WOMAN'S TEARS.

Woman's Tears

THE tears were in her eye,Said I "what makes you cry?"And my sympathy was such, that I sighed;For it gives my heart the creep,To see a woman weep,—Especially the one to be my Bride."Alas!" said I, "Ah! me,It grieveth me, to seeThat trickle, at your nostril, by the side.""'Twas the onions, I was cutting," she replied.

THE tears were in her eye,Said I "what makes you cry?"And my sympathy was such, that I sighed;For it gives my heart the creep,To see a woman weep,—Especially the one to be my Bride.

THE tears were in her eye,

Said I "what makes you cry?"

And my sympathy was such, that I sighed;

For it gives my heart the creep,

To see a woman weep,—

Especially the one to be my Bride.

"Alas!" said I, "Ah! me,It grieveth me, to seeThat trickle, at your nostril, by the side."

"Alas!" said I, "Ah! me,

It grieveth me, to see

That trickle, at your nostril, by the side."

"'Twas the onions, I was cutting," she replied.

HERADIC FRUITS OF A FAMILY TREE By a Lyin' King Of Arms

WHEN Cha, the first,Was run to ground,An AncestorialMite was found;By Rails in Pale,At Dexter Chief,From Judges' wig,He pipes his grief.HIS deeds, of laterLife, did tend,To prove him ofThe Sinister Bend;As boozing Charge,He takes his place,From Sinister Chief,To Dexter Base.HIS son, did ChargeIn Sable Chief,A Sword, or heHad come to grief;That Chief above,From Sinister, part,Has got,—per Fesse—That Sword in Heart!ANOTHER Son,Of prudent parts,Doth Pawn his Arms,For peaceful arts;From Dexter or,On Shield of Gu,In pale, reguardantSinister Jew.ANOTHER Son,From want appeald,To art, for Charge,On Argent Shield,And so, uponHis Coat he drewA Garb, that heMight dare, and doHE sought to VoidA hen-coup, heIs Trussed above it,On a tree;Couchant, in Chief,With Spade, in Fesse,A sorry wight,He must confess.AT length, an OrientPile, he took,Then Counterchanged,His Coat for luck!This Dexter treatment,Is not right;He's Or, on Ar,The lawless wight!BUT ah! at last,His fate was healedAnd by command,Got Royal Shield;A Dexter King,Reguardant, won!He dyed, and leftAn "only Son."

WHEN Cha, the first,Was run to ground,An AncestorialMite was found;By Rails in Pale,At Dexter Chief,From Judges' wig,He pipes his grief.

WHEN Cha, the first,

Was run to ground,

An Ancestorial

Mite was found;

By Rails in Pale,

At Dexter Chief,

From Judges' wig,

He pipes his grief.

HIS deeds, of laterLife, did tend,To prove him ofThe Sinister Bend;As boozing Charge,He takes his place,From Sinister Chief,To Dexter Base.

HIS deeds, of later

Life, did tend,

To prove him of

The Sinister Bend;

As boozing Charge,

He takes his place,

From Sinister Chief,

To Dexter Base.

HIS son, did ChargeIn Sable Chief,A Sword, or heHad come to grief;That Chief above,From Sinister, part,Has got,—per Fesse—That Sword in Heart!

HIS son, did Charge

In Sable Chief,

A Sword, or he

Had come to grief;

That Chief above,

From Sinister, part,

Has got,—per Fesse—

That Sword in Heart!

ANOTHER Son,Of prudent parts,Doth Pawn his Arms,For peaceful arts;From Dexter or,On Shield of Gu,In pale, reguardantSinister Jew.

ANOTHER Son,

Of prudent parts,

Doth Pawn his Arms,

For peaceful arts;

From Dexter or,

On Shield of Gu,

In pale, reguardant

Sinister Jew.

ANOTHER Son,From want appeald,To art, for Charge,On Argent Shield,And so, uponHis Coat he drewA Garb, that heMight dare, and do

ANOTHER Son,

From want appeald,

To art, for Charge,

On Argent Shield,

And so, upon

His Coat he drew

A Garb, that he

Might dare, and do

HE sought to VoidA hen-coup, heIs Trussed above it,On a tree;Couchant, in Chief,With Spade, in Fesse,A sorry wight,He must confess.

HE sought to Void

A hen-coup, he

Is Trussed above it,

On a tree;

Couchant, in Chief,

With Spade, in Fesse,

A sorry wight,

He must confess.

AT length, an OrientPile, he took,Then Counterchanged,His Coat for luck!This Dexter treatment,Is not right;He's Or, on Ar,The lawless wight!

AT length, an Orient

Pile, he took,

Then Counterchanged,

His Coat for luck!

This Dexter treatment,

Is not right;

He's Or, on Ar,

The lawless wight!

BUT ah! at last,His fate was healedAnd by command,Got Royal Shield;A Dexter King,Reguardant, won!He dyed, and leftAn "only Son."

BUT ah! at last,

His fate was healed

And by command,

Got Royal Shield;

A Dexter King,

Reguardant, won!

He dyed, and left

An "only Son."

THE man who confidently seeks to set up a new idea, by upsetting an old theory, or tradition, is one who lives in advance of his time, whereby he forfeits many valued amenities of contemporaneous courtesy. But he is to be extolled for the moral heroism that impells him, to advance new facts, into the study of history, or explode errors so steadfastly grounded on the popular belief, that he finds himself, pen to pen with a hostile army of Savants, Antiquarians, Historians, and Critics: some stirred with spirit of envy, others with a craving for notoriety, but all unanimous, and up in arms, with loaded pens and arsenal of inkpots.In this regard I find myself, by placing the correct revision of a popular tradition before my discerning readers.I have to confess that it was not thro' deep and industrious research, that I am thus enabled to challenge the truth, of the accepted records.It was thro' the chance, afforded by an hour of breezing sea-scape recreation, that I discovered the mysterious chronicle.The popular tradition, is thus related by Dr. Walsh. "The celebrated Grana Uille or Grace O'Mally, noted for her piratical depredations in the reign of Elizabeth, returning on a certain time from England, where she had paid a visit to the Queen, landed at Howth, and proceeded to thecastle. It was the hour of dinner—but the gates were shut. Shocked at an exclusion so repugnant to her notions of Irish hospitality, she immediately proceeded to the shore, where the young lord was at nurse, and seizing the child, she embarked with, and sailed to Connaught, where her own castle stood.After a time, however, she restored the child; with the express stipulation, that the gates should be thrown open, when the family went to dinner—a practice which is observed to this day."

In this regard I find myself, by placing the correct revision of a popular tradition before my discerning readers.

I have to confess that it was not thro' deep and industrious research, that I am thus enabled to challenge the truth, of the accepted records.

It was thro' the chance, afforded by an hour of breezing sea-scape recreation, that I discovered the mysterious chronicle.

The popular tradition, is thus related by Dr. Walsh. "The celebrated Grana Uille or Grace O'Mally, noted for her piratical depredations in the reign of Elizabeth, returning on a certain time from England, where she had paid a visit to the Queen, landed at Howth, and proceeded to thecastle. It was the hour of dinner—but the gates were shut. Shocked at an exclusion so repugnant to her notions of Irish hospitality, she immediately proceeded to the shore, where the young lord was at nurse, and seizing the child, she embarked with, and sailed to Connaught, where her own castle stood.

After a time, however, she restored the child; with the express stipulation, that the gates should be thrown open, when the family went to dinner—a practice which is observed to this day."

