THE NIGHT BEFORE LARRY WAS STRETCHED.1

The night before Larry was stretched,
The boys they all paid him a visit;
A bait in their sacks, too, they fetched;
They sweated their duds till they riz it:
For Larry was ever the lad,

When a boy was condemned to the squeezer,
Would fence all the duds that he had

To help a poor friend to a sneezer,
And warm his gob 'fore he died.

The boys they came crowding in fast,

They drew all their stools round about him,
Six glims round his trap-case were placed,
He couldn't be well waked without 'em.
When one of us asked could he die
Without having duly repented,
Says Larry, "That's all in my eye;
And first by the clargy invented,

To get a fat bit for themselves."

"I'm sorry, dear Larry," says I,
"To see you in this situation;
And, blister my limbs if I lie,

I'd as lieve it had been my own station."
"Ochone! it's all over," says he,

"For the neckcloth I'll be forced to put on
And by this time to-morrow you'll see
Your poor Larry as dead as a mutton,"
Because, why, his courage was good.

"And I'll be cut up like a pie,

And my nob from my body be parted."
"You're in the wrong box, then," says I,
"For blast me if they 're so hard-hearted:
A chalk on the back of your neck

Is all that Jack Ketch dares to give you;

Then mind not such trifles a feck,

For why should the likes of them grieve you?

And now, boys, come tip us the deck."

The cards being called for, they played,

Till Larry found one of them cheated;

1The authorship of this extraordinary piece of poetic ribaldry has been much discussed, but has never been discovered. It is written in Dublin slang of the end of the eighteenth century.

A dart at his napper he made
(The boy being easily heated):
"Oh, by the hokey, you thief,

I'll scuttle your nob with my daddle!
You cheat me because I'm in grief,
But soon I'll demolish your noddle,

And leave you your claret to drink."

Then the clergy came in with his book,
He spoke him so smooth and so civil;
Larry tipped him a Kilmainham look,
And pitched his big wig to the devil;
Then sighing, he threw back his head
To get a sweet drop of the bottle,
And pitiful sighing, he said:

"Oh, the hemp will be soon round my throttle And choke my poor windpipe to death.

"Though sure it's the best way to die,
Oh, the devil a betther a-livin'!
For, sure, when the gallows is high

Your journey is shorter to Heaven:
But what harasses Larry the most,

And makes his poor soul melancholy,
Is to think of the time when his ghost
Will come in a sheet to sweet Molly-
Oh, sure it will kill her alive!"

So moving these last words he spoke,
We all vented our tears in a shower;
For my part, I thought my heart broke,
To see him cut down like a flower,
On his travels we watched him next day;
Oh, the throttler! I thought I could kill him;
But Larry not one word did say,

Nor changed till he come to "King William "—
Then, musha! his color grew white.

When he came to the nubbling chit,

He was tucked up so neat and so pretty,
The rumbler jogged off from his feet,
And he died with his face to the city;
He kicked, too-but that was all pride,
For soon you might see 't was all over;
Soon after the noose was untied,

And at darky we waked him in clover,

And sent him to take a ground sweat.

ON THE COLLEEN BAWN.1

In the gold vale of Limerick,
Beside the Shannon stream,
The maiden lives who holds my heart,
And haunts me like a dream,
With shiny showers of golden hair
And gentle as a fawn,

The cheeks that make the red rose pale,
My darling Colleen Bawn.

Although she seldom speaks to me,
I think on her with pride;
For five long years I courted her,
And asked her to be my bride.
But dreary times of cold neglect
Are all from her I've drawn,
For I am but a laboring boy,
And she the Colleen Bawn.

Her hands are whiter than the snow
Upon the mountain side,

And softer than the creamy foam,
That floats upon the tide;
Her eyes are brighter than the snow
That sparkles on the lawn;
The sunshine of my life is she,
The darling Colleen Bawn.

To leave old Ireland far behind
Is often in my mind,
And wander for another bride
And country for to find,

But that I've seen a low suitor
Upon her footsteps fawn,

Which keeps me near to guard my dear,

My darling Colleen Bawn.

Her beauty very far excels

All other females fine;

She is far brighter than the sun

That does upon us shine;

Each night she does disturb my rest,

I cannot sleep till dawn,

1 This is from a bunch of Dublin street ballads of the nineteenth century, but its date of composition is of course uncertain.

Still wishing her to be my bride,
My darling Colleen Bawn.

The women of Limerick take the sway
Throughout old Erin's shore;
They fought upon the city walls,
They did in days of yore.
They kept away the enemy
All night until the dawn:
Most worthy of the title is
My darling Colleen Bawn.

PROTESTANT BOYS.

AN ORANGE SONG.

Tell me, my friends, why are we met here?
Why thus assembled, ye Protestant Boys?
Do mirth and good liquor, good humor, good cheer,
Call us to share of festivity's joys?

O no! 't is the cause

Of King-Freedom-and Laws,
That calls loyal Protestants now to unite;
And Orange and Blue,

Ever faithful and true,

Our King shall support, and Sedition affright.

Great spirit of William! from Heaven look down,
And breathe in our hearts our forefathers' fire-
Teach us to rival their glorious renown,

From Papist or Frenchman ne'er to retire.
Jacobin-Jacobite
Against all to unite,

Who dare to assail our Sovereign's throne?
For Orange and Blue

Will be faithful and true,

And Protestant loyalty ever be shown.

In that loyalty proud let us ever remain,

Bound together in Truth and Religion's pure band; Nor Honor's fair cause with foul Bigotry stain, Since in Courage and Justice supported we stand. So Heaven shall smile

On our emerald isle,

And lead us to conquest again and again;
While Papists shall prove

Our brotherly love:

We hate them as masters-we love them as men.

By the deeds of their fathers to glory inspired,
Our Protestant heroes shall combat the foe;
Hearts with true honor and loyalty fired,
Intrepid, undaunted, to conquest will go.
In Orange and Blue,
Still faithful and true,

The soul-stirring music of glory they 'll sing;
The shades of the Boyne

In the chorus will join,

And the welkin re-echo with "God save the King."

THE RAKES OF MALLOW.

Beauing, belling, dancing, drinking,
Breaking windows, damning, sinking,1
Ever raking, never thinking,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

Spending faster than it comes,
Beating waiters, bailiffs, duns,
Bacchus's true-begotten sons,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

One time nought but claret drinking,
Then like politicians thinking

To raise the sinking funds when sinking,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

When at home with dadda dying,

Still for Mallow water crying;

But where there's good claret plying,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

Living short but merry lives;
Going where the devil drives;

Having sweethearts, but no wives,

Live the rakes of Mallow.

1 Sinking, cursing extravagantly-i.e. damning you to hell and sinking you lower.