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There's Mr. Bailey, he comes here daily,
To dinner and to doze;
He smiles and sighs, looks very wise,
And yet he don't propose

No, no! he don't, he don't pro-
pose!

There's Captain Francis, of the Blues, Who looks such speechless things; Such coal-black eyes, such words and sighs,

Such pretty songs he sings; He does not lack encouragement, He has enough of that, he knows; I make his tea, he drinks to me, But yet he don't propose. No, no no, no! he don't

!

propose

'Tis very strange, but so it is,
That I'm obliged to sue;
Although they say I look divine,
Yet all my looks won't do
My father thinks 'tis very hard,
That out of all my dashing beaux
Who come to dine and drink his wine,
There is not one who will propose.
No, no! they don't, they won't
propose

THE LASS O' GOWRIE. 'Twas on a simmer's afternoon, A wee before the sun gaed down, My lassie wi' a braw new gown, Cam o'er the hill to Gowrie. The rose-bud ting'd wi' morning show'rs,

Bloom'd fresh within the sunnie bow'rs,
But Kitty was the fairest flow'r,
That ever bloom'd in Gowrie.

I had nae thought to do her wrang,
But round her waist my arms I flang,
And said my lassie will ye gang,

To view the Carse o' Gowrie ?
I'll take ye to my father's ha',
In yon green field beside the shaw
And make you lady o' them a',

The brawest wife in Gowrie.

Saft kisses on her lips I laid,
The blush upon her cheek soon spread,
She whisper'd modesty, and said,
"I'll gang wi' you to Gowrie."
The auld folk soon gi'ed their consent
And to Mess John we quickly went,
Wha tied us to our heart's content,
And now she's Lady Gowrie.

PADDY MACSHANE.

AIR-The Sprig of Shillelah.

Ir my own botheration don't alter my plan,

I'll sing of seven lives of a tight Irish

man,

Wrote by old Billy Shakespeare of
Ballyporeen.

He said while a babe I lov'd whiskey and pap,

That I mewled and puked in my grandmother's lap;

She joulted me hard just to hush my sweet roar,

When I slipp'd through her fingers down whack on the floor,

What a squalling I made sure at
Ballyporeen.

When I grew up a boy, with a nice shining face,

With my bag at my back, and a snail crawling pace,

Went to school at ould Thwackem's at Ballyporeen.

His wig was so fusty, his birch was my dread,

ww

He learning beat out 'stead of into my head;

Master Macshane, says he, you're a great dirty dolt,

You've got no more brains than a
Monaghan colt,

You're not fit for our college at
Ballyporeen.

When eighteen years of age, was teaz'd and perplext,

To know what I should be, so a lover turn'd next,

And courted sweet Sheelah of
Ballyporeen.

I thought I'd just take her to comfort my life,

Not knowing that she was already a wife;

She ask'd me just once that to see her I'd come,

When I found her ten children and husband at home,

A great big whacking chairman of
Ballyporeen.

I next turn'd a soldier, I did not like that; o turn'd servant, and liv'd with great justice Pat,

mun

A big dealer in praties at Bally

poreen.

With turtle and venison he lin❜d his in

side,

Ate so many fat capons that one day he died,

So great was my grief that to keep my spirits up,

Of some nice whiskey cordial I took a big sup,

To my master's safe journey from
Ballyporeen.

Kick'd and toss'd so about like a weather-cock vane,

I pack'd up my awls and I went back again To my grandfather's cottage at Ballyporeen.

I found him, poor soul! with no legs for his hose,

Could not see through the spectacles put on his nose,

With no teeth in his head, so death cork'd up his chia,

He slipp'd out of his slippers, and faith I slipp'd in.

And succeeded poor Dennis of Bally poreen.

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