WHEN the Hill of Howth was covered, by a city great, and grand,And nuggets still were gathered, like cockles on the strand;On the shore, around by Sutton, a children's maid was met,Who was wheeling of a baby, in a sky blue bassinet.And as that maiden cycled that infant by the sea,Down the boreen from the Bailey, came number 90 B;And he sudden lit his eye on, he sudden had her set,That slavey, with the baby, in the sky blue bassinet.He held aloft his baton, saluted like a man,Said he "I'm almost certain, you're name is Mary Anne,The sergeant up the boreen, in the distance there is gone,We'll make the distance greater, if you and I move on.For fifty years I've ambushed, and watched around me bate,But never met a sweetheart, that took me so complate,And what's a bate? it's nothin' to a polis, whin he's gone!I'm gone on you me darlin', let you and I move on.""O hoky smoke! avourneen, I never seen yer like,As sure's me name is Dooley, with the christian name of Mike,I sware it, by this number, on my collar, which you see,I'm shockin' fond of you agra," said No. 90 B.He took that trusting maiden, to the adjacent strand,"A punt is on the shingles, convaynient here to hand,Put the bassinet into it," said the blue official fox,"We'll go and look for winkles, thro' seaweed on the rocks."Now whether or for winkles, or what it was they went,They stayed away much longer than was their first intent,A thoughtless time, that stranded them in a piteous plight,The tide was in, O Moses! the punt was out of sight.Upon that woeful morning, the fact we may not shunt,The little Lord St. Lawrence, was kidnapped by a punt,And reverbrated wailings, of his nurse is echoed still,With oathings of the polis, around Ben Heder hill!But then it struck that polis, a hopeful thought of mark,And to the weeping servant, he muttered, "Whist! an' hark!"Then put his index finger, abaft his coral nose,"Howld on! I'll go, an' square it, I've got a schame, here goes!"The crafty rogue departed, and told the specious tale,Of how the child was stolen by the Princess Granauille,He told the weeping mother, he almost thought he knew,From information he received, that he had got a clew,When Granauille was challenged, it struck her, she could makeA profitable bargain, in re her nephew's sake,'Twas just before his teething; his nose was but a blob,Like every other baby's, so she could work the job.As tourist come from Connaught, she owned that it befel,That she had left her galley, to find a cheap hotel,But when she reached the castle, with appetite, it shockedHer, when she found the outer door, at dinner time was locked!She thought it mean, and stingy, the child she lifted then—And told that subtle polis, she'd give the child again,In safety to its father, if he would leave the door,At dinner, always open, on the latch for evermore.Upon Lord Howth, she fathered her nephew in this way,That he might be ancestor of Viscount Howth to-day,And if you want a dinner, I'll give you all a tip,There's just a fleeting moment, I've always let it slip,—The minute hand records it, upon the castle clock,And if you're up that moment, you have no need to knock,Walk in, the door is open, and make "a hearty male,"And thank that crafty polis, and the Princess Granauille.And now about the baby, his voyaging began,Before he'd had his teething, and still he's not a man,He's yet a child! whose ravings Across the ocean flew,Of "Who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"He's never grown a whisker, he's never known a beard!Of hair upon the cranium, he never yet has heard!And so he is not altered, he's still in statu quo,As bald and snub, and chubby, as three hundred years ago!Three hundred years are over, and lo! he's living yet,He made a sleeping cabin, from the sky blue bassinet,He made the punt commodious, with wreckage that he found,But of a human sinner, he's never heard a sound!He lives without a purpose, an object or intent,Three hundred years of waiting, in ignorance are spent,He lives; and for this reason, because he never knew,Of who he is, or where he is, or what he is to do!He never saw a sailor! he never hailed a sail!The pensive penguin harkened unto his lonely wail;The albatross did follow he shrieked him for the clew,"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"He pleaded to the swallow, and Mother Cary's chicks,Of his expatriation, and in his devilish fix,Besought the mild octopus, and all the ocean crew,"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"He hailed the great sea serpent, the comprehensive whale,The flying fish, to answer, the burden of his wail,Of what the deuce had happened, that life was all so blue!"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"He is not dead, it's certain, I'll merely mention here,He may be in mid ocean, or yet he may be near,The north wall boat may hail him, it's prophesied that yet,Hell be thrown up at Sutton, in the sky blue bassinet.Be watching all the papers; for soon or late some day,In leaded type, you'll see it, and with a big displayOf capitals above it, of claimant, who will know,Of what to do, and do it, and one who'll have to go!Now most of you will question, the record I recite,To clear your doubts upon it, I think it's only right,To tell you, I was searching for cockles at Blackrock,When lo! my heart was fluttered with interesting shock!I saw a feeding bottle, that lay upon the strand,I stooped anon and gripped it, with sympathetic hand,I thought it might be jetsam, of baby that was drowned,But looking thro' the bottle, a manuscript I found.And there in broken Irish, it states the fact, that heHad sealed it in his bottle, and still he's on the sea,With anxious intimation, that yet he seeks the clew,Of who he is? and where he is? and what he is to do?

WHEN the Hill of Howth was covered, by a city great, and grand,

And nuggets still were gathered, like cockles on the strand;

On the shore, around by Sutton, a children's maid was met,

Who was wheeling of a baby, in a sky blue bassinet.

And as that maiden cycled that infant by the sea,Down the boreen from the Bailey, came number 90 B;And he sudden lit his eye on, he sudden had her set,That slavey, with the baby, in the sky blue bassinet.

And as that maiden cycled that infant by the sea,

Down the boreen from the Bailey, came number 90 B;

And he sudden lit his eye on, he sudden had her set,

That slavey, with the baby, in the sky blue bassinet.

He held aloft his baton, saluted like a man,Said he "I'm almost certain, you're name is Mary Anne,The sergeant up the boreen, in the distance there is gone,We'll make the distance greater, if you and I move on.

He held aloft his baton, saluted like a man,

Said he "I'm almost certain, you're name is Mary Anne,

The sergeant up the boreen, in the distance there is gone,

We'll make the distance greater, if you and I move on.

For fifty years I've ambushed, and watched around me bate,But never met a sweetheart, that took me so complate,And what's a bate? it's nothin' to a polis, whin he's gone!I'm gone on you me darlin', let you and I move on."

For fifty years I've ambushed, and watched around me bate,

But never met a sweetheart, that took me so complate,

And what's a bate? it's nothin' to a polis, whin he's gone!

I'm gone on you me darlin', let you and I move on."

"O hoky smoke! avourneen, I never seen yer like,As sure's me name is Dooley, with the christian name of Mike,I sware it, by this number, on my collar, which you see,I'm shockin' fond of you agra," said No. 90 B.

"O hoky smoke! avourneen, I never seen yer like,

As sure's me name is Dooley, with the christian name of Mike,

I sware it, by this number, on my collar, which you see,

I'm shockin' fond of you agra," said No. 90 B.

He took that trusting maiden, to the adjacent strand,"A punt is on the shingles, convaynient here to hand,Put the bassinet into it," said the blue official fox,"We'll go and look for winkles, thro' seaweed on the rocks."

He took that trusting maiden, to the adjacent strand,

"A punt is on the shingles, convaynient here to hand,

Put the bassinet into it," said the blue official fox,

"We'll go and look for winkles, thro' seaweed on the rocks."

Now whether or for winkles, or what it was they went,They stayed away much longer than was their first intent,A thoughtless time, that stranded them in a piteous plight,The tide was in, O Moses! the punt was out of sight.

Now whether or for winkles, or what it was they went,

They stayed away much longer than was their first intent,

A thoughtless time, that stranded them in a piteous plight,

The tide was in, O Moses! the punt was out of sight.

Upon that woeful morning, the fact we may not shunt,The little Lord St. Lawrence, was kidnapped by a punt,And reverbrated wailings, of his nurse is echoed still,With oathings of the polis, around Ben Heder hill!

Upon that woeful morning, the fact we may not shunt,

The little Lord St. Lawrence, was kidnapped by a punt,

And reverbrated wailings, of his nurse is echoed still,

With oathings of the polis, around Ben Heder hill!

But then it struck that polis, a hopeful thought of mark,And to the weeping servant, he muttered, "Whist! an' hark!"Then put his index finger, abaft his coral nose,"Howld on! I'll go, an' square it, I've got a schame, here goes!"

But then it struck that polis, a hopeful thought of mark,

And to the weeping servant, he muttered, "Whist! an' hark!"

Then put his index finger, abaft his coral nose,

"Howld on! I'll go, an' square it, I've got a schame, here goes!"

The crafty rogue departed, and told the specious tale,Of how the child was stolen by the Princess Granauille,He told the weeping mother, he almost thought he knew,From information he received, that he had got a clew,

The crafty rogue departed, and told the specious tale,

Of how the child was stolen by the Princess Granauille,

He told the weeping mother, he almost thought he knew,

From information he received, that he had got a clew,

When Granauille was challenged, it struck her, she could makeA profitable bargain, in re her nephew's sake,'Twas just before his teething; his nose was but a blob,Like every other baby's, so she could work the job.

When Granauille was challenged, it struck her, she could make

A profitable bargain, in re her nephew's sake,

'Twas just before his teething; his nose was but a blob,

Like every other baby's, so she could work the job.

As tourist come from Connaught, she owned that it befel,That she had left her galley, to find a cheap hotel,But when she reached the castle, with appetite, it shockedHer, when she found the outer door, at dinner time was locked!

As tourist come from Connaught, she owned that it befel,

That she had left her galley, to find a cheap hotel,

But when she reached the castle, with appetite, it shocked

Her, when she found the outer door, at dinner time was locked!

