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I'M Larry O'Lash'em, was born at Killarney,
Myself drove a noddy in Dublin sweet town,
And got fares enough, 'cause I tipt the folks blarney,
But myself was knocked up, 'cause
I knocked a man down.
So to London I drove to avoid the
There to drive hackney-coaches engaged for the pelf;
And honestly, out of my fares, paid my
Two-thirds, and kept only one-half for myself.
With my tal de ral, &c.
I took up a buck, and because 'twas the fashion,
He mounted the box and bade me get inside;
And because I refused, he fell into a
So thinks I, while I'm walking, I may as well ride
I amused myself laughing to see how
Wheels after the fore ones most furiously paid,
Till a wheel broke its leg, spilt the coach out of the window;
While my head and the pavement at nut-cracking played.
I next drove a couple one morn to get married,
The lady was sixty, the gemman a
For sake of her money the courtship he carried,
But repenting, deserted her at the church door.
She swounded away-so a pity 'twas thinking,
Allured by the rhino, myself intercedes
soon after she died
And left me a widow forlorn in my weeds.
And got married
of hard drinking,
Having fingered the cash that was due by my marriage,
I set up for myself, now a bachelor made;
I purchased a fine bran new secondhand carriage,
Became my own Jarvey, and drive a fine trade.
And my coach and my horses, in case of invasion,
I'll send to the troops, and I'll join in the strife;
And if I am kilt in defence of the nation, 'Twill make me a hero the rest of my life.
JOHN OF CASTLETON.
THE mighty John, of Castleton,
With whiskey prim'd, his heart inclin'd
Let time pass as it may,
Come fill your cups to overflowing And drink, drink and be gay, The bottle joy alone bestowing
Now John, alas, to his sweet lass,
He vow'd and swore he'd ne'er drink whiskey more,
For her he'd renounce it from that hour.
Next day, 'tis said, the pair were wed
He got confounded mellow.
His Jenny cried, but he replied,
A jolly boy will life enjoy,
THE SWEET MOUNTAINEER
SWEET mountaineer, ah! list, now,
So shall his aim be still unerring,
HEIGH FOR A PETTICOAT
ОCH! a petticoat, honey, 's an Irish man's joy,
Go where he will his time merrily
Search the world over, sure Paddy's
For banging the men, and for kissing the lasses.
And if you but get a red coat to your back, In Russia, in Prussia, in France or in Flanders,
All the pretty ma'amselles have a mighty neat knack
Of cocking their chins at both men and commanders.