Then heigh for the petticoat, that is the joy, Go where I will my time merrily passes; Search the world over, sure Paddy's the boy For banging the men, and for kissing the lasses. When sweet Kitty Conner pierced me clean through the heart, And chose Teddy Blarney, a big man of honour, One moon-shiny night to give ease to my smart, I kicked Mr. Blarney, and kissed And the little plump god, for his mother knew what, Was the son of old Mars, or he'd never alarm ye; And if he'd be growing as tall as he's fat, You'd see Mr. Cupid brought up to the army. Then heigh for the petticoat, &c. OH, JUDY, YOU DIVIL. Oн, Judy, you divil, you bother me so, Oh, oh, oh, oh, Like a red-hot potato I'm all in a glow, Oh, oh, oh, oh, For though but one eye you have got in your head, By the hoky, its glances have kit me quite dead; Oh, Judy, you divil, you bother me so, Oh, oh, oh, oh. Your smile, my dear jewel's my joy and my pride, Though your mouth, to be sure, is a trifle too wide; No poet alive could the beauties disclose Of the illegant pimple that grows on your nose. By my sowl you're a Venus in figure and face, You walk with such stately magnificent grace, And though one of your legs, dear, a wooden one be, It for beauty bates all that I ever did see. Oh, don't you remember last Donnybrook fair? The first time I saw you, dear Judy, was there, And when you was insulted by Patrick O'Maily, Sure I bate out his brains with a twig of shillelah. Don't you know what a snug little cabin I've got, In the midst of a bog-a most beautiful spot! An illegant garden, with praties a-growing, All as fine as can be sure, they only want sowing. Oh, give yer consent then, and let us be married, To church in a noddy, och faith! we'll be carried, And when we come home, so blithe and so frisky, Go to bed roaring drunk with swigging good whiskey. THE PRAISE AND GLORY OF OULD IRELAND. AIR.-Na Guilloch y' Goulen OH! Once we were illigant people Though we now live in cabins of mud; And the land that ye see from the steeple Belonged to us all from the flood, My father was then king of Connaught, My grandaunt viceroy of Tralee; But the Sassenach came, and, signs on it' The devil an acre have we. The least of us then were all earls, Mr. Petrie can tell you the same.— But, except some turf mould and potatoes, There's nothing our own we can call: And the English-bad luck to them' hate us, Because we've more fun than them all! "My grandaunt was niece to St. Kevin, That's the reason my name's Mickey Free! Priest's nieces-but sure he's in Heaven, And his failins is nothin to me, And we still might get on without doctors, If they'd let the ould island alors, And if purple men, priests, and titueproctors, Were crammed down the great gun of Athlone. DRINKING CHORUS. DROWN in the sparkling glass to-day, All gloomy thoughts of care and sorrow, For who in time of war can say, Fill up, drink down, Fill up, drink down, And grief in each goblet drown |