She thought it mean, and stingy, the child she lifted then—And told that subtle polis, she'd give the child again,In safety to its father, if he would leave the door,At dinner, always open, on the latch for evermore.

She thought it mean, and stingy, the child she lifted then—

And told that subtle polis, she'd give the child again,

In safety to its father, if he would leave the door,

At dinner, always open, on the latch for evermore.

Upon Lord Howth, she fathered her nephew in this way,That he might be ancestor of Viscount Howth to-day,And if you want a dinner, I'll give you all a tip,There's just a fleeting moment, I've always let it slip,—

Upon Lord Howth, she fathered her nephew in this way,

That he might be ancestor of Viscount Howth to-day,

And if you want a dinner, I'll give you all a tip,

There's just a fleeting moment, I've always let it slip,—

The minute hand records it, upon the castle clock,And if you're up that moment, you have no need to knock,Walk in, the door is open, and make "a hearty male,"And thank that crafty polis, and the Princess Granauille.

The minute hand records it, upon the castle clock,

And if you're up that moment, you have no need to knock,

Walk in, the door is open, and make "a hearty male,"

And thank that crafty polis, and the Princess Granauille.

And now about the baby, his voyaging began,Before he'd had his teething, and still he's not a man,He's yet a child! whose ravings Across the ocean flew,Of "Who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"

And now about the baby, his voyaging began,

Before he'd had his teething, and still he's not a man,

He's yet a child! whose ravings Across the ocean flew,

Of "Who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"

He's never grown a whisker, he's never known a beard!Of hair upon the cranium, he never yet has heard!And so he is not altered, he's still in statu quo,As bald and snub, and chubby, as three hundred years ago!

He's never grown a whisker, he's never known a beard!

Of hair upon the cranium, he never yet has heard!

And so he is not altered, he's still in statu quo,

As bald and snub, and chubby, as three hundred years ago!

Three hundred years are over, and lo! he's living yet,He made a sleeping cabin, from the sky blue bassinet,He made the punt commodious, with wreckage that he found,But of a human sinner, he's never heard a sound!

Three hundred years are over, and lo! he's living yet,

He made a sleeping cabin, from the sky blue bassinet,

He made the punt commodious, with wreckage that he found,

But of a human sinner, he's never heard a sound!

He lives without a purpose, an object or intent,Three hundred years of waiting, in ignorance are spent,He lives; and for this reason, because he never knew,Of who he is, or where he is, or what he is to do!

He lives without a purpose, an object or intent,

Three hundred years of waiting, in ignorance are spent,

He lives; and for this reason, because he never knew,

Of who he is, or where he is, or what he is to do!

He never saw a sailor! he never hailed a sail!The pensive penguin harkened unto his lonely wail;The albatross did follow he shrieked him for the clew,"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"

He never saw a sailor! he never hailed a sail!

The pensive penguin harkened unto his lonely wail;

The albatross did follow he shrieked him for the clew,

"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"

He pleaded to the swallow, and Mother Cary's chicks,Of his expatriation, and in his devilish fix,Besought the mild octopus, and all the ocean crew,"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"

He pleaded to the swallow, and Mother Cary's chicks,

Of his expatriation, and in his devilish fix,

Besought the mild octopus, and all the ocean crew,

"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"

He hailed the great sea serpent, the comprehensive whale,The flying fish, to answer, the burden of his wail,Of what the deuce had happened, that life was all so blue!"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"

He hailed the great sea serpent, the comprehensive whale,

The flying fish, to answer, the burden of his wail,

Of what the deuce had happened, that life was all so blue!

"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"

He is not dead, it's certain, I'll merely mention here,He may be in mid ocean, or yet he may be near,The north wall boat may hail him, it's prophesied that yet,Hell be thrown up at Sutton, in the sky blue bassinet.

He is not dead, it's certain, I'll merely mention here,

He may be in mid ocean, or yet he may be near,

The north wall boat may hail him, it's prophesied that yet,

Hell be thrown up at Sutton, in the sky blue bassinet.

Be watching all the papers; for soon or late some day,In leaded type, you'll see it, and with a big displayOf capitals above it, of claimant, who will know,Of what to do, and do it, and one who'll have to go!

Be watching all the papers; for soon or late some day,

In leaded type, you'll see it, and with a big display

Of capitals above it, of claimant, who will know,

Of what to do, and do it, and one who'll have to go!

Now most of you will question, the record I recite,To clear your doubts upon it, I think it's only right,To tell you, I was searching for cockles at Blackrock,When lo! my heart was fluttered with interesting shock!

Now most of you will question, the record I recite,

To clear your doubts upon it, I think it's only right,

To tell you, I was searching for cockles at Blackrock,

When lo! my heart was fluttered with interesting shock!

I saw a feeding bottle, that lay upon the strand,I stooped anon and gripped it, with sympathetic hand,I thought it might be jetsam, of baby that was drowned,But looking thro' the bottle, a manuscript I found.

I saw a feeding bottle, that lay upon the strand,

I stooped anon and gripped it, with sympathetic hand,

I thought it might be jetsam, of baby that was drowned,

But looking thro' the bottle, a manuscript I found.

And there in broken Irish, it states the fact, that heHad sealed it in his bottle, and still he's on the sea,With anxious intimation, that yet he seeks the clew,Of who he is? and where he is? and what he is to do?

And there in broken Irish, it states the fact, that he

Had sealed it in his bottle, and still he's on the sea,

With anxious intimation, that yet he seeks the clew,

Of who he is? and where he is? and what he is to do?

MARVELOUS RELIC, A MESSAGE FROM THE C——

A Horror of London Town

ON London streets by a gin shop door,In the blaze of a noontide sun,With horrible zest of a thirst for gore,Was a desperate murder done,On the sainted flags of a Christian town,I saw this outrage planned,And three little boys, in crime, sere brownWere there with a helping hand.'Twas a group of seven—I counted them all,A group of seven strong men,And summing them up, with the criminals small,Their total I think was ten,With umbrellas, and sticks, and stones,They hunted a sad wretch down,Mid random of kicks, and ogerous groans,A shame unto London town!But while was fought the unequal fight,That murder of ten to one,There came an ominous venger of right,They call him a copper for fun,And I said he'll be pulling the lot of them; thenThe villians ha! ha! shall seeThere are dungeons dark for the murderous ten,In the walls of the Old Bailee!But no! He paused, and he gravely stood,And the never a stir, stirred he,As he saw them compass the deed of blood,To its end with a ghastly glee,And O 'twas pity to hear the tones,Of the suppliant's voice in pain,As he sought to fly from the sticks and stones,And the yells of "Hit, hit him again!"A drayman flourished the butt of his whip,I am sure it was loaded with lead,And his laugh was wild, as a terrible clip,He aimed at the victim's head!Alas! too sure, by the jugular vein,He was struck, and he dropped and died,And the drayman shook, as he laughed amain,For blood was the caitiff's pride!But O I proved, ere I wandered home,There yet was a friend most true,Who bore the corse to a silent tomb,Ah! yes, and embalmed it too,A kind purveyor came walking by,And he stopped on the edge of the flag,Then turned to his boy, and exclaimed with a sigh,"Jim, slip the dead rat in your bag."

ON London streets by a gin shop door,

In the blaze of a noontide sun,

With horrible zest of a thirst for gore,

Was a desperate murder done,

On the sainted flags of a Christian town,

I saw this outrage planned,

And three little boys, in crime, sere brown

Were there with a helping hand.

'Twas a group of seven—I counted them all,A group of seven strong men,And summing them up, with the criminals small,Their total I think was ten,With umbrellas, and sticks, and stones,They hunted a sad wretch down,Mid random of kicks, and ogerous groans,A shame unto London town!

'Twas a group of seven—I counted them all,

A group of seven strong men,

And summing them up, with the criminals small,

Their total I think was ten,

With umbrellas, and sticks, and stones,

They hunted a sad wretch down,

Mid random of kicks, and ogerous groans,

A shame unto London town!

But while was fought the unequal fight,That murder of ten to one,There came an ominous venger of right,They call him a copper for fun,And I said he'll be pulling the lot of them; thenThe villians ha! ha! shall seeThere are dungeons dark for the murderous ten,In the walls of the Old Bailee!

But while was fought the unequal fight,

That murder of ten to one,

There came an ominous venger of right,

They call him a copper for fun,

And I said he'll be pulling the lot of them; then

The villians ha! ha! shall see

There are dungeons dark for the murderous ten,

In the walls of the Old Bailee!

