Then the Futt and the Dthragoons

In squadthrons and platoons,

With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore; And they bate the rattatoo,

But the Peelers came in view,

And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore.

LARRY O'TOOLE.

You've all heard of Larry O'Toole,
Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole ;
He had but one eye,

To ogle ye by

Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l!

A fool

He made of de girls, dis O'Toole.

'Twas he was the boy didn't fail,

That tuck down pataties and mail;
He never would shrink

From any sthrong dthrink,

Was it whisky or Drogheda ale;

I'm bail

This Larry would swallow a pail.

Oh, many a night at the bowl,

With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl;
He's gone to his rest,

Where there's dthrink of the best,

And so let us give his old sowl

A howl,

For 'twas he made the noggin to rowl.

THE ROSE OF FLORA.

Sent by a Young Gentleman of Quality to Miss Br-dy, of Castle Brady.

On Brady's tower there grows a flower,
It is the loveliest flower that blows,-

At Castle Brady there lives a lady,

(And how I love her no one knows); Her name is Nora, and the goddess Flora Presents her with this blooming rose.

"O Lady Nora," says the goddess Flora,
"I've many a rich and bright parterre;
In Brady's towers there's seven more flowers,
But you're the fairest lady there :
Not all the county, nor Ireland's bounty,

Can projuice a treasure that's half so fair!"

What cheek is redder? sure roses fed her!
Her hair is maregolds, and her eye of blew.
Beneath her eyelid, is like the vi'let,

That darkly glistens with gentle jew !

The lily's nature is not surely whiter

Than Nora's neck is,--and her arrums too.

Come, gentle Nora," says the goddess Flora,
"My dearest creature, take my advice,

There is a poet, full well you know it,

Who spends his lifetime in heavy sighs,—
Young Redmond Barry, 'tis him you'll marry,

If rhyme and raisin you'd choose likewise."

THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE.

ON reading of the general indignation occasioned in Ireland by the appointment of a Scotch Professor to one of HER MAJESTY'S Godless Colleges, MASTER MOLLOY MOLONY, brother of THADDEUS MOLONY, ESQ., of the Temple, a youth only fifteen years of age, dashed off the following spirited lines:

As I think of the insult that's done to this nation,
Red tears of rivinge from me faytures I wash,
And uphold in this pome, to the world's daytistation,
The sleeves that appointed PROFESSOR M'COSH.

I look round me counthree, renowned by exparience,
And see midst her childthren, the witty, the wise,—
Whole hayps of logicians, potes, schollars, grammarians,
All ayger for pleeces, all panting to rise;

I gaze round the world in its utmost diminsion;
LARD JAHN and his minions in Council I ask,
Was there ever a Government-pleece (with a pinsion)
But children of Erin were fit for that task?

What, Erin beloved, is thy fetal condition?

What shame in aych boosom must rankle and burrun,
To think that our countree has ne'er a logician
In the hour of her deenger will surrev her turrun !

On the logic of Saxons there's little reliance,

And, rather from Saxons than gather its rules,
I'd stamp under feet the base book of his science,
And spit on his chair as he taught in the schools!

O false SIR JOHN KANE! is it thus that you praych me?

I think all your Queen's Universitees Bosh; And if you've no neetive Professor to taych me,

I scawurn to be learned by the Saxon M'Cosн.

There's WISEMAN and CHUME, and His Grace the Lord Primate, That sinds round the box, and the world will subscribe;

'Tis they'll build a College that's fit for our climate,

And taych me the saycrets I burn to imboibe!

'Tis there as a Student of Science I'll enther,

Fair Fountain of Knowledge, of Joy, and Contint! SAINT PATHRICK'S Sweet Statue shall stand in the centher, And wink his dear oi every day during Lint.

And good DOCTOR NEWMAN, that praycher unwary,
'Tis he shall preside the Academee School,
And quit the gay robe of ST. PHILIP of Neri,

To wield the soft rod of ST. LAWRENCE O'TOOLE!

THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X.

THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN.

AN igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek—

I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak,

Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see,

Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin of she.

This Mary was pore and in misery once,

And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve`monce.

She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner nor no tea,

And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks,
(Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax,)
She kep her for nothink, as kind as could be,
Never thinkin that this Mary was a traitor to she.

"Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill ;

Will you just step to the Doctor's for to fetch me a pill?" "That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she;

And she goes off to the Doctor's as quickly as may be.