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And there's no use at all in my going to bed,

For 'tis dhrames and not sleep that comes into my head,

And 'tis all about you,
My sweet Molly Carew-
And indeed 'tis a sin and shame!
You're complater than nature
In every feature,

The snow can't compare With your forehead so fair, And I rather would see just one blink

of your eye,

Than the prettiest star that shines out of the sky,

And by this and by that,
For the matter o' that,

You're more distant by far than that same!

Och hone! weirasthru !

I'm alone in this world without you.

Och hone! but why should I spake
Of your forehead and eyes,
When your nose it defies

Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in rhyme,


says, that

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Tho' there's one BURKE, he
would call it sublime ;
And then for your cheek,
Troth 't would take him a week,
It's beauties to tell, as he'd rather;
Then your lips! oh, machree!
In their beautiful glow,
They a pattern may be
For the cherries to grow.
"Twas an apple that tempted our mother,

we know,

For apples were scarce, I suppose, long

But at this time o' day,

'Pon my conscience I'll say, Such cherries might tempt a man's father!

Och hone! weirasthru !

I'm alone in this wide world without

Och hone! by the man in the moon,
You taze me all ways
That a woman can plaze,

For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat Magee,

As when you take share of a jig, dear, with me.

Tho' the piper I bate,
For fear the owld cheat

Would'nt play you your favorite tune

When you're at mass, My devotion you crass, For 'tis thinking of you, I am, Molly Carew. While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so deep,

That I can't at your sweet purty face get a peep.

Oh, lave off that bonnet,
Or else I'll lave on it

The loss of my wandering sowl! Och hone! weirasthru ! Och hone! like an owl, Day is night, dear to me, without you! Och hone! don't provoke me to do it; For there's girls by the score That loves me—and more,

And you'd look very quare if some morning you'd meet

My wedding all marching in pride down the street;

Troth, you'd open your eyes, And you'd die with surprise To think 'twasn't you was come to it.

And faith, Katty Naile,
And her cow, I go bail,
Would jump, if I'd say
"Katty Naile, name the day."

And tho' you're fair and fresh as a morning in May,

While she's short and dark like a cold
winter's day:
Yet if
don't repent
Before Easter, when Lent

Is over, I'll marry for spite,
Och hone! weirasthru !
And when I die for you,

My ghost will haunt you every night.


A PLACE in thy memory, dearest,
Is all that I claim,

To pause and look back when thou hearest

The sound of my name.

Another may woo thee, nearer,
Another may win and wear;
I care not though he be dearer,
If I am remembered there

Remember me-not as a lover
Whose hope was cross'd-
Whose bosom can never recover
The light it hath lost.

As the young bride remembers the mother

She loves, though she never may see, As a sister remembers a brother, O, dearest! remember me.

Could I be thy true-lover, dearest,
Could'st thou smile on me ;
I would be the fondest and nearest
That ever loved thee!

But a cloud on my pathway is glooming,
That never must burst upon thine;
And Heaven that made thee all bloom-


Ne'er made thee to wither on mine

Remember me then-O, remember
My calm, light-love;
Though bleak as the blasts of November,
My love may prove.

That life will, though lonely, be sweet If its brightest enjoyment should be A smile and kind-look when we meet, And a place in thy memory.

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