But no! He paused, and he gravely stood,And the never a stir, stirred he,As he saw them compass the deed of blood,To its end with a ghastly glee,And O 'twas pity to hear the tones,Of the suppliant's voice in pain,As he sought to fly from the sticks and stones,And the yells of "Hit, hit him again!"

But no! He paused, and he gravely stood,

And the never a stir, stirred he,

As he saw them compass the deed of blood,

To its end with a ghastly glee,

And O 'twas pity to hear the tones,

Of the suppliant's voice in pain,

As he sought to fly from the sticks and stones,

And the yells of "Hit, hit him again!"

A drayman flourished the butt of his whip,I am sure it was loaded with lead,And his laugh was wild, as a terrible clip,He aimed at the victim's head!Alas! too sure, by the jugular vein,He was struck, and he dropped and died,And the drayman shook, as he laughed amain,For blood was the caitiff's pride!

A drayman flourished the butt of his whip,

I am sure it was loaded with lead,

And his laugh was wild, as a terrible clip,

He aimed at the victim's head!

Alas! too sure, by the jugular vein,

He was struck, and he dropped and died,

And the drayman shook, as he laughed amain,

For blood was the caitiff's pride!

But O I proved, ere I wandered home,There yet was a friend most true,Who bore the corse to a silent tomb,Ah! yes, and embalmed it too,A kind purveyor came walking by,And he stopped on the edge of the flag,Then turned to his boy, and exclaimed with a sigh,"Jim, slip the dead rat in your bag."

But O I proved, ere I wandered home,

There yet was a friend most true,

Who bore the corse to a silent tomb,

Ah! yes, and embalmed it too,

A kind purveyor came walking by,

And he stopped on the edge of the flag,

Then turned to his boy, and exclaimed with a sigh,

"Jim, slip the dead rat in your bag."

A Confidential SonnetI

IMET him one night there,North east of Leicester Square,Within about a quarter of a mile,"I've confidence," said he,"In all humanity,I'll leave my bloomin' purse with thee awhile!"He left it, went awayThen coming back, "I say,"Said he, with an insinuating smile,"Now lend your watch to me,For I am like yourself without no guile,"He took it, went away,And from that evil day,I keep that man's description on my file.

IMET him one night there,

North east of Leicester Square,

Within about a quarter of a mile,

"I've confidence," said he,

"In all humanity,

I'll leave my bloomin' purse with thee awhile!"

He left it, went away

Then coming back, "I say,"

Said he, with an insinuating smile,

"Now lend your watch to me,

For I am like yourself without no guile,"

He took it, went away,

And from that evil day,

I keep that man's description on my file.

A Tram Car Ghost

THE last car at night, is a vehicle laden with varied symptoms of mysterious hauntings that more or less oppress the fares, some toned down by the lassitude of overwork, drop gratefully into their seats, and quickly fall into fitful slumber, others seem to court a spasmodic notoriety by loud and disjointed converse. A weary of world expression clouds the features of a few with an unuttered protest, for the disagreeable fact of their birth, whilst others seem by their grumpy glances to suggest a jealous objection to other people's existence.A select few, unconsciously advertise a flippant gratification at the possession of life, and squeeze festivity from it, as colour from a blue rag. But all are haunted with the mysterious workings of unseen spirits, that usually accompany the fares, in the latest car at night.

A select few, unconsciously advertise a flippant gratification at the possession of life, and squeeze festivity from it, as colour from a blue rag. But all are haunted with the mysterious workings of unseen spirits, that usually accompany the fares, in the latest car at night.

THERE wasn't a soul in the tramway car,Well not that myself could see,But the sad conductor took my arm,And steadfast gazed on me—Then pointing up to the corner seat,"Look! that's his regular game,I'm sorry to have it to say of a ghost,But he hasn't a tint of shame!"You'll think the tram conductor was drunk,His breath was sweet as mine,Like the orris root, or a tint of mint,Or scent of a similar line.It might be a ginger cordial; butThe air of the night was strong,And it wouldn't be proper to say I'm sure,I might perhaps be wrong."Will you slack?" said I, but he caught my arm"The man that I killed is there!I hate to have it to say. But no,I can't recover my fare!I asked it from him one winter's night,But full as a tick with drink,The only answer he gave to me,Was just a chuckle and wink.With this American tink-a-ting,I couldn't defraud the Co.,So caught his collar, and chucked him offThe back of the tram car, so.There wasn't a soul that saw the deed,Not even the driver knew,And there he lay on the tramway track,Till the townward car was due.It broke his neck, and his shoulder blade,His legs, and arms, its broke,And laid him out, a squirming trout,'Twas then he awoke, and spoke!Said he, "What's up? is the dancing done?The waltz has made me sore!"And wriggling out on the frosty ground,He never spoke no more!Heigho! the murder was caused by me,Was never a soul who knew,That I am the man, who chucked the man,That the townward tram car slew!And everybody on earth was doneWith the murdered man, but me!The very next night, in the corner seat,I looked, and there was he!I thought at first that he might be a twin,And asked his thruppeny fare,But he sneered at me, I turned away,And left him sneering there!Thinks I, I'll watch him, and jot my tot,And when he is goin' to go,I'll chuck him the same, as I did before,For sake of the tramway co.I calculated the list of fares,Then turned around to look,But hey! I'm blowed, if he hadn't gone off,Gone! with his bloomin' hook!But how it was done, or whither he went,I never could guess, or think,For the ventilators all were shut,There wasn't an open chink!And I was up at the door so tight,He couldn't have passed me by,I never did close an eye that night,No lid of a bloomin' eye!I hates to see the company done,And that was a cheated fare,I'd rather lose my regular meals,Than wrong the company, there!I'd rather work from ante M, sixTill three of the A.M. clock,Than wrong the tramway co. of a coin,That wasn't my legal stock.There's nobody sees the ghost but me,Because he's a sneaking sprite,He always comes when I take my turnOn the latest car at night.That's him! he's there in the corner seat,The man that I killed is there,I hate to have it to say, But no,I can't recover my fare!I've this American tink-a-ting,And tickets of sortin's three,But that embezzling raw will comeTo cheat, and sneer at me.I cawnt tell why, but he worry's me so,I'd collar him if I could,He hasn't a scruff, or any a crop,O' the neck, or flesh or blood,He hasn't a waistband, I could grip,Nor anythink I could kick,I'd like to fetch him a trip, but ah!To think of it, makes me sickHe hasn't a face, to black his eye,Or even a hat to block,But all the same, in the corner there,He gives the fares a shock!He dosses himself in the favourite seat,And while he's nestlin' there,The passengers cawnt shove up to the end,To make my regular fare.For some insist that the seat is cold!And others complain it's hot!And some it's damp, and some remark,It's a most infernal spot!And some keep shovin' their sticks above,To let in the atmosphere,While others are closin' them up with a curse,The thing is devilish queer.It's pisonous hard on a man like me,Who lives on what he can get,But I'll have to try and see if I cawnt,Jest manage to shuffle him yet.Ha! there, he's gone! I knew that he would,Waltz out of my bloomin' sight!His regular trick with my thruppeny fare,Now—jump with the car, good night."

THERE wasn't a soul in the tramway car,

Well not that myself could see,

But the sad conductor took my arm,

And steadfast gazed on me—

Then pointing up to the corner seat,

"Look! that's his regular game,

I'm sorry to have it to say of a ghost,

But he hasn't a tint of shame!"

You'll think the tram conductor was drunk,His breath was sweet as mine,Like the orris root, or a tint of mint,Or scent of a similar line.It might be a ginger cordial; butThe air of the night was strong,And it wouldn't be proper to say I'm sure,I might perhaps be wrong.

You'll think the tram conductor was drunk,

His breath was sweet as mine,

Like the orris root, or a tint of mint,

Or scent of a similar line.

It might be a ginger cordial; but

The air of the night was strong,

And it wouldn't be proper to say I'm sure,

I might perhaps be wrong.

"Will you slack?" said I, but he caught my arm"The man that I killed is there!I hate to have it to say. But no,I can't recover my fare!I asked it from him one winter's night,But full as a tick with drink,The only answer he gave to me,Was just a chuckle and wink.With this American tink-a-ting,I couldn't defraud the Co.,So caught his collar, and chucked him offThe back of the tram car, so.

"Will you slack?" said I, but he caught my arm

"The man that I killed is there!

I hate to have it to say. But no,

I can't recover my fare!

I asked it from him one winter's night,

But full as a tick with drink,

The only answer he gave to me,

Was just a chuckle and wink.

