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There's Mr. Bailey, he comes here daily,
No, no! he don't, he don't pro-
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
'Tis very strange, but so it is,
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,
I had nae thought to do her wrang,
To view the Carse o' Gowrie ?
The brawest wife in Gowrie.
Saft kisses on her lips I laid,
AIR-The Sprig of Shillelah.
Ir my own botheration don't alter my plan,
I'll sing of seven lives of a tight Irish
Wrote by old Billy Shakespeare of
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
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,
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
You're not fit for our college at
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
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
I next turn'd a soldier, I did not like that; o turn'd servant, and liv'd with great justice Pat,
A big dealer in praties at Bally
With turtle and venison he lin❜d his in
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
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.