w And there's a hand, my trustie feire, And we'll tak' a right gude willie waught For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, &c And surely you'll be your pint-stoup, And surely I'll be mine; And we'll tak' a drop o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, &c THE LAND OF LOVE AND LIBERTY HAIL, great republic of the world! Gave Europe's sons a place of rest. Beneath thy spreading mantling vines, From thee may future nations learn That sacred are the rights of man. Of thee may sleeping infancy May guardian angels watch around, From harm protect these new-born states; And all ye friendly, friendly nations join, And thus salute the child of fate Be thou for ever, &c. MY HIGHLAND HOME. Mr Highland home, where tempests blow, And cold thy wintry looks, Thy hills are crowned with driven snow, And ice-bound are tły brooks: But colder far the Scotsman's heart, To whom these words no joy impart― My native Highland home. Then gang with me to Scotland, dear, We ne'er again will roam; And with thy smiles, so bonny, cheer When summer comes, the heather bell THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH. OCH, love is the soul of a nate Irishman, He loves all the lovely, loves all that he can, With his sprig of shillelah and sham rock so green. His heart is good-humour'd--'tis honest and sound, No malice or hatred is there to be found, He courts and he marries, he drinks and he fights, For love, all for love, for in that he delights, With his sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green. Who has e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair? An Irishman all in his glory is there, With his sprig of shillelah and sham rock so green: His clothes spick and span new, without e'er a speck, A neat Barcelona tied round his white neck: He goes to a tent and he spends half a crown, He meets with a friend-and for love knocks him down With a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green. At evening returning, as homeward he goes, His heart soft with whiskey, his head soft with blows From a sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green, He meets with his Shelah, who, blushing a smile, Cries, "Get ye gone, Pat," yet consents all the while To the priest then they go-and, nine months after that, A fine baby cries out "How d'ye do, father Pat, With your sprig of shillelah and shamrock so green." Bless the country, say I, that gave Patrick his birth, Bless the land of the oak, and its neigh bouring earth, Where grows the shillelah and sham rock so green. May the sons of the Thames, the Tweed, and the Shannon, Drub the foe who dares plant on our confines a cannon: United and happy, at loyalty's shrine, May the rose, leek, and thistle long flourish and twine Round a sprig of shillelah and sham rock so green. |