With this American tink-a-ting,

I couldn't defraud the Co.,

So caught his collar, and chucked him off

The back of the tram car, so.

There wasn't a soul that saw the deed,Not even the driver knew,And there he lay on the tramway track,Till the townward car was due.It broke his neck, and his shoulder blade,His legs, and arms, its broke,And laid him out, a squirming trout,'Twas then he awoke, and spoke!

There wasn't a soul that saw the deed,

Not even the driver knew,

And there he lay on the tramway track,

Till the townward car was due.

It broke his neck, and his shoulder blade,

His legs, and arms, its broke,

And laid him out, a squirming trout,

'Twas then he awoke, and spoke!

Said he, "What's up? is the dancing done?The waltz has made me sore!"And wriggling out on the frosty ground,He never spoke no more!Heigho! the murder was caused by me,Was never a soul who knew,That I am the man, who chucked the man,That the townward tram car slew!

Said he, "What's up? is the dancing done?

The waltz has made me sore!"

And wriggling out on the frosty ground,

He never spoke no more!

Heigho! the murder was caused by me,

Was never a soul who knew,

That I am the man, who chucked the man,

That the townward tram car slew!

And everybody on earth was doneWith the murdered man, but me!The very next night, in the corner seat,I looked, and there was he!I thought at first that he might be a twin,And asked his thruppeny fare,But he sneered at me, I turned away,And left him sneering there!Thinks I, I'll watch him, and jot my tot,And when he is goin' to go,I'll chuck him the same, as I did before,For sake of the tramway co.

And everybody on earth was done

With the murdered man, but me!

The very next night, in the corner seat,

I looked, and there was he!

I thought at first that he might be a twin,

And asked his thruppeny fare,

But he sneered at me, I turned away,

And left him sneering there!

Thinks I, I'll watch him, and jot my tot,

And when he is goin' to go,

I'll chuck him the same, as I did before,

For sake of the tramway co.

I calculated the list of fares,Then turned around to look,But hey! I'm blowed, if he hadn't gone off,Gone! with his bloomin' hook!

I calculated the list of fares,

Then turned around to look,

But hey! I'm blowed, if he hadn't gone off,

Gone! with his bloomin' hook!

But how it was done, or whither he went,I never could guess, or think,For the ventilators all were shut,There wasn't an open chink!

But how it was done, or whither he went,

I never could guess, or think,

For the ventilators all were shut,

There wasn't an open chink!

And I was up at the door so tight,He couldn't have passed me by,I never did close an eye that night,No lid of a bloomin' eye!I hates to see the company done,And that was a cheated fare,I'd rather lose my regular meals,Than wrong the company, there!I'd rather work from ante M, sixTill three of the A.M. clock,Than wrong the tramway co. of a coin,That wasn't my legal stock.There's nobody sees the ghost but me,Because he's a sneaking sprite,He always comes when I take my turnOn the latest car at night.That's him! he's there in the corner seat,The man that I killed is there,I hate to have it to say, But no,I can't recover my fare!I've this American tink-a-ting,And tickets of sortin's three,But that embezzling raw will comeTo cheat, and sneer at me.

And I was up at the door so tight,

He couldn't have passed me by,

I never did close an eye that night,

No lid of a bloomin' eye!

I hates to see the company done,

And that was a cheated fare,

I'd rather lose my regular meals,

Than wrong the company, there!

I'd rather work from ante M, six

Till three of the A.M. clock,

Than wrong the tramway co. of a coin,

That wasn't my legal stock.

There's nobody sees the ghost but me,

Because he's a sneaking sprite,

He always comes when I take my turn

On the latest car at night.

That's him! he's there in the corner seat,

The man that I killed is there,

I hate to have it to say, But no,

I can't recover my fare!

I've this American tink-a-ting,

And tickets of sortin's three,

But that embezzling raw will come

To cheat, and sneer at me.

I cawnt tell why, but he worry's me so,I'd collar him if I could,He hasn't a scruff, or any a crop,O' the neck, or flesh or blood,

I cawnt tell why, but he worry's me so,

I'd collar him if I could,

He hasn't a scruff, or any a crop,

O' the neck, or flesh or blood,

He hasn't a waistband, I could grip,Nor anythink I could kick,I'd like to fetch him a trip, but ah!To think of it, makes me sickHe hasn't a face, to black his eye,Or even a hat to block,But all the same, in the corner there,He gives the fares a shock!He dosses himself in the favourite seat,And while he's nestlin' there,The passengers cawnt shove up to the end,To make my regular fare.

He hasn't a waistband, I could grip,

Nor anythink I could kick,

I'd like to fetch him a trip, but ah!

To think of it, makes me sick

He hasn't a face, to black his eye,

Or even a hat to block,

But all the same, in the corner there,

He gives the fares a shock!

He dosses himself in the favourite seat,

And while he's nestlin' there,

The passengers cawnt shove up to the end,

To make my regular fare.

For some insist that the seat is cold!And others complain it's hot!And some it's damp, and some remark,It's a most infernal spot!And some keep shovin' their sticks above,To let in the atmosphere,While others are closin' them up with a curse,The thing is devilish queer.

For some insist that the seat is cold!

And others complain it's hot!

And some it's damp, and some remark,

It's a most infernal spot!

And some keep shovin' their sticks above,

To let in the atmosphere,

While others are closin' them up with a curse,

The thing is devilish queer.

It's pisonous hard on a man like me,Who lives on what he can get,But I'll have to try and see if I cawnt,Jest manage to shuffle him yet.

It's pisonous hard on a man like me,

Who lives on what he can get,

But I'll have to try and see if I cawnt,

Jest manage to shuffle him yet.

Ha! there, he's gone! I knew that he would,Waltz out of my bloomin' sight!His regular trick with my thruppeny fare,Now—jump with the car, good night."

Ha! there, he's gone! I knew that he would,

Waltz out of my bloomin' sight!

His regular trick with my thruppeny fare,

Now—jump with the car, good night."

Margate Sands

SHE was five, or six, he four years old,When they met on the Margate Sands,And he gravely looked in her great blue eyesWith hold of her little fat hands,And he said, "I love oo well Rosie;I know, dat I'd rather have oo,Dan all de lickel girls on de sands to-day,Iss, even dan de girl in blue!""I'm glad oo do; and I love oo too!"Thro' a heaven of golden hair,Like silvery bells, was her sweet response,On the ozoned rose lit air,And then with his bucket, and spade, he builtFor his love, on the sand, that day,A castle, and pie, till the tide came in,And washed his castle away.In many a year thereafter 'twas,In a box in Drury Lane,Said a gent, as he used his opera glass,"Yon lady's remarkably plain!"And the lady exclaimed, at the self-same time,When she saw his glass in hand,"What an ugly fright!" they did not know,They had loved, on the Margate sand!

SHE was five, or six, he four years old,

When they met on the Margate Sands,

And he gravely looked in her great blue eyes

With hold of her little fat hands,

And he said, "I love oo well Rosie;

I know, dat I'd rather have oo,

Dan all de lickel girls on de sands to-day,

Iss, even dan de girl in blue!"

"I'm glad oo do; and I love oo too!"Thro' a heaven of golden hair,Like silvery bells, was her sweet response,On the ozoned rose lit air,And then with his bucket, and spade, he builtFor his love, on the sand, that day,A castle, and pie, till the tide came in,And washed his castle away.

"I'm glad oo do; and I love oo too!"

Thro' a heaven of golden hair,

Like silvery bells, was her sweet response,

On the ozoned rose lit air,

And then with his bucket, and spade, he built

For his love, on the sand, that day,

A castle, and pie, till the tide came in,

And washed his castle away.

In many a year thereafter 'twas,In a box in Drury Lane,Said a gent, as he used his opera glass,"Yon lady's remarkably plain!"And the lady exclaimed, at the self-same time,When she saw his glass in hand,"What an ugly fright!" they did not know,They had loved, on the Margate sand!

In many a year thereafter 'twas,

In a box in Drury Lane,

Said a gent, as he used his opera glass,

"Yon lady's remarkably plain!"

And the lady exclaimed, at the self-same time,

When she saw his glass in hand,

"What an ugly fright!" they did not know,

They had loved, on the Margate sand!

