KATE KEARNEY. Oh! did you ne'er hear of Kate Kearney, From the glance of her eye, shun danger and fy For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney. For that eye is so modestly beaming, You ne'er think of the mischief she's dreaming, Oh, should you e'er meet this Kate Kearney, Beware of her smile, for many a wile, THE JOYS OF DRINKING. Poor Joe, the miller, loved good ale, They'd kiss and sup, and take their cup, Tol de rol, &c. He ne'er would listen to advice, That his poor wife did give him, For nothing ere would him suffice, One night he brought home pots of ale, They kiss'd and bugg'd-no spouse could rail, But went to bed and cuddled. Tol de rol, &c. And when the rosy morn appear'd, They went to work together, And, drunk as sows, they'd leave their cup, Tol de rol, &c. HERE'S THE BOTTLE SHE LOVED SO Here's the bottle she loved so much, Where's the hand to gut them; Where's the throat to hoot them? Max is good, but she I loved, Ne'er shall taste its sweetness, Her lips that once so fleetly moved, зает Gallons were pots where she strayed, MARY'S DREAM. The moon had climbed the highest hill, Her head to ask who there might be, The storm is past, and I at rest, O, maiden dear, thyself prepare, Where love is free from doubt or care, OH, MY BONNY BET, SWEET BLOSSOM, Was I a king, so proud to wear thee, From off the verdant couch I'd bear thee, To grace thy faithful lover's bosom, Yet ask me where these beauties lie, I cannot say in smile or dimple, In blooming cheek, or radiant eye, 'Tis happy nature, wild and simple. Oh, my bonny Bet, &c. Let dainty beaux for ladies pine, And sigh in numbers trite and common; Ye gods! one darling wish be mine, And all I ask is lovely woman. Oh, my lovely Bet, &c. Come, dearest girl, the rosy bowl Like thy bright eye with pleasure dancing; My heaven art thou-so take my soul, With rapture every sense entrancing, Oh, my bonny Bet, &c. COTTAGER'S DAUGHTER. Ah! tell me ye swains, have you seen my Pastors O say have you met the sweet nymph in you way? Transcendant as Venus, and blithe as Aurora, From Neptune's bed rising to hail the new day Forlorn do I wander, and long time have I sought her, The fairest, the rarest, for ever my theme: A goddess in form, tho' a cottager's daughter, That dwells on the borders of Aln's winding stream. Tho' lordlings so gay, and young 'squires hawe sought her, To link her fair hand in the conjugal chain, Devoid of ambition, the cottager's daughter, Convinced them their offers and flattery were vain. When first I beheld her, I fondly besought her, My heart did her homage, and love was my theme; She vowed to be mine, the cottager's sweet daughter, That dwell's on the border of Aln's winding stream. Then why thus alone does she leave me to Isn guish ? Pastora to splendour could ne'er yield her hand: Ah, no, she returns to heal my sad anguish, O'er her heart love and truth retain their com mand; |