When summer has gone, and winter's

chill hours Have rifled the greenwood and blighted

the flowersTho' ice-pound the brook, and snow

clad the dale, The proudest might envy our home in

the vale.

MARY DRAPER.

AIR.-Nancy Dawson.
Don't talk to me of London dames,
Nor rave about your foreign flames,
That never lived-except in drames,

Nor shone, except on paper;
I'll sing you 'bout a girl I knew,
Who lived in Ballywhacmacrew,
And, let me tell you, mighty few

Could equal Mary Draper.
Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue,
Her hair was brown of deepest hne,
Her foot was small and neat to view

Her waist was slight and taper ;
Her voice was music to your ear,
A lovely brogue, so rich and clear,
O, the like I ne'er again shall hear

As from sweet Mary Draper.

She'd ride a wall, she'd drive a tean,
Or with a fly she'd whip a stream,
Or maybe sing you “Rousseau's

Dream,”
For nothing could escape her:
I've seen her too_upon my word-
At sixty yards bring down a bird,
O! she charmed all the Forty-third'

Did lovely Mary Draper.
And at the spring assizes ball,
The junior bar would one and all
For all her fav’rite dances call,

And Harry Deane would caper; Lord Clare would then forget his lore, King's counsel, voting law a bore, Were proud to figure on the floor,

For love of Mary Draper. The parson, priest, sub-sheriff too, Were all her slaves, and so would you, If you had only but one view

Of such a face and shape, or
Her pretty ankles—but, phone,
It's only west of old Athlone
Such girls were found—and now they're

gone;
So here's to Mary Draper.

minn

BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING.

Air.-Paddy O'Carroll
Bad luck to this marching,

Pipeclaying and starching;
How neat one must be to be killed by

the French !
I'm sick of parading,

Through wet and cowld wading,
Or standing all night to be shot in the

trench.
To the tune o' a fife,

They dispose of your life,
You surrender your soul to some illi-

gant lilt,
Now I like Garryowen,

When I hear it at home,
But it's not half so sweet when you're

going to be kilt.
Then though up late and early,
Our pay comes so rarely,
The devil a farthing we've ever to

spare ;
They say some disaster,

Befel the paymaster;
On my conscience, I think that the

money's not there.

And, just think, what a blunder;

They won't let us plunder,
While the people invite us to rob them,

'tis clear;
Though there isn't a village,

But cries, “Come and pillage.”
Yet we leave all the mutton behind for

Mounseer.

Like a sailor that's nigh land,
I long for that island
Where even the kisses we steal if we

please ;
Where it is no disgrace,

If you don't wash your face,
And you've nothing to do but stand at

your ease.
With no sergeant t' abuse us,

We fight to amuse us,
Sure it's better beat Christian than

kick a baboon;
How I'd dance like a fairy,

To see ould Dunleary,
And think twice ere I'd leave it to lie a

dragoon.

PADDY'S TRIP FROM DUBLIN. 'Twas business required I'd from Dube

lin be straying, I bargained the captain to sail pretty

quick, But just at the moment the anchor was

weighing, A spalpeen, he wanted to play me a

trick. Says he, Paddy, go down stairs and

fetch me some beer now; Says I, by my shoul you're monstra

tiously kind; Then you'll sail away, and I'll look

mighty queer now, When I come up to see myself all left behind. With

my

tal de ral lal, &c. A storm met the ship and did so dodge

her, Says the Captain, We'll sink, or be all

cast away ;

Thinks I, never mind, 'cause I'm only

a lodger, And my life is insured, so the office

must pay