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I've got a ring to wed, some whisky to make us gaily,

A mattrass feather bed, and a handsome new shilleela.

Then do say, &c.

I've got an old tom cat, which through one eye is staring,

I've got a Sunday hat, a little the worse for wearing,

A Sunday hose and coat, an old gray mare to ride on,

A saddle and bridle to boot, that you may ride astride on.

If you'll say, &c.

I've got nine pigs and a sow, and I've got a sty to keep 'em,

A calf and a brindle cow, and I've a cabin to sleep 'em,

I've got some gooseberry wine, the trees they grew no riper on. When you say, &c.

You've got a charming eye, you've got some spelling and reading,

You've got, and so have I, a taste for genteel breeding,

You've rich and fair and young, as every body's knowing,

And you've got a decent tongue whenever you set it a going. Then do say, &c.

Oh! for a wife till death, I am willing to take you,

But oh! I spend my breath, the devil himself can't wake you,'

'Tis just beginning to rain-so I'll get under cover,

I'll come to-morrow again to be your constant lover.

If you'll say, &c.


NEAR a bog in old Ireland, and sure 1 was born,

Right well I remember what a bright muddy morn,

My daddy, poor man cried out, what a green horn!

Three months scarcely married, hurra how they'll laugh,

Says he to my mother, and troth Judy I'm off

With my didrewhack,
I'm off in a crack,

None of your blarney,
By the powers I wont tarry,
So he left little Larry,
And I ne'er saw more my daddy


Och its there I grew up and a sweetlooking chick,

Always the devil for handling the stick, But somehow or other my numscull was so thick,

Go where I would all the folks they did laugh.

I at length rambled to England where I met with a squad,

They got me promoted to carry the hod,

I crept up the ladder like a cat newly shod,

A steep way to riches, says Lairy O'Gaff.

With my didrewhack in and out, My head turning about, Ladder crack, brake back, Tumble down, crack my crown, Dear Mr. Larry this hod but dis


The shoulders of Mr. O'Gaff.

They made me a servant, then I dressed like a fop,

Bran new and span new, from the bottom to the top;

But the old fellow popt in as I was taking a drop,

Says he Mr. Larry, you bog-trotting calf,

Get out of my house, or I'll leave this about your back,

With a twig in his hand like the mast of a herring smack,

Over my napper he made the switch for to crack,

So he turns off Mr. Larry O'Gaff.
With my didrewhack hub, dub, bo,
Drums beating row, dow, dow;
O dols my life plays the fife,
St. Patrick's day, fire away,
In the army so frisky,
We'll tickle the whisky,
With a whack for old Ireland,
And Larry O'Gaff.

Then they made me a soldier, but oh how genteel,

Scarlet and tapes from the neck to the




Larry says I, wnen brought into the


Larry you don't like this fighting by half,

We fought like the devil as Irishmen do,

So bothered I was to make the foe yield,

But somehow or other I got wounded in the heel,

Hurra for old Ireland and Lary


ON old Long Island's sea-girt shore,
Many an hour I've whil'd away,
In list'ning to the breaker's roar,
That wash the beach of Rockaway.
Transfix'd I've stood while Nature's


In one harmonious concert broke, And catching its Promethean fire,

My inmost soul in rapture woke.

Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! On old Long Island's sea-girt shore,

Many an hour I've whil'd away, In list'ning to the breaker's roar,

That wash the beach of Rockaway

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