Chorus for the chemist round the corner, where the pison was bought.

Too ral lal, etc.

Spoken. This is what the lovyer did.

He kissed her cold corpus a thousand times o'er,

And called her his Dinah, though she was no more,

Then swallowed the pison like a lovyer so brave,

And Vilikins and his Dinah lie both in one grave. Too ral lal, etc. Chorus for the disconsolate loryer.

Too ral lal, etc.

MORAL.

Now, all you young maidens, take warning by her,

Never not by no means disobey your

governor;

And all you young fellows mind who you clap eyes on,

Think of Vilikins and Dinah and the cup of cold pison.

Too ral lal, etc.

Chorus for pisoned people.

Too ral lal, etc.

THE BOYS OF THE IRISH BRIGADE.

WHAT for should I sing you of Roman or Greek,

Or the boys we hear tell of in story? Come match me for fighting, for frolic, or freak,

An Irishman's reign in his glory;

For Ajax, and Hector, and bold Aga

memnon

Were up to the tricks of our trade, 0, But the rollicking boys, for war, ladies, and noise,

Are the boys of the Irish Brigade, O!

What for should I sing you of Helen of Troy,

Or the mischief that came by her flirting?

There's Biddy M'Clinchy the pride of

Fermoy,

Twice as much of a Helen, that's cer

tain.

Then for Venus, so famous, or Queen Cleopatra,

Bad luck to the word should be said, O, By the rollicking, boys, for war, ladies, and noise,

The boys of the Irish Brigade, Q

What for should I sing you of classical fun,

Or of games, whether Grecian or Persian?

Sure the Curragh's the place where the knowing one's done,

And Mallow that flogs for diversion. For fighting, for drinking, for ladies and all,

No time like our times e'er were made, O,

By the rollicking boys, for war, ladies, and noise,

The boys of the Irish Brigade, O!

THE TOWN OF PASSAGE.

THE town of Passage

Is both large and spacious,
And situated

Upon the say;

'Tis nate and dacent,
And quite adjacent,
To come from Cork

On a summer's day.
There you may slip in,
To take a dippin'
Forenent the shippin'

That at anchor ride

Or in a wherry
Cross o'er the ferry
To Carrigaloe

On the other side.

Mud cabins swarm in
This place so charmin'
With sailors' garments
Hung out to dry;
And each abode is
Snug and commodious,
With pigs melodious,

In their straw-built sty
'Tis there the turf is,
And lots of murphies,
Dead sprats and herrings,
And oyster shells;

Nor any lack, O!

Of good tobacco,

Though what is smuggled
By far excels.

There are ships from Cadiz,
And from Barbadoes,
But the leading trade is

In whiskey punch ;

And you may go in
Where one Molly Bowen

Keeps a nate hotel
For a quiet lunch.
But land or deck on,
You may safely reckon,
Whatsoever country

You come hither from,
On an invitation

To a jollification

With a parish priest,

That's called "Father Tom."

Of ships there's one fixed
For lodging convicts,
A floating "stone jug,"
Of amazing bulk :
The hake and salmon,
Playing at bagammon,
Swim for divarsion

All round this hulk;
There"Saxon" jailors
Keep brave repailers,
Who soon with sailors
Must anchor weigh
From th' em'rald island,
Ne'er to see dry land
Until they spy land

In sweet Bot'ny Bay.