John McKune

O PADDY MURPHY—carman of the stand in College Green—You've had your sudden ups and downs, and busy days you've seen,We're waiting for your story; how the mare struck up the tune,Of sparks amongst the gravel, on the road to Knockmaroon."O faith an' I may tell you, you will not be waitin' long,Whin the piebald mare Asooker, is the sweetheart of me song,For sure it was a mastherpiece, of how she dhragged McKune,Behind her whiskin' tail, along the road, to Knockmaroon.'Twas in the busy period, whin the Fenians wor at war,I mopes'd around the Dargle, on a newly painted car;Whin, creepin' from the ditches, like a bogey in the moon,A man proposed the journey of a dhrive to Knockmaroon.He might as well have axed me on the minute, for a run,To Roosha or to Paykin, or the divil or the sun!He might as well have axed me, for a Rocky Mountain jaunt;So I bounced him with an answer of the sudden words, "I can't!"The boys to-night are risin' an' I darn't go impugnMe car into the danger, of a dhrive to Knockmaroon!"Thin spakin' wid the dacency, of a remorseful tone,"In fact," siz I, "me car's engaged, in Bray, by Mick Malone;Besides the mare is nervous, an' me wife expects me soon,For the army's out, I hear, upon the road to Knockmaroon!"He didn't stop to parley, but he jumped upon me car,An' showed a livin' pixture, of the brakin' of the war,By pointin' a revolver at me nose! "I'm John McKune,Dhrive on," siz he, "I'll guard you on the road to Knockmaroon!"I never knew that powdher smelt so flamin' strong before,It smelt as if a whole review, was stinkin' from the bore!The steel of that revolver shone, like bayonets in the moon,Of all the British army on the road to Knockmaroon!An' hauntin' round its barrel, the ghosts of every sin,I done in all me life before, wor there, in thick an' thin!So like a fiddler in a fight I quickly changed me tune,"Bedad!" siz I, "It's I'm yer man, we're off to Knockmaroon.""You see, I've got a takin' way," says he, an' with a grin,He put his barker back into his breeches fob, agin,"Now whail around, an' thro' the bog,—the featherbed,"—says he,"I'll guard you, by the barracks of the Polis, at Glencree,An' dhrive, as if yer car was late, to bring the Royal Mail!Whip up! as if the divil sat upon your horse's tail!"I gev the mare a coaxer, of the knots upon me whip,An' rowlin thro' the darkness, where the road begins to dip,I bowled upon me journey, with the load of John McKune,An' fits of wondher, why he dhrove that night to Knockmaroon;An' just as we were wheelin' out, beyond the feather bed,The boys put up their lamplight, an' alightin' down, he saidSome hurried words an' whisperin's, then with a cheer for him,Presentin' arms, "Dhrive on," they cried, "God speed you Wicklow Jim!"I dhrove as if the Phooka was the horse beneath me whip,We flew, as if the jauntin' car was on a racin' thrip,We scatthered dust, an' whizz of wheels, an' sparks upon the air,When all at once, I pulled her up, at shout of "Who comes there?"It was a throop of sojers, an' me heart began to croon,Wid jigs, aginst me overcoat! siz he, "I'm John McKune,"—He sprang from off the cushion, an' a little while was gone,Then comin' back, a captain gev the password, to dhrive on!He leaped upon the car again, an' says to me, once more,"Now, dhrive me 'cross the grand canal, and on to Inchicore,"But when we got around a turn, an' in a lonely place,He whipped his waypon out again, to point it at me face!Siz he, "Yer car is weighty, an' yerself's a dacent bulk,You say the mare is nervous, an' she might begin to sulk;We mustn't let that meddle with the work that I've in hand,So skip your perch this minute, like a lark, at my command,Come, hop yer twig, unyoke her, in a slippy lightenin' crack!Just double up that rug, an' sthrap it tight across her back,An' shorten up the reins, an' swop yer overcoat an' hat,Quick! flutther up, as if you wor a blackbird from a cat!"I never felt so brave, in all me life, me courage rose,To bid him go to blakers!—but the barrel at me nose,Brought down me heart like wallop, till I felt it, in me brogue,An' so I done his dirty work, the ugly thievin' rogue!I loosed the crather from the shafts, and sthrapped the rug, an' then,He vaulted on her back, an' faced her up the road again,"You'll find her in the mornin', on the grass in Phœnix Park,"He shouted, as with skelpin' whip, he galloped thro' the dark,An' left me cursin' in a fit, beside me sthranded yoke,As if I got the headache of a mapoplectic sthroke!Next night, whin I was frettin', that I'd never see her more,I heard the mare Asooker's hoof, beside the stable door;I darted out, she kissed me, with a whinney loud and long,That made her ever afther, as the sweetheart of me song!When fifteen years wor over, an' meself was down in Cork,I read it on a paper,—in the Bowry of New York,—Of a pub around a corner, where a lonely man in June,Was sittin', when two men came in, says they, "you're John McKune!"He dhropped his glass of cock-tail, with a crash upon the floor;And looked, as if he'd jump the sash, of window, or the door,He looked, as if he'd rather be in Hell, or on the moon;Said they, "At last we have you, for a traitor, John McKune!"He didn't spake an answer, but he quickly thried to grip,The bright revolver waypon, from the fob, behind his hip,He hadn't time to dhraw it, like a flashin' lightenin' dart,Two loaded levelled weapons, wor against his jumpin' heart!"Hands up!" they shouted "Damn you! ye scaymin' divil's limb;We've come to scotch the serpent, we know as Wicklow Jim,"Said they, "At last we have you for oaths you gave to men,An' swore them for your purpose, to bethray, an' sell them then!"He didn't make an answer, but he thried to whip a knife,From collar of his cota—it was there to guard his life—He hadn't time to dhraw it, for a crack of shots! an' soon,A pool of blood, was spurtin' from the corpse of John McKune.

O PADDY MURPHY—carman of the stand in College Green—

You've had your sudden ups and downs, and busy days you've seen,

We're waiting for your story; how the mare struck up the tune,

Of sparks amongst the gravel, on the road to Knockmaroon.

"O faith an' I may tell you, you will not be waitin' long,Whin the piebald mare Asooker, is the sweetheart of me song,For sure it was a mastherpiece, of how she dhragged McKune,Behind her whiskin' tail, along the road, to Knockmaroon.

"O faith an' I may tell you, you will not be waitin' long,

Whin the piebald mare Asooker, is the sweetheart of me song,

For sure it was a mastherpiece, of how she dhragged McKune,

Behind her whiskin' tail, along the road, to Knockmaroon.

'Twas in the busy period, whin the Fenians wor at war,I mopes'd around the Dargle, on a newly painted car;Whin, creepin' from the ditches, like a bogey in the moon,A man proposed the journey of a dhrive to Knockmaroon.

'Twas in the busy period, whin the Fenians wor at war,

I mopes'd around the Dargle, on a newly painted car;

Whin, creepin' from the ditches, like a bogey in the moon,

A man proposed the journey of a dhrive to Knockmaroon.

He might as well have axed me on the minute, for a run,To Roosha or to Paykin, or the divil or the sun!He might as well have axed me, for a Rocky Mountain jaunt;So I bounced him with an answer of the sudden words, "I can't!"The boys to-night are risin' an' I darn't go impugnMe car into the danger, of a dhrive to Knockmaroon!"

He might as well have axed me on the minute, for a run,

To Roosha or to Paykin, or the divil or the sun!

He might as well have axed me, for a Rocky Mountain jaunt;

So I bounced him with an answer of the sudden words, "I can't!"

The boys to-night are risin' an' I darn't go impugn

Me car into the danger, of a dhrive to Knockmaroon!"

Thin spakin' wid the dacency, of a remorseful tone,"In fact," siz I, "me car's engaged, in Bray, by Mick Malone;Besides the mare is nervous, an' me wife expects me soon,For the army's out, I hear, upon the road to Knockmaroon!"

Thin spakin' wid the dacency, of a remorseful tone,

"In fact," siz I, "me car's engaged, in Bray, by Mick Malone;

Besides the mare is nervous, an' me wife expects me soon,

For the army's out, I hear, upon the road to Knockmaroon!"

He didn't stop to parley, but he jumped upon me car,An' showed a livin' pixture, of the brakin' of the war,By pointin' a revolver at me nose! "I'm John McKune,Dhrive on," siz he, "I'll guard you on the road to Knockmaroon!"I never knew that powdher smelt so flamin' strong before,It smelt as if a whole review, was stinkin' from the bore!The steel of that revolver shone, like bayonets in the moon,Of all the British army on the road to Knockmaroon!An' hauntin' round its barrel, the ghosts of every sin,I done in all me life before, wor there, in thick an' thin!So like a fiddler in a fight I quickly changed me tune,"Bedad!" siz I, "It's I'm yer man, we're off to Knockmaroon.""You see, I've got a takin' way," says he, an' with a grin,He put his barker back into his breeches fob, agin,"Now whail around, an' thro' the bog,—the featherbed,"—says he,"I'll guard you, by the barracks of the Polis, at Glencree,An' dhrive, as if yer car was late, to bring the Royal Mail!Whip up! as if the divil sat upon your horse's tail!"

