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THE GIRLS OF THIS AGE.
J. E. CARPENTER.

Air-" Irish Washerwoman."

On the girls of this age put me quite in a rage,

They care not for fathers or brothers; And who shall pretend to say where 'twill end

Now they think they know more than their mothers!

French, Latin, and Greek, now they all want to speak

As to music 'tis easy-quite easyLearn painting and chalks, and each one she talks

About singing and thinks she's a Grisi. I don't know what's come to girls of their age

At their mothers they always are mocking,

With all sorts of nonsense themselves they engage

It really is shocking-quite shocking.

When I was sixteen, with the rest I was

seen

Doing plain work, and hemming and sewing;

Of a needle and thread, now each girl has a dread,

And their dear Berlin wool-work's quite ruin;

They work patterns so large-never heeding the charge

And still their designs they get bold

er

In my day I declare, an accomplishment

rare,

Was a cat on a small kettle-holder.
I don't know what's come, etc.

1

I hear people say that we live in the day

Of intellect, steam, and improvement; Each new bonnet or shawl no longer they call

A new fashion, but say it's "a movement."

As to bonnets-oh law! all the good they are for;

The sight in my mind still it rankles; Don't you think I am right when I say that they might

Just as well have been tied round the

ankles?

I don't know what's come, etc.

Sometimes, though, they go to the other extremes,

For at all the famed watering places, The hats that they wear have such brims, I declare,

That you can't see a bit of their faces. They surely can't know, if they wish for a beau !

That this is the plan ne'er to gain one; For the gentlemen vow that they cannot tell now

Which a pretty girl is from a plain

one.

I don't know what's come, etc.

Then for dancing, oh, dear ! every month in the year

From France comes some modern invention,

Some polka or valse, in a style that's quite false,

With a name one don't know how to mention

;

'Twas but t'other day that my youngest

did say

She a bran new diversion had found

now,

She sings through her nose, makes bak loons of her clothes,

And that she calls "

bobbing around"

now.

I don't know what's come, etc.

Since the Empress of France has had the rare chance

To set all the fashions, what mean they?

The young ladies say that they dare not display

A dress that's not à la Eugènie;

Then the flounces one meets as one walks thro' the streets!

(In a carriage my daughter wont risk hers)

And under her hair she has taken to

wear

A gentleman's pair of false whiskers! I don't know what's come to girls of their age

At their mothers they always are mocking,

With all sorts of nonsense them.

selves they engage

It really is shocking--quite shock.

ing.

THE WEDDING OF BALLYPOREEN. DESCEND, ye chaste nine, to a true Irish Bard,

You're old maids, to be sure, but he sends you a card,

To beg you'll assist a poor musical elf, With a song ready made, he'll compose it himself,

About maids, boys, à priest, and a wedding,

With a crowd you could scarce thrust
your head in,

A supper, good cheer, and a bedding,
Which happen'd at Ballyporeen.

Twas a fine summer's morn, about twelve in the day,

All the birds fell to sing, all the asses to

bray,

When Patrick the bridegroom and Oonagh the bride,

In their best bibs and tuckers set off side by side :

Oh! the piper play'd first in the rear, sir,

The maids blush'd, the bridesmen did swear, sir,

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