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WEAR WITH ME THE ROSY WREATH.

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TuN—“ Planxty Connor."
Wear with me the rosy wreath,
Whilst melting strains around thee breathe;

Oh! life we'll but measure,

By moments of pleasure,
And banish the features of sorrow.

Life we'll, &c.
See the goblet streaming,
Rapture's sun is beaming,

Softly we'll stay

The joys of to-day,
Nor nourish a thought of the morrow.

Softly we'll, &c.
Fill then your cups around,
Mirth shall with wine abound,
Love shall enlighten each hour;

Chasing dull care away,

Bee-like we'll bear away Honey from life's blooming flower.

Chasing dull care, &c.

GRAMACHREE MOLLY.
As down on Banna's banks I stray'd,

One evening in May,
The little birds, in blythest notes,

Made vocal ev'ry spray;
They sung their little tales of love,

They sung them o'er and o'er;
Ah Grammachree, ma Colleenouge,

Ma Molly Ashtore!

The daisy pied, and all the sweets

The dawn of Nature yields,
The primrose pale, the violet blue,

Lay scatter'd o'er the fields:
Such fragrance in the bosom lies
Of her whom I adore.

Ah Gramaehree, &c.
I laid me down upon a bank,

Bewailing my sad fate,
That doom'd me thus the slave of love,

And cruel Molly's hate.
How can she break the honest heart
That wears her in its core?

Ah Gramachree, &c.

You said you lov'd me, Molly dear!

Ah! why did I believe? Yet who could think such tender words

Were meant but to deceive?
That love was all I ask'd on earth,
Nay, Heav'n could give no more;

Ah Gramachree, &c.
Oh had I all the flocks that graze

On yonder yellow hill,
Or low'd for me the num'rous herds

That yon green pasture fill;
With her I love I'd gladly share
My kine and fleecy store;

Ah Gramachree, &c.
Two turtle doves above my head,

Sat courting on a bough,
I envied not their happiness,

To see them bill and coo.
Such fondness once for me she show'd,
But now, alas ! 'tis o'er;

Ah Gramachree, &c.

Then fare thee well, my Molly dear,

Thy loss I e'er shall mourn;
Whilst life remains in Strephon's heart,

'Twill beat for thee alone: Though thou art false, may Heav'n on thee It choicest blessings pour;

Ah Gramachree, &c.

'TIS WHISKY I ADORE.

A PARODY ON THE FOREGOING.

As I went down by yon blind

qua
One evening in the spring,
The little merry tap-room bells

Melodiously did ring:
They rung their merry drunken notes,

They rung them o'er and o'er;
Ah Gramachree, Stol Rinky dear,

'Tis whisky I adore.
As I pass'd the fat landlady,

Full drunkenly I stalk'd;
Says she unto her husband, Tom,

Have you yon noggin chalk d?
Oh yes, I did the noggin chalk, ,
I chalk'd it o'er and o'er;

Ah Gramachree, &c.
His humming stuff so pleased me,

That quickly I sat down,
And devil a step that I did stir,

Till I drank half a crown: And if I had ten times as much, I'd drink it o'er and o'er;

Ab Gramachree, &c.

Two fat mud-larks, before my face,

Lay grunting in a sty;
I envied them their happiness,

So snugly they did lie.
Such fondness once my wife show'd me,
But now, alas! 'tis o'er;

Ah Gramachree, &c.
At length, when home

night I came,
My wife stood at the door;
With pot-hooks long, and crooked nails,

My eyes and face she tore:
She roll'd me in the gutter too,
She rollid me o'er and o'er;

Ah Gramachree, &c.

WHY DO YOU LOVELY VIRGINS MOURN.

TUNE-" The Brown Thorn." Why do you lovely virgins mourn,

Like drooping lilies wet with dew? And why around yon marble urn,

Spring's choicest roses do they strew?
Alas! the sweetest rose is gone!

By Shannon's stream it fell;
The brightest star that ever shone,
Hath

bid the sickly earth farewell. Of Roderick's noble race was she,

The gentle maid we lov'd so much; And fair she was as eye could see,

She boasted nature's finest touch;
And mild and comely was the youth

For whom she fondly sigh’d;
Oh! timid love and heavenly truth

Seem'd in this glowing pair allied.

But sad and fatal was the morn

That e'er he join'd the martial throng;
Alas! from thence was no return,

And loud was heard the funeral song.
Her eye was fix'd in silent grief,

Nor long was sorrow's dream;
For death soon brought the wish'd relief,

And pluck'd the rose by Shannon's stream.

THE SPRIG OF SHILLELAH.
O Love is the soul of a neat Irishman,
He loves all the lovely, loves all that he can,

With his sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green.
His heart is good-humour'd, 'tis honest and sound,
No malice or hatred is there to be found;
He courts and he marries, he drinks, and he fights,
For love, all for love, for in that he delights,

With his sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green. Who has e'er had the luck to see Donnybrook fair, An Irishman all in his glory is there,

With his sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green. His clothes spick and span new, without e'er a speck, A neat Barcelona tied round his neat neck; He goes to a tent, and he spends his half-crown, He meets with a friend, and for love knocks him down,

With his sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green, At ev'ning returning, as homeward he goes, His heart soft with whisky, his head soft with blows

From a sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green, He meets with his Sheelah, who, blushing a smile, Cries, Get ye gone, Pat, yet consents all the while. To the priest snon they go; and nine months after that, A fine baby cries, How d'ye do, father Pat,

With your sprig of shillelah, and shamrock so green?

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