He didn't stop to parley, but he jumped upon me car,

An' showed a livin' pixture, of the brakin' of the war,

By pointin' a revolver at me nose! "I'm John McKune,

Dhrive on," siz he, "I'll guard you on the road to Knockmaroon!"

I never knew that powdher smelt so flamin' strong before,

It smelt as if a whole review, was stinkin' from the bore!

The steel of that revolver shone, like bayonets in the moon,

Of all the British army on the road to Knockmaroon!

An' hauntin' round its barrel, the ghosts of every sin,

I done in all me life before, wor there, in thick an' thin!

So like a fiddler in a fight I quickly changed me tune,

"Bedad!" siz I, "It's I'm yer man, we're off to Knockmaroon."

"You see, I've got a takin' way," says he, an' with a grin,

He put his barker back into his breeches fob, agin,

"Now whail around, an' thro' the bog,—the featherbed,"—says he,

"I'll guard you, by the barracks of the Polis, at Glencree,

An' dhrive, as if yer car was late, to bring the Royal Mail!

Whip up! as if the divil sat upon your horse's tail!"

I gev the mare a coaxer, of the knots upon me whip,An' rowlin thro' the darkness, where the road begins to dip,I bowled upon me journey, with the load of John McKune,An' fits of wondher, why he dhrove that night to Knockmaroon;An' just as we were wheelin' out, beyond the feather bed,The boys put up their lamplight, an' alightin' down, he saidSome hurried words an' whisperin's, then with a cheer for him,Presentin' arms, "Dhrive on," they cried, "God speed you Wicklow Jim!"

I gev the mare a coaxer, of the knots upon me whip,

An' rowlin thro' the darkness, where the road begins to dip,

I bowled upon me journey, with the load of John McKune,

An' fits of wondher, why he dhrove that night to Knockmaroon;

An' just as we were wheelin' out, beyond the feather bed,

The boys put up their lamplight, an' alightin' down, he said

Some hurried words an' whisperin's, then with a cheer for him,

Presentin' arms, "Dhrive on," they cried, "God speed you Wicklow Jim!"

I dhrove as if the Phooka was the horse beneath me whip,We flew, as if the jauntin' car was on a racin' thrip,We scatthered dust, an' whizz of wheels, an' sparks upon the air,When all at once, I pulled her up, at shout of "Who comes there?"It was a throop of sojers, an' me heart began to croon,Wid jigs, aginst me overcoat! siz he, "I'm John McKune,"—He sprang from off the cushion, an' a little while was gone,Then comin' back, a captain gev the password, to dhrive on!

I dhrove as if the Phooka was the horse beneath me whip,

We flew, as if the jauntin' car was on a racin' thrip,

We scatthered dust, an' whizz of wheels, an' sparks upon the air,

When all at once, I pulled her up, at shout of "Who comes there?"

It was a throop of sojers, an' me heart began to croon,

Wid jigs, aginst me overcoat! siz he, "I'm John McKune,"—

He sprang from off the cushion, an' a little while was gone,

Then comin' back, a captain gev the password, to dhrive on!

He leaped upon the car again, an' says to me, once more,"Now, dhrive me 'cross the grand canal, and on to Inchicore,"But when we got around a turn, an' in a lonely place,He whipped his waypon out again, to point it at me face!Siz he, "Yer car is weighty, an' yerself's a dacent bulk,You say the mare is nervous, an' she might begin to sulk;We mustn't let that meddle with the work that I've in hand,So skip your perch this minute, like a lark, at my command,Come, hop yer twig, unyoke her, in a slippy lightenin' crack!Just double up that rug, an' sthrap it tight across her back,An' shorten up the reins, an' swop yer overcoat an' hat,Quick! flutther up, as if you wor a blackbird from a cat!"

He leaped upon the car again, an' says to me, once more,

"Now, dhrive me 'cross the grand canal, and on to Inchicore,"

But when we got around a turn, an' in a lonely place,

He whipped his waypon out again, to point it at me face!

Siz he, "Yer car is weighty, an' yerself's a dacent bulk,

You say the mare is nervous, an' she might begin to sulk;

We mustn't let that meddle with the work that I've in hand,

So skip your perch this minute, like a lark, at my command,

Come, hop yer twig, unyoke her, in a slippy lightenin' crack!

Just double up that rug, an' sthrap it tight across her back,

An' shorten up the reins, an' swop yer overcoat an' hat,

Quick! flutther up, as if you wor a blackbird from a cat!"

I never felt so brave, in all me life, me courage rose,To bid him go to blakers!—but the barrel at me nose,Brought down me heart like wallop, till I felt it, in me brogue,An' so I done his dirty work, the ugly thievin' rogue!I loosed the crather from the shafts, and sthrapped the rug, an' then,He vaulted on her back, an' faced her up the road again,"You'll find her in the mornin', on the grass in Phœnix Park,"He shouted, as with skelpin' whip, he galloped thro' the dark,An' left me cursin' in a fit, beside me sthranded yoke,As if I got the headache of a mapoplectic sthroke!

I never felt so brave, in all me life, me courage rose,

To bid him go to blakers!—but the barrel at me nose,

Brought down me heart like wallop, till I felt it, in me brogue,

An' so I done his dirty work, the ugly thievin' rogue!

I loosed the crather from the shafts, and sthrapped the rug, an' then,

He vaulted on her back, an' faced her up the road again,

"You'll find her in the mornin', on the grass in Phœnix Park,"

He shouted, as with skelpin' whip, he galloped thro' the dark,

An' left me cursin' in a fit, beside me sthranded yoke,

As if I got the headache of a mapoplectic sthroke!

Next night, whin I was frettin', that I'd never see her more,I heard the mare Asooker's hoof, beside the stable door;I darted out, she kissed me, with a whinney loud and long,That made her ever afther, as the sweetheart of me song!

Next night, whin I was frettin', that I'd never see her more,

I heard the mare Asooker's hoof, beside the stable door;

I darted out, she kissed me, with a whinney loud and long,

That made her ever afther, as the sweetheart of me song!

When fifteen years wor over, an' meself was down in Cork,I read it on a paper,—in the Bowry of New York,—Of a pub around a corner, where a lonely man in June,Was sittin', when two men came in, says they, "you're John McKune!"

When fifteen years wor over, an' meself was down in Cork,

I read it on a paper,—in the Bowry of New York,—

Of a pub around a corner, where a lonely man in June,

Was sittin', when two men came in, says they, "you're John McKune!"

He dhropped his glass of cock-tail, with a crash upon the floor;And looked, as if he'd jump the sash, of window, or the door,He looked, as if he'd rather be in Hell, or on the moon;Said they, "At last we have you, for a traitor, John McKune!"

He dhropped his glass of cock-tail, with a crash upon the floor;

And looked, as if he'd jump the sash, of window, or the door,

He looked, as if he'd rather be in Hell, or on the moon;

Said they, "At last we have you, for a traitor, John McKune!"

He didn't spake an answer, but he quickly thried to grip,The bright revolver waypon, from the fob, behind his hip,He hadn't time to dhraw it, like a flashin' lightenin' dart,Two loaded levelled weapons, wor against his jumpin' heart!

He didn't spake an answer, but he quickly thried to grip,

The bright revolver waypon, from the fob, behind his hip,

He hadn't time to dhraw it, like a flashin' lightenin' dart,

Two loaded levelled weapons, wor against his jumpin' heart!

"Hands up!" they shouted "Damn you! ye scaymin' divil's limb;We've come to scotch the serpent, we know as Wicklow Jim,"Said they, "At last we have you for oaths you gave to men,An' swore them for your purpose, to bethray, an' sell them then!"

"Hands up!" they shouted "Damn you! ye scaymin' divil's limb;

We've come to scotch the serpent, we know as Wicklow Jim,"

Said they, "At last we have you for oaths you gave to men,

An' swore them for your purpose, to bethray, an' sell them then!"

He didn't make an answer, but he thried to whip a knife,From collar of his cota—it was there to guard his life—He hadn't time to dhraw it, for a crack of shots! an' soon,A pool of blood, was spurtin' from the corpse of John McKune.

He didn't make an answer, but he thried to whip a knife,

From collar of his cota—it was there to guard his life—

He hadn't time to dhraw it, for a crack of shots! an' soon,

A pool of blood, was spurtin' from the corpse of John McKune.

