It's all very well to have riches,
But I'm not a covetous elf,

I can't help still sighing for something, And, darling, that something's yourself. Mavourneen, &c.

You're smiling, and that's a good sign, love;

Say "Yes," and you'll never repent ; Or if you would rather be silent,

Your silence I'll take for consent. That good-natured dimple's a tell-taleNow all that I have is your own; This week you may be Kitty Tyrell, Next week you'll be Mrs. Malone. Mavourneen, &c.

THE TIE IS BROKE, MY IRISH GIRL.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

AIR-" Molly Astore."

THE tie is broke, my Irish girl,
That bound thee here to me,
My heart has lost its single pearl,
And thine at last is free-
Dead as the earth that wraps thy clay,
Dead as the stone above thee-

Cold as this heart, that breaks to say
It never more can love thee.

I press thee to my aching breast-
No blush comes o'er thy brow-
Those gentle arms that once caress'd,
Fall round me deadly now-
The smiles of Love no longer part
Those dead blue lips of thine-
I lay my hand upon thy heart,
"Tis cold at last to mine.

Were we beneath our native heaven,
Within our native land--
A fairer grave to thee were given
Than this wild bed of sand.
But thou wert single in thy faith,
And single in thy worth:

And thou should'st die a lonely death,
And lie in lonely earth.

Then lay thee down and take thy rest,
My last-last look is given--
The earth is smooth above thy breast,
And mine is yet unriven !

No mass-no parting rosary—

My perished love can have;

But her husband's sighs embalm the

corse,

A husband's tears her grave.

THE WHITE COCKADE.

J. J. CALLANAN.

Irish Jacobite song.

PRINCE Charles he is King James's son, And from a royal line is sprung;

Then up

with shout, and out with blade, And we'll raise once more the white cockade.

O! my dear, my fair-hair'd youth,

Thou yet hast hearts of fire and truth; Then up with shout, and out with blade— We'll raise once more the white cockade.

My young men's hearts are dark with

woe;

On my virgins' cheeks the grief-drops flow;

The sun scarce lights the sorrowing day, Since our rightful prince went far away. He's gone, the stranger holds his throne; The royal bird far off is flown:

But up with shout, and out with bladeWe'll stand or fall with the white cockade.

No more the cuckoo hails the spring, The woods no more with the stanchhounds ring;

The song from the glen so sweet before, Is hush'd since Charles has left our shore. The Prince is gone: but he soon will

come,

With trumpet-sound, and with beat of drum :

Then up with shout, and out with bladeHuzza for the right and the white cockade.

Aн, then, ma'm dear, did you never hear of purty Molly Brallaghan?

Troth, dear, I've lost her, and I'll never be a man again,

Not a spot on my hide will another summer tan again,

Since Molly she has left me all alone for to die.

The place where my heart was, you might easy rowl a turnip in,

It's the size of all Dublin, and from Dub lin to the Devil's Glin;

If she chose to take another, sure she might have sent mine back again, And not to leave me here all alone for to die.

Ma'm dear, I remember when the milk ing time was past and gone,

We went into the meadows, where she swore I was the only man

That ever she could love-yet, oh! the base, the cruel one,

After all that to leave me here alone for to die!

Ma'm dear, I remember as we came home the rain began,

I rowl'd her in my frieze coat, tho' devil a waistcoat I had on,

And my shirt was rather fine-drawn ; yet oh the base and cruel one, After all that, she left me here alone for to die.

I went and tould my tale to Father M'Donnell, ma'm,

And thin I went and ax'd advice of Counsellor O'Connell, ma'm;

He towld me promise-breaches had been ever since the world began : Now, I have only one pair, ma'm, and they are corduroy !