Strange it was to hear,

I'll tell you what's a good 'un,
They call their leather queer,
And half their shoes are wooden.
So never go, &c.

Signs I had to make
For every little notion,
Limbs all going like

A telegraph in motion.
For wine I reel'd about,

To shew my meaning fully,
And made a pair of horns,
To ask for " beef and bully.”

So never go, &c.

OR, THE LUSTRE OF JUDY'S BLACK EYES.

To be sure I can't sing an oration,
To show how I'm greatly allied,
But a pair of black eyes, botheration,
Has bothered my family pride.

My mother ne'er did as they bid her,
Such rank did her lineage adorn,
And she took a long time to consider,
Before she would let me be born.
Yet I'm a-kin to the Calaghans, Bralaghans,
The Dowlans and Nowlans, likewise,
But what's birth to the lustre of beauty
That peeps from my Judy's black eyes.

My father sold mouse-traps and rabbits,
Pigs, treacle, and all other game,
Would you know the sweet town he inhabits,
'Tis jolly Dongarvon by name.
My grandfather married a quaker,
My uncle made hay with a fork,
My brother's a great grand brogue-maker,
In that beautiful city called Cork.

Yet I'm a-kin to the Calaghans, &c.

At chapel I first saw my darling,
I'll ever remember the day,
She sung like a peacock or starling,
Which made me unto her to say—
"I'm related to all the Macartheys,
All meniality I do disdain,

If you miss such a husband, so hearty,
You never will get him again.

For I'm a-kin to the Calaghans, &c."
These words being moving and tender,
Which no female woman could stand,
I determined a letter to send her,
So took up my pen in my hand;
But just on the point of inditing,
By the powers it was rather too bad,
I forgot that I hadn't learnt writing,
And she could not read if I had.

Yet I'm a-kin to the Calaghans, &c.

Oh! Judy, agrah, you're my honey,
Your coldness sets me in a flame,
I'll marry if you have money,
In spite of my family name.
Myself I was reared very tender,

A gentleman born, too, and bred,
And my sister now lives in great splendour
With one Justice Mooney, that's dead.
Yet I'm a-kin to the Calaghans, &c.
So now, without any more bother,
My mind on the same being bent,
Fll marry herself, and no other,

And afterwards ask her consent.
Politeness an Irishman's trade is,
So, on that sweet day when we're wed,
I'll hand cakes and tea to the ladies,
And then with each lass and each lad,
We'll visit the Calaghans, &c.

I'D BE A BUTCHER'S BOY.
ORIGINAL.

Air-I'd be a Butterfly."

I'D be a butcher's-boy, born to devour,

Ri.

Sweet slices from the rump, how gushingly sweet; Well season'd with spices, and sprinkled with flour, And tasting, at intervals, a tankard of neat :— With these I would crave neither wealth nor pow'r What more should I sigh for with plenty to eat, I'd be a butcher's boy, born to devour

Rump steaks by the pound, with a tankard of neat.

Oh! why should pilfer with my hands so hairy?
Oh, no! believe me, I'll do no such thing

The summer days and nights of thieves must be dreary,
They sleep in a dungeon where cock-roaches sing.
I'd caution all thieves of their end to be wary,
For thieving, alas! nought but misery brings,
I'd be a butcher's boy, light, brisk, and airy,.
Sporting at liberty, happy as a king.

What, tho' you tell me the profession is greasy,
Shins, shanks, and marrow-bones cleaving all day;:
Surely 'tis better than live a life that's easy,

And die, when all other folks are happy and gay.
For these silly mortals toil harder to discover
Means of procuring their bread for the day;
I'd be a butcher's boy, living in clover,
Feasting while pilferers are fading away.

BUBBLE, SQUEAK, AND PETTITOES.

RECITATIVE,'

10 Dibdin.

Love! mighty lunatics, who makʼst us twaddle! And, just like whirligigs, turn'st all our noddles: Thy power it was that worked such awful woes, From bubble, and squeak, and pigs' pettitoes!

AIR.

There was one Mr. Grig
Wore a cauliflower wig,

And a-wooing he went with his set o'toes,
To one Miss Sukey Snap,
Who wore a high-caul cap,

And was monstrously fond of pigs pettitoes.

Week! week! fol lol de ra.

In her favour to get,

He sent her a set,

And to ask him to sup with Miss Snap, Betty goes, And likewise to bespeak,

Some nice bubble and squeak,

For he loved that as well as she loved pettitoes.

Week! week! fol lol de ra.

Ere to sup they begun,

Mrs. Betty for fun,

Sneezing-powder to put in the pepper chose;
Mr. Grig was caught and sneezed,

Saying "chih!-I hope you're pleased

With the chih!-with the chih -with the

pettitoes."

Chih! chih! fol lol de ra.

"I vow, sir," says see,

"Nothing better can be

Than-chih!-chih!-chih !"-he! he! Betty goes.
"How's the bubble and the squeak?”
He for sneezing could not speak,
Till he sneezed off his wig among the pettitoes.
Week! week! fol lol de ra.

Sneezing, nodding, went Miss Snap,

Till the candle caught her сар,

And to put out the flame some water Betty throws

In vain, till Mr. Grig

On her noddle clapped his wig,

That was soaked in the gravy of the pettitoes.

Week! week! fol lol de ra.

Thus poor Mr. Grig

Spoiled his cauliflower wig,

And Miss Snap lost her cap, what a set o' woes!
For the house-dog in the freak
Boned the bubble and the squeak,
And pussy ran away with the pettitoes.

Mew! mew! bow, vow ! &c.

THE SOUND OF THE HORN.

RECITATIVE.

THE whistling ploughman hails the blushing dawn,
The trush, melodious, drowns the rustic note,
Loud sings the black-bird through resounding groves,
And the lark soars to meet the rising sun.

AIR.

Away to the copse, to the copse lead away,
And now, my boys, throw off the hounds,
I'll warrant he'll shew, he'll shew us some play,
See yonder he skulks through the ground!
See yonder he skulks through the ground!

Then spur my brisk coursers, and smoke him my bloods,
Its a delicate scent-lying morn,

What concert is equal to those of the woods,

Cheer up my good dogs with the horn!

What concert is equal, &c.

Each earth, see he tries it, he tries it again,''
In covert no safety can find,

He breaks it, he breaks it, and scours amain,
And leaves us at distance behind!

And leaves us at distance behind !*
Over rocks, over rivers, and hedges we fly,
All hazards, all dangers we școrn,
Stout Reynard we'll follow untill that he die,
Cheer up my good dogs with the horn!
Stout Reynard, &c,