I'll go for a Sojer

"OWHERE is my Johnnie acushla?" says she,He left me last night, an' "Maggie" says he,"It's meself an' yerself mam that couldn't agree,Be dang but I'll go for a sojer!"He took all the cash that I had in the till,I followed him round to the butt of the hill,"Go back, or yerself is the first that I'll kill!"Says he, "Whin I'm gone for a sojer!"I hung to his neck, an' I axed him to stay,Ye might as well ax for the night to be day;But wringin' his neck from me, shoutin' "Hooray!"Says he "Whoo! I'll go for a sojer!"I set the dog afther him, thought that he'd stickIn the tail of his coat, he was up to the thrick;For he turned on his heel, an' he skelped him a lick,Of the stick, "I am off for a sojer!""O whisht! arrah there, look he's comin'!" she cried,As far in the distance, her Jack she espied,With Corporal Quirk on the march by his side,He's comin' back home with a sojer.When Johnnie came near enough to her to spake,"O Johnnie Avourneen!" said she, "did ye takeThe shillin'?" "No faith, for I'm too wide awake,I only wint off for a sojer."

"OWHERE is my Johnnie acushla?" says she,He left me last night, an' "Maggie" says he,"It's meself an' yerself mam that couldn't agree,Be dang but I'll go for a sojer!"

"OWHERE is my Johnnie acushla?" says she,

He left me last night, an' "Maggie" says he,

"It's meself an' yerself mam that couldn't agree,

Be dang but I'll go for a sojer!"

He took all the cash that I had in the till,I followed him round to the butt of the hill,"Go back, or yerself is the first that I'll kill!"Says he, "Whin I'm gone for a sojer!"

He took all the cash that I had in the till,

I followed him round to the butt of the hill,

"Go back, or yerself is the first that I'll kill!"

Says he, "Whin I'm gone for a sojer!"

I hung to his neck, an' I axed him to stay,Ye might as well ax for the night to be day;But wringin' his neck from me, shoutin' "Hooray!"Says he "Whoo! I'll go for a sojer!"

I hung to his neck, an' I axed him to stay,

Ye might as well ax for the night to be day;

But wringin' his neck from me, shoutin' "Hooray!"

Says he "Whoo! I'll go for a sojer!"

I set the dog afther him, thought that he'd stickIn the tail of his coat, he was up to the thrick;For he turned on his heel, an' he skelped him a lick,Of the stick, "I am off for a sojer!"

I set the dog afther him, thought that he'd stick

In the tail of his coat, he was up to the thrick;

For he turned on his heel, an' he skelped him a lick,

Of the stick, "I am off for a sojer!"

"O whisht! arrah there, look he's comin'!" she cried,As far in the distance, her Jack she espied,With Corporal Quirk on the march by his side,He's comin' back home with a sojer.

"O whisht! arrah there, look he's comin'!" she cried,

As far in the distance, her Jack she espied,

With Corporal Quirk on the march by his side,

He's comin' back home with a sojer.

When Johnnie came near enough to her to spake,"O Johnnie Avourneen!" said she, "did ye takeThe shillin'?" "No faith, for I'm too wide awake,I only wint off for a sojer."

When Johnnie came near enough to her to spake,

"O Johnnie Avourneen!" said she, "did ye take

The shillin'?" "No faith, for I'm too wide awake,

I only wint off for a sojer."

Ode Here

IDYED away the grey, from my sparsy head of hair,I buttered up the fur upon my tile,I darned the ventilators in my garments here, and there,And with my go-to-meeting stick, and smile,I went to see a widow, I had courted long ago;She had just been to the Probate for a pile!Said she, "You are a person that I really do not know"Her tone was rather cutting, like a file!A serious alteration in her style;I knew her when a maiden without guile,She wouldn't even loan me from her pile,A widow's mite; it agitates my bile!

IDYED away the grey, from my sparsy head of hair,

I buttered up the fur upon my tile,

I darned the ventilators in my garments here, and there,

And with my go-to-meeting stick, and smile,

I went to see a widow, I had courted long ago;

She had just been to the Probate for a pile!

Said she, "You are a person that I really do not know"Her tone was rather cutting, like a file!A serious alteration in her style;I knew her when a maiden without guile,She wouldn't even loan me from her pile,A widow's mite; it agitates my bile!

Said she, "You are a person that I really do not know"

Her tone was rather cutting, like a file!

A serious alteration in her style;

I knew her when a maiden without guile,

She wouldn't even loan me from her pile,

A widow's mite; it agitates my bile!

The smuggler's fate

A Seaside Idyll this;To teach how oft amiss,Doth fall the fate of menwho would be free:It makes me cry heigho,In minor cadence low,When I do mind meOf the fate of three,To shun hymenial perils,And tired of mashing girls,A smuggler's cave, they took beside the sea,And formed a reckless crew,That swallowed their own brew,Of whiskey, punch and coffee, beer and tea;But most of beer, and whiskey, as you see,And that's the reason that I cry heigho!They wrestled with the wave,Then ran into their cave;But telescopes above, were taking stock,Thus fate was on their track,And soon alas! alack!The smiles of fate fell on them from the rock,Thus mesmerised by mirth,They climbed the rocks, and earth,With fascinated recklessness alack!My sympathy to show,Again I say heigho!'Twere better to their cave they had gone back.Ah! me, the smugglers three,Were blind their fate to see,And lo! capitulation followed soon;For spite of all their pains,They soon were in the chains,That fettered them in bondage 'neath the moon,That shone on double case, of treble spoon;Too like the moon, that wanes;And that is why I sing in minor tune,And cry again with sympathy, heigho!Thus ever day by day,In bondage still they lay,Surrendering provisions, and their brew,Until the crew did goInto the town, and lo!A parson had some triple work to do,They're captives now,hard labour is their due,Alack! the hapless crew;I cry again with sympathy, heigho!

A Seaside Idyll this;To teach how oft amiss,Doth fall the fate of menwho would be free:

A Seaside Idyll this;

To teach how oft amiss,

Doth fall the fate of men

who would be free:

It makes me cry heigho,In minor cadence low,When I do mind meOf the fate of three,

It makes me cry heigho,

In minor cadence low,

When I do mind me

Of the fate of three,

To shun hymenial perils,And tired of mashing girls,A smuggler's cave, they took beside the sea,And formed a reckless crew,That swallowed their own brew,Of whiskey, punch and coffee, beer and tea;

To shun hymenial perils,

And tired of mashing girls,

A smuggler's cave, they took beside the sea,

And formed a reckless crew,

That swallowed their own brew,

Of whiskey, punch and coffee, beer and tea;

But most of beer, and whiskey, as you see,And that's the reason that I cry heigho!

But most of beer, and whiskey, as you see,

And that's the reason that I cry heigho!

They wrestled with the wave,

Then ran into their cave;

But telescopes above, were taking stock,

Thus fate was on their track,

And soon alas! alack!

The smiles of fate fell on them from the rock,Thus mesmerised by mirth,They climbed the rocks, and earth,With fascinated recklessness alack!

The smiles of fate fell on them from the rock,

Thus mesmerised by mirth,

They climbed the rocks, and earth,

With fascinated recklessness alack!

My sympathy to show,Again I say heigho!'Twere better to their cave they had gone back.

My sympathy to show,

Again I say heigho!

'Twere better to their cave they had gone back.

Ah! me, the smugglers three,Were blind their fate to see,And lo! capitulation followed soon;

Ah! me, the smugglers three,

Were blind their fate to see,

And lo! capitulation followed soon;

For spite of all their pains,They soon were in the chains,That fettered them in bondage 'neath the moon,

For spite of all their pains,

They soon were in the chains,

That fettered them in bondage 'neath the moon,

That shone on double case, of treble spoon;Too like the moon, that wanes;And that is why I sing in minor tune,And cry again with sympathy, heigho!

That shone on double case, of treble spoon;

Too like the moon, that wanes;

And that is why I sing in minor tune,

And cry again with sympathy, heigho!

Thus ever day by day,In bondage still they lay,Surrendering provisions, and their brew,

Thus ever day by day,

In bondage still they lay,

Surrendering provisions, and their brew,

Until the crew did goInto the town, and lo!

Until the crew did go

Into the town, and lo!

A parson had some triple work to do,They're captives now,

A parson had some triple work to do,

They're captives now,

hard labour is their due,Alack! the hapless crew;I cry again with sympathy, heigho!

hard labour is their due,

Alack! the hapless crew;

I cry again with sympathy, heigho!

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