and we dearly love the green.

So we'll up for the green, and we'll up for the green!

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