IRISH MOLLY.

OH! who is that poor foreigner that lately came to town,

And like a ghost that cannot rest still wanders up and down? A poor unhappy Scottish youth;if more you wish to know, His heart is breaking all for love of Irish Molly O!

She's modest, mild and beautiful, the fairest I have known

The primrose of Ireland-all blooming here alone

The primrose of Ireland-for wheresoe'er I go,

The only one entices me is Irish Molly Ŏ!

When Molly's father heard of it, a solemn oath he swore,

That if she'd wed a foreigner he'd never see her more,

He sent for young Mac-Donald and he plainly told him so

"I'll never give to such as you my Irish Molly O!"

She's modest, &c.

mmmm

Mac-Donald heard the heavy news,—

and grievously did say "Farewell my lovely Molly-since I'm banished far away,

A poor forlorn pilgrim I must wander to and fro,

And all for the sake of my Irish Molly O!

She's inodest, &c.

"There is a rose in Ireland—I thought it would be mine;

But now that she is lost to me, I must for ever pine,

Till death shall come to comfort me, for to the grave I'll go;

And all for the sake of my Irish Mol ly O!

She's modest, &c.

“And now that I am dying-this on request I crave,

To place a marble tomb-stone above my humble grave,

And on the stone these simple words I'd have engraven so

Mac-Donald lost his life for love of

Irish Molly O!"

She's modest, &c.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side
On a bright May-mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride:
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high-
And the red was on your lip, Mary
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

And your breath warm on my cheek, And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak.

"Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near,
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest―
For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends, But, oh! they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary, My blessin' and my pride: There's nothin' left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Your's was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was
gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,

And the kind look on your browI bless you, Mary, for that same,

Though you cannot hear me now

I thank you for the patient smile

When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,

And you hid it, for my sake! I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and soreOh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more.

Im biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling!
In the land I'm goin' to;
They say there's bread and work for all
And the sun shines always there-
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair.

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side:

And the springin' corn, and the bright

May-morn,

When first you were my bride ^

THE IRISH DRAGOON.

"Oh love is the soul of an Irish Dragoon, In battle, in bivouac, or in saloonFrom the tip of his spur to his bright sabertasche.

With his soldierly gait and his bearing so high,

His gay laughing look, and his light speaking eye,