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O, to die is far better than be cursed
as we have been ;

And we've hearts-O, we've hearts,
boys, full true enough, I ween,
To rescue and to raise again our own
immortal green !

They may swear as they often did, our wretchedness to cure ;

But we'll never trust John Bull again, nor let his lies allure;

No, we won't-no, we won't, Bull, for now nor evermore!

For we've hopes on the ocean, and we've trust on the shore.

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

Shout it back to the Sasanach, “We'll never sell the green ["

For our TONE is coming back, and with men enough, I ween,

To rescue, and avenge us, and our own immortal green.

O, remember the days when their reign we did disturb,

At Limerick and Thules, Blackwater and Benburb

And ask this proud Saxon if our blows he did enjoy,

When we met him on the battle field of France, at Fontenoy.

Then we'll up for the green, boys, and up for the green !

O, 'tis still in the dust, and a shame to be seen;

But we've hearts and we've hands, boys, full strong enough, I ween, To rescue and to raise again our own unsullied green!

THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.

O, PADDY dear, and did you hear, the news that's going round,

The Shamrock is forbid by laws, to grow on Irish ground;

No more St. Patrick's day we'll keep, his color last be seen,

For there's a bloody law, agin the wear ing of the green.

OI met with Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand,

And he says how is "Ould Ireland," and how does she stand;

She's the most distressed country that ever I have seen,

For they are hanging men and women for the wearing of the green.

And since the color we must wear, is England's cruel red,

Ould Ireland's sons will ne'er forget the blood that they have shed: Then take the Shamrock from your hat, and cast it on the sod,

It will take root, and flourish still, tho' under foot 'tis trod.

When the law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow, And when the leaves in summer-time, their verdure does not show,

Then I will change the color I wear in my cabbeen,

But till that day, plaze God, I'll stick to the wearing of the green.

But if at last her colors should be torn from Ireland's heart,

Her sons with shame and sorrow from the dear old soil will part; I've heard whispers of a country, that lies far beyond the sea,

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Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of freedom's day.

O! Erin, must we leave you, driven by the tyrant's hand?

Must we ask a mother's blessing in a strange but happy land? Where the cruel cross of England's thraldom never to be seen,

But where, thank God, we'll live and die, still wearing of the green.

THE FLYING TRAPEZE!

ONCE I was happy, but now I'm forlorn, Like an old coat that is tattered and torn,

Left in this wide world to fret and to

mourn;

Betrayed by a maid in her teens. The girl that I loved, she was handsome; I tried all I knew her to please; But I could not please her one quarter

so well

Like that man upon the Trapeze.

Chorus.-He'd fly through the air with the greatest of ease, A daring young man on the flying Trapeze;

His movements were graceful all girls he could please, And my love he purloined

away.

This young man by name was Signor Bona Slang;

Tall, big and handsome, as well made as Chang;

Where'er he appeared, the hall loudly

rang:

With ovation from all people there. He'd smile from the bar on the people below;

And one night he smiled on my love, She winked back at him, and she shouted, Bravo!

As he hung by his nose up above.
He'd fly through the air, etc.

Her father and mother were both on my side,

And very hard tried to make her my own bride :

Her father he sighed, and her mother she cried,

To see her throw herself away.

"Twas all no avail: she went there every

night,

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